There was a time in my life when I could whip it on with the best of them. From my mid-twenties, shortly after my divorce, to my early thirties I put up borderline Hall of Fame numbers in consumption. With the help of The Ladies Man, Trotsky Goldblum, SugarDust, The Boy (similar to The Gimp only without the leather), The Colonel, and a host of other Drunken Stumble Bums I tore through the early to mid-two-thousands with nothing but a wake of bar bills and blurry photographs (and memories) to account for the wasted time. Good times. These were good times.
Until about the age of thirty-two I truly did not know what everyone was talking about when they complained about bad hangovers. Sure, I had a little bit of a headache and it felt like I needed to shave some hair off my tongue but this was not enough to keep me from another night of good times. A large glass of V8 juice, some bacon and eggs and I was back in business. Then I hit The Wall. Suddenly it only took a couple of beers and a slightly irresponsible bedtime for me to wake up feeling like I'd gone all night. I was struck down in my imbibing prime. Those Hall of Fame numbers now started to look like they may have been artificially inflated by outside substances. My name was mentioned amongst the likes of Ralph Palmeiro, distant, drunken cousin to Rafael Palmeiro, who reportedly kept the party going through less then legitimate means. I was clean, I swear. I just peaked too early. Much like Don Mattingly, the incredible numbers I put up early on dwindled significantly as injuries took their toll and I didn't have the legs to extend my barroom career.
So about five or six years ago I started to drastically curb my late nights and early mornings. I still had my moments but by in large I was on the road to retirement. Now the occasional old-timers day is all I get to re-live the glory days. Only Trotsky Goldblum is still out there putting up HOF numbers on a nightly basis. Not only is he a first ballot Hall of Famer but he's quite possibly the greatest that ever picked up a glass. Certainly, the greatest that I've ever seen.
On the plus side, since my early retirement I almost never wake up not knowing where I am. I hardly ever call in sick to work (this may be as a result of not having a regular job but let's not knit pick). I always remember what I did the night before and I'm rarely ashamed of it. At least that was the case until August. Now, I feel perpetually hungover. Only I don't get the fun fuzzy memories of the night before. I've got the familiar feeling of film on my mouth every morning but I didn't get to go to bed with the sweet taste of liquor on my lips. I am getting all of the penance but none of the pleasure. Perhaps this is payback from all those years when I was inexplicably immune to hangovers and scoffed at those journeymen that couldn't put up big numbers on a nightly basis.
Once I'm through with the chemo and radiation I'm debating an attempt at a comeback. Not a full season, mind you. More of a barnstorming tour like the old days. Just to see if I can still put up the big numbers, if only for a short time, before slipping into retirement for good. It could coincide with my Cross-Country Cancer Road Trip back home. I may even sell tickets.
Until about the age of thirty-two I truly did not know what everyone was talking about when they complained about bad hangovers. Sure, I had a little bit of a headache and it felt like I needed to shave some hair off my tongue but this was not enough to keep me from another night of good times. A large glass of V8 juice, some bacon and eggs and I was back in business. Then I hit The Wall. Suddenly it only took a couple of beers and a slightly irresponsible bedtime for me to wake up feeling like I'd gone all night. I was struck down in my imbibing prime. Those Hall of Fame numbers now started to look like they may have been artificially inflated by outside substances. My name was mentioned amongst the likes of Ralph Palmeiro, distant, drunken cousin to Rafael Palmeiro, who reportedly kept the party going through less then legitimate means. I was clean, I swear. I just peaked too early. Much like Don Mattingly, the incredible numbers I put up early on dwindled significantly as injuries took their toll and I didn't have the legs to extend my barroom career.
So about five or six years ago I started to drastically curb my late nights and early mornings. I still had my moments but by in large I was on the road to retirement. Now the occasional old-timers day is all I get to re-live the glory days. Only Trotsky Goldblum is still out there putting up HOF numbers on a nightly basis. Not only is he a first ballot Hall of Famer but he's quite possibly the greatest that ever picked up a glass. Certainly, the greatest that I've ever seen.
On the plus side, since my early retirement I almost never wake up not knowing where I am. I hardly ever call in sick to work (this may be as a result of not having a regular job but let's not knit pick). I always remember what I did the night before and I'm rarely ashamed of it. At least that was the case until August. Now, I feel perpetually hungover. Only I don't get the fun fuzzy memories of the night before. I've got the familiar feeling of film on my mouth every morning but I didn't get to go to bed with the sweet taste of liquor on my lips. I am getting all of the penance but none of the pleasure. Perhaps this is payback from all those years when I was inexplicably immune to hangovers and scoffed at those journeymen that couldn't put up big numbers on a nightly basis.
Once I'm through with the chemo and radiation I'm debating an attempt at a comeback. Not a full season, mind you. More of a barnstorming tour like the old days. Just to see if I can still put up the big numbers, if only for a short time, before slipping into retirement for good. It could coincide with my Cross-Country Cancer Road Trip back home. I may even sell tickets.
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