Bet Settler

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(the stuff dreams are made of)

February 8, 2005, Weymouth, MA. 1:03am

Phone rings with voicemail message, waking me out of a very deep sleep.

*garbled talking punctuated by the words, “Varitek,” “A-Rod,” “this year,” and “No!” *

I shrug, roll over and fall back asleep almost immediately.


Phone rings. It’s Colleen, best friend currently living in New Orleans.

Me: *groggily* Hello? (sounds of Mardi Gras celebration clearly audible in the background)

Colleen: Hey! I’m sorry if I woke you but I have a very important question.

Me: Okay. *sits up, expecting a request for a kidney, some plasma donation or at the very least, bail money*

Colleen: When Pedro threw Don Zimmer to the ground, was that during the regular season or the playoffs?

Me: Playoffs. Game 3 of the 2003 ALCS.

Colleen: It wasn’t during the regular season?

Me: *squints eyes at digital clock confirming that it is, indeed 1:30 in the morning and wondering if this line of questioning could not wait until a more humane hour.* Nope. Playoffs. Game 3, Clemens vs. Pedro. Sox lost.

Colleen: Jeremy (hereinafter referred to disdainfully as Nascar Boy) and his friend are betting me beers that it was the regular season.

Me: They’re on crack.

Colleen: You’re sure?

Me: Positive.

Colleen: Awesome. I knew you would know. Nascar Boy is trying to make me feel stupid.

Me: Screw him. Except don’t.

Colleen: Right. Nascar, Nascar, Nascar.

Me: Nascar.

Colleen: Oh, and did Manny get traded to the Cardinals?

Me: I very much doubt it.

Colleen: ‘Cause that’s what they just told me, that Manny got traded.

Me: I can promise you that did not happen and they’re just messing with you.

Colleen: Okay, good. I like Manny.

Me: Yup.

Colleen: Stupid boys from the Midwest. I hate them all. Except for Michigan boys. Michigan boys are awesome.

Me: Right.

Colleen: Okay, thanks. I have to go beat up Nascar boy now. I love you! I’ll call you tomorrow. Have fun at the parade.

Me: Okay, sure. Thanks.

Colleen: Bye!

Me: ‘Night.

*hangs up, tosses phone to floor and flops back down on pillows.*

Five minutes pass.

*gets up, walks to computer, loads to check on Manny’s current employment status. Satisfied that he is still a member of the Red Sox, closes computer, crawls back into bed and finally falls asleep, dreams of Varitek and Pedro ass-whuppings playing in head.*

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a parade to prepare for.


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