Did I Really Do That? (Yes, I did)

This story is dredged from my “Vault of Regrets.” (Don’t get haughty with me. You have regrets, too.)

It seemed like a great idea at the time. Evacuate the cave, be a little social, and watch a lot of game at the local sports bar. It’s an important game. It matters. You should watch it with people. What could go wrong?

Graphic courtesy Northwestern Medicine

You arrive just before the start and mumble to yourself, “When in Rome…” You order an adult beverage with a cool name that comes in a frosty bottle, so you don’t mind overpaying. You coach yourself to drink slowly and promise yourself that you’re going to have only one. That’s all you need. But it goes down much nicer than you expected.

After the second commercial break, you promise yourself that you’re going to have two and only two. What’s wrong with two? I could pass a breathalyzer on two, right?

By now, some guy is talking your ear off, something about stats. He buys you another beverage, so you’ll pretend to listen to him. Now, you promise yourself that you’ll have three and only three. You had two, you can handle three. No problem! You’ll Uber it.

It’s half-time.

What’s the score? Who scored? But you don’t really care because you’re feeling, well, groovy.

The music is blasting, and you’re fantasizing about doing karaoke. As you space out to the annoying guy, as well as his two friends, who each bought you drinks at half-time, you spot an enormous plate of irresistible nachos on the other end of the bar.

Photo courtesy of Scala-Santa

After all this drinking, you’re hungry. You mutter to yourself about protein and fortifying the alcohol, then order a plate. You promise yourself that you’ll have one and only one plate. However, you want to devour the entire plate yourself because you’re trashed, and they look absolutely amazing. However, you’re courteous, so you invite the annoying guys to dig in.

As they’re going for it, you spot a plate of mozzarella sticks and some chicken wings floating by on a server’s tray, and you become consumed by a serious case of FOMO.

Courtesy of Salem’s Fresh Eats on X

The annoying guys who ate more than you expected or wanted are very grateful, and each time you order another beverage. You tell yourself that you must drink ’em because this is the price of being social. But after this, you promise yourself: no more, really.

In seconds, the sticks and wings vanish, but the annoying guys are still hungry and order more cheese fries and wings. You order a round for the table because, well, you must reciprocate.

Someone asks you the score, and, of course, you don’t know or really care. You stumble over to the juke box and search for your favorite tune. You ask the bar to crank it, and they oblige. You start singing.

In minutes, at least that’s how it feels, people start belting it out along with you. Your fellow singers reward your enthusiasm by buying you beverages. You know you should resist, but hey, these people sang with you! You find more songs, and you keep singing, and everyone joins in. The entire joint is singing their hearts out, and everyone has their arms around one another. It’s beautiful! You just wanted to watch the game in a public place. Instead, you got a family. Wow!

You’re feeling groovier than ever, and you get another beverage. No more promises whatsoever. At this point, it’s instinct. Someone asks you who’s winning, and you look at this person like they’re nuts.

It’s closing time! (photo courtesy FreePik)

Who cares about the game?! You’ve made life-time connections. You sit at the bar with your new friends and everyone talks about, well, nothing.

You wake up.

You had nodded off. The place is empty. There’s no music. The televisions are off. The staff is folding up chairs. Your head feels like hell, but you drink a half-empty beer that someone left at the bar. Again, it’s instinct. “Who won?” you slur to one of the staffers. No one knows.

You walk out and try to get an Uber, but none are available. You go to your car and attempt to nod off, but before you do, you check your phone for the game’s box score. But you can’t because you’re out of juice.

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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available. Illustrated by Coverkitchen

Jon often writes comedic fiction, and today’s piece is an example. Translated: It really didn’t happen to him. (But like good comedic fiction, it sounds like it did or could.)