And so it was. Off to the outrageous zones (read: lines) to keep the Big Jack Murphy terrorist free. At some point and I am not quite sure when, the giant foam finger that proclaimed our entire group’s love for the Bolts shot straight towards the sky. And it vowed vehemently to remain there until the Bolts achieved Charger victory, or until said shoulder cried out for mercy. To everyone’s delight, that moment of exaltation came far later than did the shoulders (now plural) cries for mercy. Good God, am I going to be able to move my arms tomorrow. It became my new quest….
Far be it for me to be the arrogant type, but this thing was over nearly before the first ultra-light, ultra-cold, yet ultra-premium priced beer was sent on its way to bellyland. We arrived to the sights of the first Bolt touchdown and traditional cannon blast that sends the opponents to the locker room for an obligatory safety wipe. Before I could even react to the upset that was in the making, touchdown number two paved the way for the celebrations to begin, and the rotator cuff surgery became more of a reality every moment. That fuzzy foam hand had never seen the constant altitudes it achieved on Sunday. With every passing moment it gained strength and height and proclaimed louder than all the voices in the not so sold out stadium that this was our day and we would not be denied. Switching arms now, again.
This ritual lasted hours, and hours, and hours. Through the entire first half. Through the halftime Hall of Chargers ceremonies. Through Air Don’s speech, and Donnie M’s, and Big Eddie’s, that foam finger waved proudly in the air like a Fouts bomb to J.J. Oh man does that hurt. Switch. Again.
Third quarter, still waving proudly. Then through Jesse Chapman deciding he was a one man drive. Two plays, seventy-two yards, through the extra point and cannon blast. The finger waved high. Again, switch.
It was received by all the Bolt lovers around, no words needed be exchanged, for my arm(s) that held the finger up proudly for all to see did not go unnoticed. Those around just raised their arms as well, knowing that we were witnessing the overachievement of our beloved Bolts. Switch. Switch. Switch.
Through the end it stayed high, through the adventurous drive home it waved high, through dinner and celebratory drinks it remained high. Truly a symbol of our victory, like the Statue of Liberty it pointed at the sky.
It’s Thursday, and I still can’t raise my arms above my head. My quest, one of the stupidest I have ever undertaken lasted for about 11 hours. Give or take some bathroom runs. I wouldn’t change it for the world. But I will pour gasoline over my head and go play in an east county arson festival before I try it again. Thanks Bolts.
Of course you all know that because it worked, it will be recreated this Sunday vs. Atlanta. Ow. SWITCH!