hockey, liquor and passing out on the lawn
The Alabama team will be part of the WHA2:
The WHA2, which begins its inaugural season this fall, will be the principal minor league for a rebirth of the old WHA, which begins play in 2004.
Now, I don't get where the people who came up with the "rebirth" of the WHA got the idea that there was room for another hockey league in the world. Last I checked, the NHL wasn't exactly getting fans breaking down the doors to get into their games.
Anyhow, the Alabama team has finally chosen a name: The Alabama Slammers.
And now, I will never be able to cheer for, watch or have anything to do with that team. See, the words Alabama and Slammer put together cause a stream of bile to force its way up into my throat. In fact, my stomach is clenching right now.
August, 1980. My 18th birthday. This is when the drinking age was still 18. We went to a bar in Syosset to celebrate. The Upper Deck, affectionately known to us as The Upper Wreck.
We sat in a corner booth and the festivities began. Our 18th birthday ritual was as such: 18 shots each of two different drinks. Not just shots of liquor, but shots of drinks meant to be sweet and cloying. 18th birthdays weren't really a celebration for us, they were an excuse to torture each other.
First up, 18 shots of Kamikazes. Vodka, Triple Sec and lime juice. That stuff makes your teeth hurt. I took my shots like a man, downing them all in 30 seconds flat. I smiled for the Polaroid camera shots. For a person whose nickname was "One Drink Michele," I was handling my liquor just fine.
Next up, 18 shots of Alabama Slammers. Southern Comfort, Amaretto, Sloe Gin and lemon juice. Took me a little longer to get these drinks down, but I managed just fine.
We talked, we laughed, we sat there for what seemed like hours while I enjoyed a nice, light buzz.
Wow, I'm not even drunk, I remember saying. So I had a few beers and a couple of shots of 151 rum.
And then I stood up. And the world went away.
I don't remember much after that point except laying on the grass next to the parking lot remarking on how much the moon looked like my ex-boyfriend's ass.
I woke up the next morning in my own bed, still in my clothes from the night before. There were grass stains on my knees and my shirt smelled like vomit. My hair was sticky and stringy.
How the hell did I get home? What did I do before I got here?
I quickly called my friend Mary who was with me the night before.
She assured me that the grass stains on my knees should not trouble me. They were just from the hour I spent leaning over the grass throwign up. We were driven home by one of the bartenders. Mary's car was still in Syosset.
I spent that entire day walking between my bed and the bathroom. And I swore off drinking, at least Alabama Slammers.
So, unfortunatley, I won't be joining the Slammers fan club. Not that hockey in Birmingham is worth taking seriously, anyhow.