Cool as a grape slushie!
So I was hanging out at the Screaming Eagles tailgate with D of DCenters and a bunch of his friends, whom he'd just introduced me to. And I notice this guy with the most INCREDIBLE completely amazingly dreamy eyes. He is talking to an authoritative woman with brown hair. I mean this guy is HOT. Since D has already been gracious enough to introduce me to people, I think, Gee, I wonder if any of these folks know that guy? Maybe I'll get introduced to him later. Then I look around to see if I can see any other interesting people. My hearing isn't always the greatest, and I was distracted by said people-watching while D and a couple of other guys were having this conversation, off quietly to the side. (That, or he's making it up, but D would never do that. Right, D?)
Dave walks over to me. "You know who that is, right?"
"Who? That guy?"
"Yeah, that's Bobby Boswell."
I stifle the urge to reenact a Jack Benny spit-take. "No shit, hey, you're right." It's a slightly awkward feeling, since a few minutes before I told Joanna of my plans to pick up a Boswell replica jersey when we head into RFK. Very close to the kind of fanboy behavior that invites William Shatner to ask about whether or not I am currently in posession of, as they say, a life. No, the important thing now is to just be cool about the entire thing. I turn to my drinking buddy who hasn't overheard the conversation with Dave. "Hey, it's Boswell over there." He picks up on the studied non-chalance, barely raising his eyebrows in response.
"Is it? Cool." There's a pause as we are earnestly aware of how forced the casual tone of conversation has become. "You know, I woke up with Heather Mitts in bed this morning..." Complete deadpan. A nice escalation of the mood.
"You too?" I offer.
"Who hasn't?" adds Dave, safely out of earshot of his girlfriend.
I can't be rude and stare at other people and not listen to the conversation that is going on right next to me, though. I turn back to D just in time to hear:
Still, now I've been challenged. It's important to establish alpha-male ultimate coolness at this point. "So, um... Jesus Christ came over this morning. Wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. I told him this was the last time..."
I'm a little confused, but I had some of that blue stuff which has vodka in it, so this is still a funny remark. I laugh. D seems to catch on to my confusion because he says something about Bobby Boswell. At first I assume he's still talking about going to get that jersey, but he points. I look. "That's him, right over there."
"HIM?! That guy?" I'm stunned! Because while Boz is cute enough in his photographs...
...they just don't really bring across the extreme hotness that we were all blessed to witness there in person at the tailgate. I think this is because Bobby squints in a lot of his pictures.
So I tease D (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell) that he ought to just go ask Bobby for one of his shirts. Then he'd have a real one instead of a replica, AND save money. "No!" D says. "I'm not going to be That Guy."
"I know what you mean," I say emphatically (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell). This response is a useful reminder that I had better not be That Girl either. Or else my new friends will think I am uncool and will not want to hang out with me at future tailgates. I'm on notice, so I'm careful (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell). It occurs to me that I could walk right up to Bobby, grin at him, and inform him that I'm lucky, and that if he kisses me, we'll win the game. I'm just tipsy enough to maybe pull this off without clamming up and standing there grinning mutely like a stupid idiot. And, with just a small bit of the luck I'd be claiming, I might be able to get him to kiss me on the cheek, which would make the thirteen-year-old in me happy for weeks. But I don't dare try this, because I've got to be cool.
Instead I talk to a few other people (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell) and then D and I decide to go into the stadium early to buy shirts, because he wants Boswell and I want Gomez. Their names, that is. On our shirts. So we leave. (In order to do this, unfortunately, I have to stop staring at Bobby Boswell.)
Oh yeah, and there was a soccer game, too. But during the second half someone points out that - look! Bobby Boswell is over with the Barra Brava banging a drum. Well, isn't that neat! Alecko Eskandarian (who I spent much of last week admiring) is standing next to him, and they look like they're having fun. Among other things I learned that evening was this: it is difficult, but not impossible, to watch a soccer game while at the same time staring at Bobby Boswell.
At some point, Real Salt Lake scores, which sucks (and I still think Troy wouldn't have given up that goal) and I'm trying to mentally will our guys to score again, or something - then I look over and notice that Bobby and Esky are standing in the aisle between 132 and 133. I'd just have to squeeze past half a dozen people to go talk to them. And I could try the line about being lucky - the score is 1-1, there's 20 minutes left in the game, we really need a bit of luck.
But the blue vodka stuff has worn off, and it takes me ten minutes to get up the nerve to do it. Finally I realize that I'll be kicking myself for a long time if I don't go over and say hello, and besides (I justify to myself) I'll be able to tell Anna that I met the players and she'll think that's really cool. Hear that, people?! Anna will think I'm cool even if nobody else does! So I go.
And it seems that the moment I get to the aisle is the moment Bobby decides it's time to leave - which makes sense. There are 10 minutes left on the clock and these two guys don't want to be caught in a swarm of people leaving. Someone grabs Bobby and convinces him to take one more picture. I'm waiting for him to finish, and watching, not surreptitiously now because I'm actually trying to get his attention and it's okay for me to
stare look at him. He doesn't see me.
Eskandarian is leaving, too. He moves past some other people and when he reaches me, he puts his hand on my shoulder and is saying hello, but I can't really hear what he's saying. I grin at him (while staring at Bobby Boswell). There's noise, and drums, and a lot of people, and Alecko Eskandarian is talking to me and he has his hand on my shoulder and I can't stop staring at Bobby Boswell.
And then Esky smiles at me and goes up the stairs and Bobby goes right past him before I can say a word. So I didn't get a kiss from either of them. (It only occurs to me afterward that I could have just tried the line out on Esky while I was waiting for Bobby.) But Esky did touch my United jersey, which means I'm bound to score three in the next pickup game I play in.
In conclusion, I have just a few things to say (besides "How old am I, again?")
To Bobby Boswell: I'm lucky. Seriously. Once, a guy kissed me before he went to a job interview. He got the job which was a $12,000 increase of his present salary. Another time, a guy kissed me right before going out the door into a snowstorm to head to the airport. He slipped on the sidewalk and sprained his ankle and was in the ER for eight hours to get it X-rayed. You might think this is unlucky, but it's actually lucky, because the plane he was supposed to catch crashed through a fence trying to take off and caught fire. All the passengers burned up, and so did their luggage. So the point is that I'm lucky, and if you kiss me before our next game, we'll win. I know this comes a little late to make plans for tonight, but we could set something up for this weekend. In fact, if you wanted to meet up with me before every game, I'd be cool with that.
To everyone else: Please don't anyone tell Bobby I just made all that up.
To Alecko Eskandarian: I'm sorry I dissed you in favor of staring at Bobby Boswell. I didn't really do it on purpose, it's just that he had a booger hanging from his nose. I still think you're totally hot, although I do prefer you with your shirt off. If we meet again I promise I'll do my best to be tipsy enough to actually talk. By the way, did you know that I'm lucky...?