Updated: Friday, May 19, 2006

Thursday is the new Friday




I am in so much pain right now. Last night was a wild one, completely out of nowhere. Sometimes its best to just stay home.

I had just gotten back from the local Pop Warner spring game and was planning on a nice quiet night while getting a leg-up on my preivew for the young Wildcats. Let me tell you right now, these kids can flat run. That little Sanson kid can run a 4.7 40 and has tremendous size for a 10 year old. I think we'll be hearing about him on Friday nights real, real soon. I won't spoil the rest of it for you guys, but the home team has reloaded for another successful fall. Im thinking 6-0 and another AA title, but games aren't won in mini-camp.

Back to the tale, I was sitting at the dinner table, getting my article going when my buddy, Frank Solich, dialed me up. He's all like, "Trev-dawg, I feel the need." In Frank's case, the need is usually a few spritzers at the bar and an early night, but there was something a little different about Frank. He didn't sound like his usual self. I decide to meet him up at the corner bar, and we knock a few back. Next thing I know, we're doing jagerbombs and karaoke. Shot after shot after shot, and all I can think is "Wow, this guy is a freaking machine." For my money, noone can nail Don't Stop Believin' like 1985 Steve Perry, but Frank Solich came darn close last night. So we encore with Fat Bottomed Girls and a shot of Rumple Minze (WTF?), and Frank is looking at me with crazy eyes. He points at me like he's freaking Hulk Hogan and bellows one word: "BOAT!"




Ameristar Casino. Where the silt turns to gold.


Omaha's proximity to Iowa makes for a pretty convenient drive over the river to the arious gambling houses and other dens of inequity. We pile into the Stratus and roll to Ameristar at 2am. Nice. We get there and the place is dead. D-E-D. Dead. There's nothing but the hollow ringing of slot music and a few frat boys getting their final shots at the Big Wheel. Frank and I saddle up to the Blackjack table, and proceed to serve up some pain for the fish dealer. 18. 19. 20. 18. Blackjack. 20. Dealer's got nothing, they call in a new girl while we freshen our drinks. This girl's a little trickier, but no match for me and the Tank. 13. 15. 16. 12. Busts all around. Legendary night, let me tell you. What do we do? We step it up, start pressing it. Why not, right? My breath is like a mixture of gin, tonic, and just a hint of peppermint schnapps, Frank's already got his squinty-eye drunk glare down cold, and we can do no wrong. This couldn't possibly go south.

Wrong. A few more hands on the higher bets, I'm convinced green chips are cursed, and, of course, we've given most of it back and then some. New dealer is just wrecking us, he is on fire. Blackjacking our 20s, hitting 7s for his 14s, you name it. Well, after Frank's thrid straight push, he starts hitting the sauce with a renewed passion. It was like he believed the only way through his slump was with more gin. Not booze, not gin and tonics, gin. He starts ordering straight gin from the girls, just hi-balls full of the stuff. Unfortunately, this is where the story gets fuzzy, as it all happened so fast. I distinctly remember him lunging over the table, a security guard pinning both of us up against a Munsters slot machine, and waking up in the back of the car. In between is a blur, and one or both of us probably have a few phone calls to make.

Either way, after a few hours of sleeping it off in the Ameristar parking lot. Frank takes the keys and drives us to the nearest IHOP. Over a few breakfast sandwiches, we noticed we each had a few fresh scrapes and agreed that that was one kickass night.

I need some water and some more sleep. I feel like an old sock.

Trev Alberts is a former ESPN analyst. He is currently for hitting 12 when the dealer shows 3.

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