Mad For The Olympics

Chapter 1, Blog 6

By Chuck Wells As Told To Ray Hochgesang


“C’mon, Ralphie.” Frank wanted to torment him some more. “How far COULD you throw the shot? You know it weighs more than Chuck.”

“Who gives a damn? I, I would have … ”

“You would have what?” asked Nicky. “I think the Olympic record is more than 20 meters.”

“Twenty meters?” Ralphie looked lost. “What DA HELL is dat in feet?”

“How DA HELL should I know,” said Nicky, chuckling.

Having to convert meters into feet made Ralphie stop and think. His anger drained from his face. He plopped back into the Lay Z Boy.

“Goddamned Olympics. Who DA HELL needs ‘em?”

I guess I did.

This is where and when it became clear that I was drunker than I thought.

“Let’s train for the Olympics, Ralphie,” I said, rubbing my smarting neck. “C’mon.”

Now Ralphie ignored me. I persisted.

“How about you, Frank?” I begged. “Didn’t you use to high jump?”

“Sure, ’bout 30 years ago,” he said. “My best was six-three. Was the school record until Goofy Loechte did six-four.”

“Six-three? Ya never, ever did six-three,” said Ralphie. “Are ya crazy? Six-three?”

… noooo, here we go again…

“Da HELL I did. Everybody knows I did six-three,” said Frank, standing up.

“Ya’s crazy. Six-three? No way,” said Ralphie, meeting Frank, nose to nose in the middle of the room.


“Crazy! Let’s all get crazy,” I said, squeezing between the two intoxicated beasts.

“We could hold our own damned Olympics. It’ll be fun. It’ll be … ”

Together, Frank and Ralphie picked me up and drilled me into the sofa. It knocked the wind out of me this time.

But not the idea.

“C’mon … ass … holes,” I said between heaves of air. “An … ny … bod … dy?”

As the game restarted, there was graveyard silence.

And that’s where my idea was headed.

Guess no one was that drunk.

Except me.

Copyright © 2012 by Chuck H. Wells/Ray Hochgesang

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