I have spent today in Tacoma, leading a faculty workshop on argumentation at the University of Puget Sound. The participants were all wonderful, the discussion quite lively, and my pre-trip practice pronouncing in utramque partem (the specific subject of our meeting) paid off.
The last time I was in Tacoma was for the 1989 final four, and we defeated Auburn in the championship. It was a heady time for a wee freshman with a crappy haircut who got put in the game along with some of the other freshmen as the final seconds ticked away. The sublime Puget Sound was the perfect backdrop for our first championship. I still remember having to catch my breath when I stepped on to the veranda of a house belonging to a rich booster (er, sorry, "boost-her").
As I told the workshop participants, Tacoma was also the place where I drank too much for the first time. But I didn't really drink the night we won; I wasn't a drinker at all--our team had strict rules about that--instead, I helped my bff and teammate Regina swipe two cans of PBR that were supposed to be for the adults on the bus and played lookout while she knelt and chugged them behind the seatback. I spent the rest of the night propping her up. Instead, I waited until the next night, after we went over to Seattle to watch the men's championship, and opened up the red wine someone had sent to our room.
I can recall making my way through the bottle while listening to Ton Loc's "Funky Cold Medina" and thinking it was HIGHlarious that I changed the name in that song to "Regina." At one point I laughed so hard that I spilled red wine down the front of my white tank top. Then Regina and I caroused down to another teammate's room, and I started reading her chemistry textbook upside down. When word spread to the other rooms that I was a little tipsy, my teammates decided to play a joke on me, and so Carla McGhee, that ham, knocked on the door and told me Pat wanted to see me.
I ran into the bathroom to confirm my suspicions: wild eyes and a wine-stained tank top. I was screwed.
And while I was lucky it was just a prank, it's also the case that the coaches knew I was in bad shape the next morning on the plane, but they seemed pleasantly bemused. After all, I was only eighteen, a silly little kid on quite a ride.
