Bar Games


bowlingWe’re bowling.

It’s PJ’s birthday, so an outward competition seems fitting. What better way to celebrate a birthday than to prove that you are better than your friends?

Though we are not overly competitive, we do sometimes enjoy competing with each other.

Sometimes it’s a darts tournament, with close matches and shots on the line. It might be a game of pool, and I might actually win if I play while in the zone (between 3-5.2 beers). Otherwise, I lose badly or end up with a UDI (unidentified drunken injury).

On very rare occasions there is foosball. Rare. Bigfoot sighting rare. We are so terrible that a single game lasts hours and the “winner” wins because he sucks the least. Since foosball is the national sport of the Czech Republic, things can get humiliating if there are witnesses.

In any event, our fur is bristled tonight.

Collin has won the first match and I am set to win the second. So PJ is busy imploring the Bowling Gods and questioning their aggression towards the Jews. I have time to sit back and try to keep my buzz level just so in order to stay in the zone. I breathe.

We play lots of bar games that don’t involve picking up a purple ball, a tiny arrow, or a stick. We almost always argue some inane sports, language, or movie trivia. The Goonies. The 1998 Superbowl. Hypothetical past. It gets heated, too. And usually involves a shot bet, and ends up with someone looking at Wikipedia, someone saying, “Told you so,” and someone else saying, “Really? I could have sworn…OK, Becherovka?”

I win the second game. PJ has been plagued by one pin all night. No matter how well he throws, at least one pin remains standing, mocking him. And though I laugh at his quips about the Bowling Gods’ vendetta against him, I do wonder.

Though I have won game 2, the victory unfortunately coincides with the exact moment my zone disappears. I have had one beer over the line, my hands and eyes decide that they will no longer coordinate to make me successful in any kind of sporting contest this evening.

Game three will not be pretty.

As if to distract myself from this unfortunate reality, I consider other bar games that we play. The little games that hover around our conversations all night. Who had the worst week? Who had the most annoying student interaction? Who had the worst embarrassing Czech language moment? This isn’t direct or unpleasant, and the winner doesn’t get anything except for the genuine laughter of his comrades. And then there’s the private games I play with myself, such as Let’s find the couple in the room breaking up, or How long can I hide my mobile phone from my penis?

Game 3 was, in fact, not pretty. I managed a couple strikes and two spectacular gutter balls. Most importantly, I managed to not throw myself down the lane like a crashing B-52 wearing hideous shoes. We adjourn to a table and begin a discussion on Deflate-Gate, about which I know nothing.

Damn. I foresee myself buying a shot.

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