My annual “Vegas with the Boys” trip is rapidly approaching. In 1981 two friends and I decided to hit Sin City for Super Bowl Sunday in January. We’ve been returning ever since. This will be my 33rd consecutive Vegas Bowl blowout. Beginning with we three “Founding Fathers” (as we are affectionately referred to), our jaunt in the mid 80’s swelled to more than 35 participants, but has now settled in at around 10 stalwarts. Although we’ve aged and mellowed over the passage of time, our anticipation and enthusiasm for this hallowed ritual has never waned.
As you might imagine, with any large group of youthful, beer-swilling, rowdy males in their 20s and 30s unleashed on Lost Wages, many of our earlier trips proved extremely memorable, in a good and sometimes a bad way. In our glory days, the always dreaded Vegas Flu (alcohol related, temporary sickness) was a common occurrence. We were there to eat, drink, gamble and generally act like puerile goofballs. During these earlier “Quests” (our pet name for the trip), we developed various infantile traditions and rituals that occasionally ended in misfortune.
In the late 80s someone brought a spongy Nerf football with them. Tossing the ball around in a room evolved into a rowdy, spirited competition of hall football. We began playing three-on three football games in our narrow hotel room hallways. It became one of the highlights of the weekend, with the “Stupor Bowl” winning team receiving their coveted award at halftime of the real Super Bowl game: a six-pack of Coors each, followed by an emotional, off-key rendition of Queen’s 1977 timeless classic hit, “We are the Champions.” Unfortunately during our fifth season of Hall Ball, an ill-fated participant was bumped into the fire hose container on the wall (yes, they actually had those back in the day). Although the instructions, “Break glass in case of an emergency,” were clearly displayed, the tragedy happened after the glass shattered. Our comrade sustained a nasty slice in his arm, requiring eleven stitches in the local emergency room. I am sworn to secrecy and cannot divulge his name since upon returning home he told his dubious wife that a cocktail waitress stumbled and spilled a tray of drinks, breaking some glasses and cutting his arm. His distressed wife tried for months to get him to sue the casino for such negligence. When in her presence, we also sarcastically chided him to file a lawsuit and be compensated for his unfortunate, traumatic cocktail glass mishap. He no longer attends our yearly sojourn. In fact over the years, we have lost many loyal troopers due to disgruntled spousal intervention.
Another one of our numbskull inspirations began the year our herd grew too large to watch the big game in a single room. We began chipping in for a suite to accommodate our burgeoning horde. It was also the year we started filling up the tub with ice to house the trip’s lifeblood: beer. One of our jokers suggested we draw from a deck of cards, with the low card having to spend two minutes submerged in the ice tub. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so the “Stu-on-Ice” (Stu was our first winner, uh loser) fiasco was born. As proved the case with most of our schemes, Stu-on-Ice ended unceremoniously a few years later with another unfortunate disaster, which regrettably I am unable to discuss at this time.
Together we’ve calculated that during the past 33 years, more than 100 different guys have participated in at least one bowl trip. It’s been an amazing run with unforgettable memories, outrageous episodes and ill-advised exploits. As the old saying goes, “boys will be boys!” Our trips now revolve more around talking about past outings, instead of repeating them. Like a fine wine, our band of brothers has mellowed with age. I’m pretty sure I’ll be attending this annual extravaganza until the end. I often reflect back to the day Mark casually made the comment to Dan and me in 1981, “Hey guys, how ‘bout we go to Vegas for the Super Bowl this year?” And as they say, “the rest is history.”
Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.
