Updated: Friday, July 28, 2006

Ein Prosit!

Returning to my schedule of making Thursday the new Friday, I took some petty cash out of the kid's office (That was my wallet!-irish) and took the team down to the local sports stadium to celebrate our 10-week anniversary. It's been a long, grueling road, especially for me, so I decided to treat everyone to a relaxing night of American baseball action. Being the big celebrity that I am, the neighborhood scalpers were more than happy to only charge me face value for our tickets, even though we didn't show up until the 3rd inning due to a prior pit stop at a nearby Irish pub.

Without the sherpa, Trev might have ended up like this guy.

So, with a belly full of stout Guinness lager in our bellies, we soldiered on, braving the untamed wild of a major-league bleacher section. Our tardiness had temporarily forced us to the standing room, but I sent some interns out to scout for seats while I beckoned the Mai Tai guy. Score. I'm not exactly sure what's in those delectable concoctions, but I'm pretty sure it might have something to do with the mystical healing powers of Tahitian Noni juice, no wonder I get all those emails about it. Well, after I had newly hired the Mai Tai guy as my own personal liquor sherpa, the interns came back with no results. Searching for a solution and recently empowered by the ancient powers of the Mai Tai, I hurled two of them into a nearby section. After the ensuing scuffle, we had plenty of space for myself and the crew. This lasted roughly 30 minutes, enough time to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" while actually being taken out of the ballgame.

Our admission and our temporary booze servant stripped from us, all hope seemed to be lost until I had seen salvation. On the way to my usual sanitary alley, I noticed that it had been replaced by a newly built German Hofbrau. I couldn't believe my eyes, but the kid confirmed that I wasn't hallucinating, and I knew that the night was just starting. I opened a tab on our corporate credit card (Again...we don't HAVE a corporate credit card!-irish) and began to order some major-league steins. They had 1.0L mugs! GOD BLESS THE METRIC SYSTEM!

This is where the team-building really hit full swing. Faster than you could say "Deutschland Uber Alles," we were toasting and shooting (shot-ski!) into the wee hours. Here are some of my favorite recollections of our salutationous cheer:

  • To the Chorizo sausage! Run, Chorizo, run!
  • To Harold Reynolds! Hug it out, bitches!
  • I enjoy baseball!
  • Fire Mark May!
  • Give me back my credit card! (irishoutsider)
Overall, I'd say it was a good night. No one got booked, we all had a few laughs, and the kid got his wallet back, but not until a late-night trip to the International House of Pancakes. We ordered Belgian waffles, French toast, and Polish sausage, but stopped short of getting the Russian quiche.

Trev Alberts is an ex-ESPN anchorman. Zicke Zacke, Zicke Zacke, Oy! Oy! Oy! Zicke Zacke, Zicke Zacke, Oy! Oy! Oy!




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