During the bachelor party weekend, Jeff, Zach and I tried to come up with five defining stories each of us had during college. After about a half hour of this, we came to the conclusion that my stories were the best. Not best as in triumphant or astounding, but as in humiliating and hilarious (for everyone except me, the victim).
Thus begins another new feature of this Internet wasteland. I was going to call it Stories of Steve but that sounds like a Hallmark movie. So I decided on SteveCentury, even though these stories span both the 20th and 21st centuries. Remember those SportsCentury bits ESPN did way back with the likes of Charles Fountain and Harry Edwards opining on the legends of sports? Well, they always had some good stories to tell and I do, too.
Since I'm feeling generous, I'll provide you with two. Remember, they don't necessarily come from college. And I don't know why I'm sharing some of these, but really, who reads this anyway?
First story. I'm in fifth or sixth grade and it was THAT time. Yeah, time for sexual education. We learned about the penis, the vagina, the vas deferens and all other dirty terms. It was just us boys and after the lesson it came time to ask questions. I usually did not ask questions in school because I was so afraid to ask a dumb one. This one time, I decided to speak up.
I was wondering why, sometimes, couples can't have children. Why, even after intercourse, would a woman not get pregnant? Here's what I said:
"How come a girl doesn't get pregnant sometimes? Is it cuz the guy didn't stick it in far enough?"
Yeah, that's what I was thinking at the time. Nothing about shooting blanks or contraception, just the above. One of my friends, who probably lost his virginity in pre-school, did not let me forget it.
Now to one of the stories from the College Years. Let's start at Fenway Park. My relationship with the ol' ballyard is a complicated one. The Red Sox are about 2-8 when I attend a game, with more than a few 15-2, 14-3 games in the other team's favor. So one day the three of us get tickets in the outfield on a beautiful day. I forget who the Red Sox were playing at the time.
At some point during the game, I noticed something weird going on behind me. First, a foul stench appeared. I didn't make a big deal about it since Fenway and foul stenches go together like Jason Varitek and strikeouts. Soon thereafter, I heard some gurgling noises. I turned around and saw a middle-aged, disheveled man slumping in his seat and completely wasted. Not even fun drunk or angry drunk. He was a blubbering mess.
Then I saw pink vomit on the ground behind me. Great, I have the luck of sitting in front of a vomiting drunk. Just to be careful, I asked Jeff and Zach to check my back just to make sure he had not puked on my jacket.
They refused to look. "Don't worry about it." Well, this made me even more paranoid. I asked and asked and asked until finally I stood up and turned all the way around. Their laughter told me all I needed to know. I took my jacket off and saw a few plots of bright pink vomit.
At that point, I was upset that they were laughing after refusing to look at the back of my jacket. I was upset because I loved that jacket. I was upset some pathetic drunk was right behind me, puking on me and stinking the area up. Never before have I been so inclined to just punch somebody, but I really wanted to deck that guy. Not that he would have felt it or remembered it. After another Red Sox loss, I exited the park holding the jacket well out in front me like you hold a bag of dog poop or a dirty diaper.
And there are your two stories for the day. I have some better ones from college, trust me. You'll just have to wait for those.