Friday, November 19, 2010

Hockey Tit for Tat

Now, as most of you know, the Brobible article and this site were supposed to be anonymous. Unfortunately, I kind of fucked up a little and gave too much info away in certain posts on the Brobible article, and um, some guesses came rolling into my email box and comment box and one of my athletes was outted, though after a while the name was removed.

So, on that note, because I feel kind of terrible (even though the bullet point wasn't insulting but kind of hilarious I think, and the hockey dude probably didn't even read it), I'll give him one back. Here's a story of the absolute batshit crazy things some of my athletes have had to deal with when it came to me, and what poor hockey dude had to deal with before he ever even got laid.

I met my hockey dude, Drogba (he once told me his middle name was Drogba and I was drunk and believed him, so we're going with it), after I had gone to a minor league hockey game with my friends, prior to Drogba signing his NHL contract. Basically, lacrosse BF had dumped my ass, I lost like ten pounds and was going through a depression, and had a dream one night about picking up a hockey player as they came out of the tunnel at MSG.

Chasing the Jersey hockey edition was then born.

Anyway, long story shorts, the buds and I go up to a game, we end up adding a few of the players on Facebook after the game, and apparently they show each other my Halloween costume (Victoria Secret angel, did you really expect anything else?), and Drogba drops me a request. Drogba and I exchange numbers, and we make a plan for me to come up and chill for a night. My friends encourage me to go and scope out the scene. I go, I get shitfaced, I'm pretty sure I might have driven someone's car home from the bar because I was THE MOST SOBER (I never drive drunk, btw and I encourage all others not to either, get a cab and don't be Canadian about it) and parallel parked (I can't parallel park sober). It's clear I can not drive home, so I stay over. Poor Drogba. Dude didn't even get laid. Or wait, did he? Oh shit, maybe we did. Or no, wait, we didn't. Because I hadn't planned on staying over, so I wore like cheeseball underwear that I was mortified in and I couldn't have sex for other reasons. That's right. So yeah, poor Drogba gets limited action since we're both wasted, I wake up and he's naked next to me, I have no idea who he is for like, ten minutes...I do the typical walk of shame out of his house in front of all his roommates, and drive my ass home at 830 in the morning. This was when I had just gotten let go from my "real job" so I was absolutely loving the fact that I had a walk of shame home on like, a Wednesday morning. Good times beyond unemployed.

So anyway, Drogba and I try and make plans to chill on other occasions, I go see him play a few times, whatever. One night, I decide to go see him because the dudes are going out and by that point, I had gotten to know a few of his teammates and had tried to hook them up with my friends. Decent guys, sure a few were missing teeth (one good thing about Drogba, nice teeth that were all his), but nice guys. Anyway, I go up, we all go out to a bar. I'm sitting next to Drogba, and I think a lot of his teammates, the ones I don't really know, think I'm his girlfriend. I buy shots for like 10 guys on the team (good thing I was unemployed and had no money), and then chug a beer.

I do not, for the life of me, remember what the fuck happened for the next three hours. I wasn't roofied, I know that, because I had gotten checked for it the next day. It was just a bad combination of timing. I had done a few shots of Goldshlager (classy) and vodka (aka my blackout medicine). And then I chugged a Bug Light in one of those huge bone shaped glasses. And then I fell backward of the stool. And then I puked. And then I had to be carried out of the bar. And then I woke up at 230 in the morning in m boyshorts and a tank top when one of Drogba's roommates came into the bathroom, where I had passed out on my toilet, to either pee or make sure I was alive. Super glad Drogba was passed out in his bed. Totally concerned.

Anyway, I finally decide I can't puke anymore and I am starting to sober up. I make my way down the hall to Drogba's room and curl up next to him (yes, I brushed my teeth, though I'm not really sure with who's toothbrush. Sorry, dudes). I wake up the next morning and we are spooning and I literally feel like Freddy Kreuger is about to come out my stomach. I'm dying. I feel kind of terrible because here I had planned to finally have sex with Drogba since he had been so patient, and all he got was me embarrassing him in front of his teammates and hogging the bathroom all night, and a little spoonage. I made him go get my change of clothes from the car, I struggled to put on a sweatshirt, and I went home with two bottles of water.

It's maybe an hour drive home on a good day. I stopped every 6 minutes to puke on the parkway. I wanted to die.

"How the fuck am I this hungover?" It's now four in the afternoon, and I'm still vomiting. I am sweating and can't keep anythign down - Gatorade, Cranberry Juice, Water, flat Sprit, flat Ginger Ale. NOTHING. I am puking colors and dying and my mom comes home to find me in the fetal position. She's angry that I'm still semi unemployed and getting shitfaced all the time, but then realizes I'm dying and feels bad for me.

I had the stomach virus. The 24 hour bug of DEATH. That happened to hit RIGTH as I chugged that last beer. So it was a double whammy of actual sickness and hungoverness.

Drogba didn't talk to me for like a month. I left my camera and my jacket at his place (this was December) and didn't get them back until the following August when he was back in the states for preseason.

When I finally charged my camera and loaded it, I almost died.

The progression of the pictures was fucking hilarious. I look all nice and sober, there's a lovely picture of me and Drogba that I totally would have framed if we ever ended up seriously dating, and then it gets to me taking shots, and then I'm with all the guys but not looking at the camera, and then I'm chugging a beer, and then my eyes are looking in different directions, and then there's a picture of Drogba's pant leg under the bar, and then, there's this picture:



Yep, that's me in motion, falling off the barstool backwards, taking a picture of Drogba as I pass by.


Then I apparently gathered myself and despite my complete inability to process what was going on, realized how funny this story would be in the future after i stopped throwing up, that I took a picture from the floor.



So yes, while I rag on a lot of the athlete boys I've been with in the last few years, I'll give Drogba some credit as being one of the few I wasn't seriously dating who put up with perhaps one of the most tragically terrible drunken nights I have ever had. Like, this beat out any college blackouts I had, my 21st birthday, my friends birthdays, St. Patrick's Day, tailgates, everything. My body just didn't exist as far as Iw as concerned that night. So yeah, Drogba, I'm sorry some people caught on to your Scottish love making, but I'll own up to my own embarrassing stories for you as well.

Drogba and I before I basically injected cheap well liquor into my veins which were riddled with the stomach virus. Aw, Drogba. I kind of loved you in a "need to be drunk all the time" way.



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