Two Words

Two words. That is all that was said. Two seemingly inconsequential words were said, and a great story came flooding back. I chose this story because the story of when I drove to Vegas with Kingston is too long, Black Wednesday is still too fresh for some and the story of driving with Patrick Nolan to Big Bear is…well long and would drive me crazy. Be patient… they will all be told…at the right time. For now, two words said at the golf tourney.


National.

City.

Back when we were in Div III, we used to play Camp Pendleton and it was a fun trip. I can’t figure out why those “jerks” from the Marine base can’t get a team together any more…I mean, it’s not like we are still fighting two wars. Sheesh! Playing Pendleton pre-9/11 was pretty cool. You could hear artillery being fired while you played and squadrons of helicopter would buzz over every so often (scenes from Apocalypse Now and ka-boom’s in the back ground are pretty intimidating), they played with 14 props and one 6’4” speed demon. One year, one of our players (Chad Jenkins) went speeding through a checkpoint without stopping. Back then, the MP’s just hopped in their jeeps (with machine guns mounted), chased him down and yelled at him. They would have shot him had he done that today.

Anyway, it was a pretty fun team to play. The trip down was always an adventure. One year I went with a player who shall be referred to as, “a player who shall not be referred to” ended up getting a ticket for speeding in a green ’73 Chevy Oldsmobuick. Another year, they combined with the team from the 29 Palms base, so we played the same team 4 times. We didn’t care because they were all good guys.

If we played these teams now, we would have our chartered bus pick us up and Google maps would be sent to those that were driving on their own and everyone would be in constant contact with Coach via cell phone, twitter or carrier pigeon. But back in the day, guys just made arrangements and often carpooled with whom ever lived closest. It was a crapshoot to see who would actually show up. On this day, Chip Kelly (Hall of Fame inductee) and I decided to make the trip down. We also decided to take the back route, down the 15 to a small highway that drops you off at the pitch, only from the “backdoor!”

Chip arrives my house and we hit the road in my truck. We discussed a range of topics. Global warming, bears and pterodactyls mating making bear-o-dactyls, diadokokinesis…the usual. We drive and talk, drive and talk, drive and talk. I make a mention that we will be looking for route 221 (or 243, or Gabe Kotter Street, whatever). We drive and drive and drive. Next thing you know…passing route 8.

Route 8, Jesus Christ! Isn’t that the freeway that takes you to the stadium…the stadium that is in San Diego? Apparently, we were talking so much we missed the turnoff. Too make matters worse; we missed the turn off for the 8 as well. For some inexplicable reason, once you pass the 8, there are no more off ramps until you get to National City. NATIONAL F’ING CITY! We have a game to play in 40 minutes and I feel like I’m gonna be in Mexico in a few feet.

On a side note, YES, I do realize that when I say everyone from below National City is from Mexico I am being a prick. I know that is horrible and insensitive. Yet, I continue to say it. I must be evil. But it comes from this trip. As I am cussing and speeding, trying to turn around, Chip kept saying, “are we in Mexico? Are we In Brazil? Are we in Spain?” Later that day, someone asked what happened, I said, “I don’t know, we went to Mexico.” And Chip responded “or Chile.” And I said, “I don’t know, we were in a foreign country, National City…I think.” I suppose I’ll learn my lesson the first time I say it to an El Salvadorian.

Chip and I show up and the game has started. It pretty much typified the season. Our starting lock and center were nowhere to be found at kick off. I am glad things have (kinda) changed. We won the game, so it was all good in the end I suppose.

Oops,
Tanner.