Ty Murphy's Draft Day Celebrations (2x Draft Media)
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Pickle Juice
Registered Senior Member
I get the call from management: “Congratulations, you’re a Steelhawk now”. “Fucking rights” I said to myself as I finished up my workout. Leg day, just like the day before, and the day before that. Checked the gym TV, I was taken with the fifteenth pick. “Fucking grats man” says my lifting buddy. “Thanks man” I blurt out loudly as my headphones are still blaring Glamorous by Fergie. Now the real training starts. Top 20 pick in the greatest league there is as an undrafted free agent in the SMJHL. Get ready for all that “chip on the shoulder” shit from the media, fuckin ridiculous. I hop in my rusted shit box and head back to my trailer. Only one thing is consistent in my life, and it’s the representation of birds. Going from the Detroit Falcons to the Hamilton Steelhawks? At the fifteenth pick? It means something, and I think I know what.
I pull up to my gravel plot and hop out of the car. I wave to my neighbor Jerry as he tosses me a beer and congratulates me on the new team. “Come over for some whiskey and to pop a few shots off later” he exclaimed as I walked by. “You’re paying for the ammo this time Jerry, I got way to piss drunk last weekend and you shot off my last fifty rounds”. Jerry sighed and started towards his trailer door. I knew that would get rid of him. I walk into my trailer and plop down on my twin mattress. I close my eyes and next thing I know I’m dreaming about that entry level contract. Ty Murphy wants to be the best and he’s willing to sacrifice financial compensation to chase ships. I see myself riding on a red Falcon bigger than Clifford the big red dog. Our skree’s harmonize as a Steelhawk flies above us. It’s too high above me for me to get there by jumping so I conclude that I will need a ladder. As soon as I begin to construct my ladder there is a banging at the door that wakes me from my slumber. I open it and it’s a box of .45 caliber with a bow on top. “Jerry, you son of a bitch!”. He really is a good neighbor. My stomach starts to growl at me as I hop in my car to head to the grocery store. I know exactly what the prophecy calls me to do, and it is time to grill some chicken. I pick up the value pack of eight bone in, skin on chicken thighs. I stop by the sauce aisle to pick up some Thai green chile hot sauce, as well as some sweet barbeque sauce. Tonight will be a feast. I smile at the cashier as I walk by and proceed to the self-checkout. There is no line today so I can just walk right up to the machine. As I scan my first item, the package of chicken thighs, and place it in the bag, the machine repeatedly tells me I need to put the item in the bag. I stand there as it continues to beep at me until finally the screen goes blank and flashes the dreaded words “Please was for assistance”. I walk over to the employee who is in charge of supervising the self-checkout machines and express my concern. “Hey, the thing is broken” I muttered as the employee looked at me with disdain. She walks over and swipes her card following with an employee pin number. “Its all a part of the process.” I suggested to her. She mumbled a “Whatever, crazy” as she walked away and I scanned the rest of my item. After the ride home I pour my charcoal into my chimney and tar a piece off of the bag to light underneath. Smoke begins to bellow out as I go inside to prepare my barbecue sauce. I add in a cup of dark brown sugar followed by a whole red onion, diced, and a teaspoon of liquid smoke. Less is always more with liquid smoke. I get knuckle deep in the sauce and throw that finger into my mouth to taste the delectable sweetness I have just conjured. “Holy shit this is fuego!” I exclaim. I walk over to the grill and evenly lay out the charcoal. I put the lid on the grill as I put finishing touches on seasoning my chicken. I take the lid off, I set the thighs on the grill and I put the lid back on. Smoke is bellowing up through the vent as I count my seconds in my head. It’s time to flip the chicken. After flipping the chicken, I walk back inside and grab my sauces with my brush. I take the lid off the grill and I layer on barbeque sauce on four of the thighs, and the Thai chile hot sauce on the other four. As I flipped the thighs one more time to ensure the sauce was layered on evenly, I put the lid back on the grill to allow it to burn on. I took the lid off the grill and used my tongs to put the thighs on a baking sheet. I put the lid on the grill and walked inside while thinking about the symbolic bridge this meal represented. The green chile chicken represents the fiery nature of the Detroit Falcons and how the team always leaves you feeling ultimately punished after a wave of immense satisfaction, and the barbeque thighs that represent the sweet, sweet, victory I will achieve on the Hamilton Steelhawks. I power through the first four thighs, my nose is running and my eyes are sweating but I manage to set the last bone on my plate, completely void of any chicken left on it. I get up and walk to the mini-refrigerator and grab my gallon of whole milk. The Amish occasionally stroll through town and I always make a point to grab some off of them. I bring the milk to the table and I sit down before bringing the gallon to my mouth. My lips grasp the gallon of milk, tears still streaming down my face, and I begin to forcefully down a quarter of the gallon jug. I set the milk down and wipe my lips with my sleeve, then pick up the first of the four barbeque thighs. My teeth tear through the flesh of the chicken and I feel as if I am transcending above myself, watching myself feast. I begin to slow down as my appetite, while big, cannot handle all eight chicken thighs. I look down on my plate and see two left, cooked to perfection. I pick up the plate and throw away the bones of the eaten chicken. I set the plate down while I wash my hands using dish soap. I grab a towel to dry my hands off before discarding it on the stove. I grab the plate with two barbequed thighs still on it along with my Colt 1911 and my brand new box of .45. I walk to Jerry’s door and knock loudly. He’s always passed out by this time, it has to be loud. His dog begins to bark and I hear a belch that lasts easily fourteen seconds. Jerry opens the door while simultaneously cracking open a Budweiser. He gets real smiley and gushes “Ty! You fuckin chicken eatin’ dip shit, come on in!”. “Thanks, Jerry, want this in the fridge or the table?” I ask. “Table please, all I’ve had today is twelve beers and some gummy bears.”. We both sit down as Jerry tears into the chicken I brought him. He begins to tell me a story about finding arrow heads in the nearby creek but stops abrubtly and asks if I got his gift. His face fills with elation as I set the box of ammo on his table. Jerry scarfs down the last bite of his chicken then stands up to grab a bottle of bourbon. “Ty, my friend, this will be a night to remember.” We head outside into the open field behinf his trailer. He pops a cowboy killer in his mouth and sparks it up. “Damn, Jerry, you don’t even offer me one anymore huh?” I sarcastically retort. Jerry shrugs it off as he holds an empty Budweiser can in his hand, assuming the position. I load my 1911 magazine, chamber a round, then eject the magazine to put one final round in it. “You really need to get them after market magazines man, no jamming I hear.” Jerry chimes as I rack the slide. “Hell no man, those things are like forty bucks a pop. I’m about to accept a league minimum contract, I can’t afford that!” I chuckle as I offer Jerry a wink. He takes the signal and tosses the can up in the air. I follow it in my factory iron sights and I squeeze the trigger until the gun fires. I see sparks fly as the bullet passes through the can and into the woods behind out trailers. My ears are fucked. “Damn it, Jerry! I forgot ear plugs!”. He just laughs as he grabs another can and we repeat the process seven more times. After shooting the whole box of ammo, we take one final shot of bourbon before I say my farewell and head back to my trailer. I lay on my bed, full of bourbon and chicken, thinking about how much the bag skate tomorrow in training camp is going to suck. Oh well, that’s just another day in the life of Ty Murphy. 1616 words |
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