I was still all amped up after the incredible finals run that saw 5 Nittany Lions crowned as champions. As I lay in bed reading the Iowa Board dumpster fire after having watched Cenzo pin Imar for the 11th time with Ironhead screaming maniacally “HE GOT THE PIN . . . VINCENZO JOSEPH PINNED HIM” I started to get sleepy. I guess that’s when this bizarre dream sequence started:
After sitting through 5 matches with my kidneys about to burst and prodded by a prostrate the size of a watermelon (boy I hope I don’t run into Zain) I hurried down the hallway of the Scott Trade Center desperate to find a rest room. In my haste I accidentally bumped into a strange little man, who promptly wheeled and said “ I’ll take you out . . . I don’t care how big you are, I’ll take you out”. At this point I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or my prostate, but I forged ahead in my desperate attempt to find a restroom. Finally I saw the sign, but unfortunately approximately 7,000 other people had the same idea as me as the line snaked back the hall. After what seemed like 2 hours and 45 minutes (because it was) and after hearing the PA announcer calling repeatedly for Pletcher and Carton to report to a mat whose number I could never quite hear with all the noise in the background, I made it to the urinal. I had a brief flashback to an old TV commercial in which an announcer asked the eternal question “how do you spell relief” as I pictured a scene from the Johnstown Flood Memorial movie when the damn burst at the South Fork Rod and Gun Club as my urine stream cascaded down the valley towards Johnstown.
That’s when I overheard an argument that was quickly escalating between two men somewhere in the bowels (pun intended) of the rest room. “My son would have pinned Bo and Dean and would have won the Hodge Trophy” claimed the first. Not to be outdone, the 2nd man said “you mean if he hadn’t been kicked off of the Iowa State team”? to which the first man responded “well at least he didn’t get destroyed by the Mullet Man like your son did” only to be met by an even angrier retort “answer me this, who won the title last year at 174”?. Well things were heating up pretty quickly at this point and I finished my business and returned to the hallway.
At this point as I rounded a corner who do I bump into again but the same strange little man I had bumped into earlier. I figured he must have still been pissed because he was immediately in my face demanding that I throw him. I tried to back away and told him politely that I had no interest in throwing him (even though I did) but he was insistent. “Throw me, throw me” he demanded, thrusting his face so close to me that his spittle sprayed me like one of those misting machines at Disney’ except this version of Mickey Mouse had become a slathering, rabid lunatic. As I backed up I bumped into someone else and turned to find myself staring into the face of none other than Cael Sanderson. “Is there a problem here?” he asked very calmly. “No Mr. Sanderson”, I stuttered, half in shock and half in awe at this chance encounter. “Well it doesn’t appear that you and your little friend are having much fun”. “Well it’s nothing really” I replied. “He just wants me to throw him, and to be honest, I’m getting a little old for that sort of thing, and besides, my prostate is still throbbing, and”. . . he cut me off and stepped between me and the munchkin. Only at this point as I blinked in disbelief, there were now two of the strange little men. That’s when my wife gently shook my shoulder and said wake up honey, I think you must be dreaming. Wow, what a strange ending to what was shaping up to be a most interesting dream . . . or was it?
After sitting through 5 matches with my kidneys about to burst and prodded by a prostrate the size of a watermelon (boy I hope I don’t run into Zain) I hurried down the hallway of the Scott Trade Center desperate to find a rest room. In my haste I accidentally bumped into a strange little man, who promptly wheeled and said “ I’ll take you out . . . I don’t care how big you are, I’ll take you out”. At this point I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or my prostate, but I forged ahead in my desperate attempt to find a restroom. Finally I saw the sign, but unfortunately approximately 7,000 other people had the same idea as me as the line snaked back the hall. After what seemed like 2 hours and 45 minutes (because it was) and after hearing the PA announcer calling repeatedly for Pletcher and Carton to report to a mat whose number I could never quite hear with all the noise in the background, I made it to the urinal. I had a brief flashback to an old TV commercial in which an announcer asked the eternal question “how do you spell relief” as I pictured a scene from the Johnstown Flood Memorial movie when the damn burst at the South Fork Rod and Gun Club as my urine stream cascaded down the valley towards Johnstown.
That’s when I overheard an argument that was quickly escalating between two men somewhere in the bowels (pun intended) of the rest room. “My son would have pinned Bo and Dean and would have won the Hodge Trophy” claimed the first. Not to be outdone, the 2nd man said “you mean if he hadn’t been kicked off of the Iowa State team”? to which the first man responded “well at least he didn’t get destroyed by the Mullet Man like your son did” only to be met by an even angrier retort “answer me this, who won the title last year at 174”?. Well things were heating up pretty quickly at this point and I finished my business and returned to the hallway.
At this point as I rounded a corner who do I bump into again but the same strange little man I had bumped into earlier. I figured he must have still been pissed because he was immediately in my face demanding that I throw him. I tried to back away and told him politely that I had no interest in throwing him (even though I did) but he was insistent. “Throw me, throw me” he demanded, thrusting his face so close to me that his spittle sprayed me like one of those misting machines at Disney’ except this version of Mickey Mouse had become a slathering, rabid lunatic. As I backed up I bumped into someone else and turned to find myself staring into the face of none other than Cael Sanderson. “Is there a problem here?” he asked very calmly. “No Mr. Sanderson”, I stuttered, half in shock and half in awe at this chance encounter. “Well it doesn’t appear that you and your little friend are having much fun”. “Well it’s nothing really” I replied. “He just wants me to throw him, and to be honest, I’m getting a little old for that sort of thing, and besides, my prostate is still throbbing, and”. . . he cut me off and stepped between me and the munchkin. Only at this point as I blinked in disbelief, there were now two of the strange little men. That’s when my wife gently shook my shoulder and said wake up honey, I think you must be dreaming. Wow, what a strange ending to what was shaping up to be a most interesting dream . . . or was it?
