Two preliminary notes:
1) With apologies to the few folks that have been nice enough to read this, I need to devote a little time to preparing for the GRE (the standardized test for graduate schools), so I may not post too many things until after the test on October 22nd. I will come back to doing it regularly after that and, when I do, I hope you’ll be kind enough to come back, too. I think I know who you are, so I’ll try to let you know when I’m back to writing regularly.
2) Every once in a while, just for a change of pace, I may toss in a story that is only tangentially related to this narrative. It may be about family, it may be about friends. It may be just to get some stories preserved before time steals them from my memory. It may be just because telling them is fun for me. Or it may be because someone that reads this blog says, “I really enjoy the blog. But WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO WRITE ABOUT US?!?!”
So this one’s for you, Brandon.
****
“Ya know what I mean?”
I didn’t know what he meant. I had never spoken to him before. I was simply standing on the narrow walkway outside our suite of rooms enjoying the evening air. My questioner had come skidding out from a nearby hallway in our college dorm, staring down at me with a smile and an expectation of agreement. I still remember how he looked at me with such absolute certainty. His confidence alone was nearly sufficient to convince me that he was right.
It was my introduction to both Brandon and perhaps his greatest gift – the power to persuade a person simply through the force of his will.
****
In February 1996, the movie Happy Gilmore was released. As card-carrying members of Adam Sandler’s target audience, my friends and I soon found our way to a local theater. Sandler plays the title character, a lovable hockey goon turned golfer with a hellacious drive and rebellious spirit. Happy’s antagonist is an established, arrogant, and insufferable professional golfer named Shooter McGavin. A typical exchange between the two rivals concludes with Shooter pointedly declaring to Happy, “I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast!”
Happy grins, tilts his head slightly, and asks a little too innocently, “You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?”
Yep, my friends and I were real intellectuals.
For reasons surpassing my understanding to this day, in the next few weeks Brandon started calling me “Shooter”. To my great regret, I made the foolish and fatal mistake of admitting my displeasure with the moniker. To me, Shooter was the arrogant ass from Happy Gilmore and the hapless, basketball-preaching, alcohol-abusing absent father/assistant coach from Hoosiers. Neither was a character with whom I wanted to be associated. My resistance only fueled Brandon’s fun.
Many other nicknames from Brandon had come and gone. There was a cycle: some random inspiration, a few weeks of squeezing the joke dry, then moving on to the next title. But Brandon still calls me Shooter. He always will. The Legend of Shooter will never die.
What follows is the reason why.
****
A few weeks after the release of Happy Gilmore, as part of another proud intellectual tradition, six of us headed to a cheap, seedy, and sleazy location for spring break. In 1996, it was Panama City, Florida. I don’t know of too many people that have gone through college and avoided this experience. The journey is supposed to provide a collegiate circle of friends with stories that will last a lifetime. In that respect, our trip certainly delivered.
My friends’ stories are the typical ones. The guilty shall remain nameless:
- Four of our number decided to try out a new drug on the first night of the vacation. The choice was smokeless tobacco. Three tossed moderate amounts into their front lip, marking the commencement of an addiction that would carry through graduation a year later and beyond. One, a mountain of a man from the wilds of western North Carolina, packed in a dip equal to those he probably saw others use in his hometown. But he had forgotten a word well-known by any intoxicant-seeking collegian: tolerance, of which he had none.
It was not an uncommon experience for him to spend extensive time on his porcelain throne. It’s just that usually he stationed his tail upon it, not his face. Then again, on that particular night, I’m not sure he knew the difference.
- The most enterprising member of the group separated from the rest of us early the next day. We lost track of him for the entire afternoon. He returned, sunburned and unsteady, around six o’clock. He stumbled silently between two of us to the narrow hallway which led to both the bedroom and the bathroom. He needed to turn right. He turned left. The next noise that was heard was undoubtedly urination – except that he wasn’t hitting water. By the time we had determined what he was doing and hustled down the hallway – to what? Stop him? – he had fully soiled the mattress.
“What the hell are you doing?” we asked.
Staring down at the bed, still finishing his stream, he plaintively pleaded three now immortal words:
“But I’m right.”
- Since the six of us were squeezed into four beds, a few had to share. In the middle of one night, one of the guys sharing a bed felt someone tracing a line up his back. Annoyed and tired, he assumed that the other guy in the bed was messing with him. “Cut it out!”
“Cut what out?”
“Stop touching me!”
“Dude, I’m nowhere near you.”
It wasn’t a finger creeping up his spine. It was a cockroach – and what’s a good Florida trip without a cockroach story?
- On my last night in Panama City, the most laconic member of the group – and the one with the most serious girlfriend – grabbed a broomstick in the height of inebriation and skipped around the room on the back of his imaginary horse, screaming, “Who’s gonna be Cori tonight?” (He’s a good boy – he eventually married Cori and the only thing he rode around the room that night was the broomstick. But it was still funny.)
And me?
I belonged in Panama City as much as Yo-Yo Ma belongs on stage at an Ozzie Osbourne concert. I suppose both are musicians, but that’s where the common ground ends. Similarly, I was a college student, but a Panama City spring break vacation didn’t have much to offer me. The entire experience of ubiquitous intoxicants, abandoned inhibitions, and…well, not much else wasn’t meant for me. So one day, in the middle of the morning, I was sitting on the beach in the midst of gale-force hormones and abundant empty beer cans and I found myself completely and utterly bored. Luckily for me, I am the most easily amused person on the planet, so I was bound to find something that would entertain me.
It wasn’t going to come from the people around me. I’ve never much cared for engaging unfamiliar people in various stages of drunkenness and I didn’t see anyone who was not somewhere along that spectrum. It wasn’t going to come from the ocean. The water was still clinging to a winter chill and if I ran to Taco Bell and then stationed myself 50 feet from shore, I could’ve created better waves. It had to come from the shore. So I started sliding sand forward and backward beneath my hand. I decided that I’d keep pushing that earth aside until something more appealing came along.
Six hours later, I had to amend my plan – I’d keep pushing the earth aside until something more appealing came along… or until my arms nearly fell off. At that point, I was standing on the floor of my own miniature stadium. By the day I left, girls wishing to sunbathe on a particularly windy morning used my hole as shelter – three of them could fit at a time. As I was creating the most natural and unnatural of tanning booths, a few people had stopped by to derisively laugh or simply stare. I could’ve sold tickets. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, step right up – he’s sober, he’s silent, he’s stupid – and he’s digging a hole! Freak show, five dollars!”
Later that evening, Brandon was standing around with some guys from another school. One of them changed the topic of conversation to me, saying with a disbelieving chuckle, “Did you see that guy digging a hole today?”
Brandon looked up at him and smiled, “Yeah, that guy was a dork, wasn’t he?”
The unfortunate soul stepped into the trap, laughing more fully and starting to continue, “Yeah….”
He sensed a new bond. He sensed wrong. He was crossing an old one. Sudden intensity entered Brandon’s eyes as his tightening muscles pulled his body towards his new adversary, and he announced with anger through gritted teeth,
“That dork is my friend.”
****
But perhaps the most enduring story of our spring break didn’t take place in Panama City. In fact, Brandon and I were almost 700 miles apart when it happened.
On Wednesday night after dinner at Hooters – because apparently we hadn’t seen enough women in skimpy outfits – half of us headed back towards North Carolina. I had a ticket to the ACC Tournament, which started on Thursday. The other two had different reasons for heading north, so we drove together through the night to arrive back in Chapel Hill early on Thursday afternoon. I took a brief nap on the couch while The Godfather, Part II played in the background. But even after being awake for most of the previous 36 hours, I couldn’t really sleep. I was too excited.
I’ve attended several NCAA Tournament games, including a Final Four and a national championship game. I’ve seen Michael Jordan in his formative college years, in his absolute prime in Chicago, and in his last turn on the stage in Washington. I’ve seen my share of concerts, plays, and performances. But I have never been more excited to be present at an event than I was for the ACC Tournament. I was raised on this experience. When I was younger and basketball was on television far less frequently, the ACC Tournament meant there would be seven televised games in three days, and if I hurried home from school on the opening Friday, I could see almost all of them. It would even be fair to say that my favorite two days on my childhood calendar were Christmas and the opening day of the ACC Tournament. So when my father was offered tickets to the ACC Tournament in 1987, he actually called to ask me if it was okay that he went without me. That’s how much it mattered.
At 5:30, the gates opened at the Greensboro Coliseum. I was at the front of line, if you consider one person to constitute a line. I was in my seat at 5:45, game program in hand, sitting on the edge of my seat with glazed eyes and a goofy grin plastered on my face. All of this for a game between the worst two teams in the conference to see who would be slaughtered the following day at the hands of the number one seed. The game stunk. The stands were empty. I was the only person sitting in my section of the stadium, but in spite of the uncompetitive contest and the cavernous surroundings, the silly smile remained – to me, on that night, the Greensboro Coliseum was Mecca itself.
****
Panama City was never the promised land to me and by Thursday nobody else was enjoying it either. The weather had turned bitter – rainy, windy, and just plain nasty, with temperatures stunningly close to freezing. Only the extraordinarily bored, drunk, or stupid dared go out on the beach. The three remaining in Florida were so desperate for entertainment that they visited a museum – because nothing screams “spring break” like a museum. In the version of their end of the story that I remember, it was The Old Man and the Sea Museum, but it appears that the actual name is The Museum of Man in the Sea. I believe the story goes that one of them nearly got stuck in a submarine, not unlike Winnie-the-Pooh getting his head stuck in the hole at Rabbit’s home:
http://poohpicoftheday.blogspot.com/2005/09/winnie-pooh-stuck-in-rabbits-hole-as.html
In further evidence of the spread of the internet, the museum now actually has a website, too:
http://museum-of-man-in-the-sea.panamacitybeachfanatic.com/
If the fact that they went to a museum doesn’t fully capture the extent of their boredom, their next decision was an even greater indication. They chose to drive south to Tampa, Florida, to visit one of their grandmothers. In twenty-four hours, they had transitioned from drunken college girls and Hooters to museums and a grandmother. Then again, none of those other girls was likely to wake at 4 a.m. to squeeze fresh orange juice.
****
I woke up early Friday morning and headed back to Greensboro, again arriving 90 minutes prior to the tip-off of the first of four quarterfinal games. There would be two games in the afternoon session (beginning at noon) and two games in the evening session (beginning at 7 p.m.). The most important contest of the day, featuring North Carolina and Clemson, wouldn't tip-off for nearly eleven hours after my arrival, but I was excited all the same. By the beginning of the first game, I was no longer the only person in my section, but I was still the only North Carolina fan. Since I had purchased only a single ticket, I had been squeezed into a section of wealthy alumni rather than sitting with other students. They had sold their tickets to the afternoon games, which left me surrounded by fans of Maryland, Georgia Tech, Duke, and North Carolina State. In part because exhaustion was beginning to set upon me, and in part because of our lack of common purpose, I didn’t say a word during the entire afternoon session.
By the evening games, the combination of the long drive back from Florida, sitting still in less-than-comfortable seats for two days, having no one for conversation, eating poorly, and sleeping on a friend's couch was beginning to catch up with me. There were no unexpected upsets or fantastic finishes to provide a surge of adrenaline. As excited as I wanted to be to see my first ever North Carolina ACC Tournament game, my energy was flagging. Tired and sore, I was at least now surrounded by Tar Heel faithful, but they were an elegant and restrained bunch of middle-aged alumni. I suspect that the other members of my row of seats were wearing more money than I am likely to earn in this lifetime. Impressive as that might (or might not) be, it was highly unlikely to energize me. By tip-off of the North Carolina-Clemson quarterfinal, I was desperately hoping for a second wind, but I was fading badly.
****
In Tampa, my friends were full of orange juice and happily ensconced in a welcoming home, but they were nonetheless bored out of their collective wits. They sat together watching the games in grandmother’s house seeking some sort of new inspiration. Then, like the Grinch who stole Christmas, Brandon got an idea. An awful idea. Brandon got a wonderful, awful idea.
Brandon decided that he wanted to have something announced over the public address system at the Greensboro Coliseum. It depended on concocting an emergency situation. It depended on impeccably explaining an immense lie about said emergency situation. It depended on complete conviction in an utter falsehood. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Brandon.
He placed a frantic call to the Greensboro Coliseum. He claimed that his name was Tommy and that he urgently needed to find his brother, Shooter. Shooter's wife had gone into labor. She wasn't due to deliver for another six weeks, so she, Shooter, and everyone else had agreed that it was safe for Shooter to go to the Tournament. Poor Shooter didn't possess a pager – and this was before cell phones were common – and Tommy had to find a way to reach him. Tommy begged for the poor person at the other end of the phone to make an announcement over the public address system notifying Shooter to go to Duke Medical Center, where his wife had just arrived. Maybe, just maybe, if the announcement was made, then Shooter would make it back for the birth of his first child. Please, ma’am, help bring this family together!
The person at the other end of the line was hesitant, but after “Tommy" pleaded with her for a few minutes, she eventually said she would see what she could do. The seed planted, the boys in Tampa huddled around the television, turned up the volume to its highest level, and patiently waited for the legend to sprout.
****
Back in Greensboro, I was nearing the edge of delirium. The second wind had never arrived. I was struggling to remain upright in my seat. My back ached, my eyes drooped, and my Tar Heels were offering an uninspired performance. I was simply drained – and I was growing increasingly worried about the long drive home.
With about two minutes to go in the first half, with North Carolina holding a small lead, the ball went out-of-bounds. I looked down, resting my elbows on my knees and trying to blink the slumber from my eyes, shaking my head to clear it. Not unlike Kevin Costner in the cornfield, I then heard the voice:
"Shooter, please report to the activities desk."
If I had a thought, it was probably that I was grateful to be aware of the precise moment when I lost my mind. I shot straight up in my seat, my eyes wide and quickly scanning to see if anyone else had heard the announcement. Everyone to the left was still intently focused on the game. Check. I looked to the right. Same thing. So I eased back slightly, in retrospect a little too content with the fact that I was hearing voices, when the voice boomed again:
"Shooter, please report to the activities desk."
Deciding that if this was a delusion, it was a damn good one, I closed my eyes and threw my head back to laugh, howling at the top of my lungs. When my eyes reopened, everyone within a ten-seat radius was staring at me. The woman to my left, sharply dressed and sophisticated, raised an eyebrow and offered the one-word question – "Shooter?"
That would be me.
****
In Tampa, Brandon and the boys had erupted. Their ears had been pinned to the television to determine the success of one of the most audacious prank calls in history. Upon hearing the announcement, they bounced around the room as if they had just won the lottery. This might have been equally as memorable for Brandon as a million dollar prize.
Brandon had talked people into things before. I've watched him convince people that the laws of time, space, and physics were different than they knew them to be, simply because he said so. He's still trying to convince me that there's a species of fish that you can hold in your hand that will divide through your fingers – completely separating its body– then reform on the other side. It might be more compelling if he didn't call them "liquid fishes". I'm seen him mesmerize all manner of unsuspecting targets, though certainly maturity has dented the frequency of such events. But pranking the Greensboro Coliseum remains the greatest stunt I’ve ever witnessed.
Orange juice for everyone!
****
I sat there chuckling for a few minutes, shaking my head and questioning how in the name of all that is good and pure that announcement had ever happened. I began to wonder if there actually was a message for me. For all I knew, Brandon and the boys were actually out in the lobby waiting for me – I figured nobody would have made such an announcement based on a telephone call. Even though I was running on fumes at that point, I figured it wouldn’t be right to simply ignore this amazing call. So I struggled out of my seat at halftime and approached an usher, asking where the activities desk might be located. He politely pointed to my left, though he was unable to restrain himself from also raising an eyebrow which screamed, "Shooter?!?” I meandered towards a series of tables in the concourse and, with my head lowered a bit, asked a woman behind the desk, "Do you have a message for Shooter?"
Another eyebrow raised. She looked at me sternly. "Are you Shooter?" she questioned.
"Uh... I'm taking his messages," I sheepishly replied.
"Your wife isn't pregnant, is she?" she snarled as her glare grew.
"No, ma'am."
She launched into a lecture on how the public address system is not to be used for jokes and is for emergencies only, fully determined to educate me on the dangers of the misuse of this important community service. It was an indisputable speech. Chastened, I returned to my seat to be devastated by the day’s great upset and fantastic finish, as the Tigers completed a two-point victory over the Tar Heels with a game-winning dunk by Greg Buckner as an enduring exclamation point.
****
Within five minutes of returning home, the phone rang. “So, how ya doin’?” Brandon chirped.
“Seven pounds, nine ounces,” I answered, offering my imaginary child's dimensions and a single comment on Brandon’s brilliance, “You punk.”
The legend has lived ever since, as has the name. Even the game won’t die – the Clemson victory was perhaps the greatest win in the history of the school, so when ESPN Classic ran a “Classic South Carolina Day” a few years ago, they chose this game to repeat on behalf of Clemson University. I just happened to be flipping through the channels when I came across it and when the clocked ticked towards the end of the first half, I jacked up the volume and laid an ear to the screen.
Poor Shooter’s wife. That woman is going to be in labor for all eternity.
