Own Up

In 1990, I started watching pro football.  My favorite team, besides the Packers, was the Los Angeles Raiders.  And wouldn’t you know it, the silver and black made their way to AFC Championship that year and were pitted against the heavily favored Buffalo Bills.

I overheard a friend of my dad’s talking about the game and how Buffalo’s no huddle offense was gonna destroy Art Shell’s squad.  My eight-year-old self couldn’t take hearing those words, and I immediately butted in.  I defended the Raiders so passionately, in fact, that my dad’s friend asked if I’d like to put twenty bucks on the game.  I said yes, shook his hand, and spent the next few days thinking of what I could buy with that money.

Being as young as I was, I still had no understanding about all the nuances of the game, let alone the concepts of point spreads, play-calling, and home-field advantage.  I naturally just assumed that the prowess of Bo Jackson would carry the Raiders over even the most formidable of opponents (I also never bothered to watch LA’s game the previous week, where Mr. Jackson suffered what would end up being a career-ending injury).

Eventually, the day of the game arrived: Bills 51, Raiders 3.

I walked to my dad and asked him if I really had to pay the money.  He nodded yes and I spent the next month (my allowance was $5/week) gathering the funds to pay my debt.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.  Unfortunately, the little bastards I’m about to tell you about didn’t.

A bunch of kids in Kansas made a bet with their teacher that he couldn’t make a half-court shot blindfolded.  If he succeeded, they would give him tickets to this year’s Final Four NCAA tournament.  If you haven’t already seen it, I’m sure you can guess what happened.

Of course, no one planned on the guy actually making the shot, which means that there are no Final Four tickets to give him.  Although, there is word that people from around the country are offering up their tickets to this guy.  If you happen to be one of those people, don’t do it.  Those snot-nosed little punks need to learn a lesson and come up with the scratch to send their teacher on the trip they promised.

Get a paper route you little fuckers.

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