Friday I get an email from my friend Jen, asking me, if the Red Sox series go to game seven, do I want to go?
Do I want to go? OF COURSE I want to go. But... shit. I have a wedding to go to. Two of Mrs. TK's work friends are getting married on Sunday. I regretfully, and tragically, decline. I turn down a chance to see my team play in Game Seven of the American League Championship Series.
I am not a happy boy. I get home Friday night, and...
Me: Yeah, Jen offered me a ticket. Bummer, but I told her I couldn't make it.
Mrs. TK: Ouch.
MTK: Wait... you know what? You should go.
Me: WHAT? But... we...
MTK: Whatever, we'll take two cars, or I'll get a ride from someone. We'll go, you can stay for the ceremony, have a drink and some hors d'oeuvres, and then take off. You better call her before she gives the ticket away.
Me: (happy dance)
Folks... this is one of those moments when you know you've married the right person. Not that I didn't know it before, but... I mean, that's All-Star wife material right there. Hall of fucking Fame.
Saturday night, we watch Game Six with baited breath. Victory! Celebration!
Sunday. Watch a little football, get all gussied up for the wedding. Drive to Newport, RI. Sit through a beautiful ceremony (seriously. It was outdoors in a field on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Spectacular). Go inside. Drink a beer during cocktail hour. Sit down. They announce there will be three toasts. THREE? First up: Maid of honor. Hers... it's nice, but... it's long.
- Quick aside here. I've been the Best Man at two weddings. I have a simple philosophy on toasts: Keep it simple, be funny, don't be crude or too embarrassing, and be BRIEF. People are there to eat, drink, dance, and maybe make some bad decisions. Don't keep them from that. OK, that's all.
Father of the Groom: Likewise.
I bolt up, run over, shake the groom's hand, hug the bride, and I think I left a vapor trail, I ran out of there so fast. I barrel up to Boston - It's 6:45, the game starts at 8:15, and I've got 75 miles to drive, the find parking (on a night when parking... let's just say it's scarce), get to the park. I fly up to Boston, park in a garage, get in a cab and say, "Get me as close to Fenway as you can." Cab driver hauls through downtown, I throw money through the glass, and... I made it by the middle of the first inning. Proceed to watch the game in my wedding attire and a baseball hat. And let the record show: I DID NOT SPILL MUSTARD ON MYSELF!
And... well, most of you know how that ended. Let's just say there was lots of yelling, lots of high-fiving and hugging complete strangers, and I am very sleepy today. But I haven't stopped smiling yet.
Listening to: The Avalanches - Frontier Psychiatrist