:: Playing through the hurt ::
I'm sitting here, at 2:37 p.m. on a Friday, with my usual vodka/redbull on the desk beside me (I also had a beer with my 1 p.m. "breakfast"...which was tacos.)
Kyle Bucholtz is hundreds of miles north, freezing his sack off in Dawson Creek.
So who ever said I needed Bucholtz in order to drink on a Friday afternoon? (Well, besides A-Scrams, who called me at noon basically taunt me for not having my drinking partner. But in my defence, I'd rather have no drinking partner for a few weeks than no partner for...other stuff. So the joke's on you.)
Besides, I'm drinking anyway.
I wasn't going to, in part because I have a work function (also involving booze) slated for 4 p.m., and also because I wasn't really sure I wanted to drink by myself.
But then I thought about all the times athletes play after deaths in their family, or some other tragedy. Like the time Brett Favre's dad died and he went out for the Monday Night game and threw for 400 yards.
"I knew that my dad would have wanted me to play," Favre said. "I love him so much, and I love this game. It's meant a great deal to me, to my dad, to my family, and I didn't expect this kind of performance. But I know he was watching tonight."
And, while I know I'm blowing this way out of proportion because a) Buchs is not dead and b) I'm not Brett Favre, I decided to begin the drinking process early, as per our custom.
Because that's the way Buchs would want it.
I also decided to blow it way out of proportion because I've been hurtin' for a post lately, but that's neither here nor there.
So I'm drinking. Not a ton, certainly not normal Nick-Kyle Friday levels, but that's because I have to drink in 40 minutes, and also because, well...it just hurts so damn much. (que phony tears and violin music).
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