Waking Up in Vegas

I was recently on a business trip to Las Vegas (I know, rough life, huh?) for a conference pertaining to matters that I am not at liberty to discuss. Okay, stop badgering me. It was a credit conference. The purpose of my conference, however, has absolutely no bearing on this story other than to relay the fact that not ALL trips to Sin City are fun. Some trips keep you trapped for up to eight hours in a 63 degree room listening to people talking about financial trends and making very unfunny-unless-you-are-in-the-industry-and-even-then-they-aren’t-all-that-funny jokes about credit policies and procedures.

 

And then you go back the next day for more of the same

 

At least they take you out at night for dinner and as many drinks as you’re willing to have billed back to your company after the entire table is done and the check is divided equally amongst all the participants regardless if you had one beer or three bottles of wine. Yes, one credit person can drink 3 bottles of wine at a sitting.  I’m not singling out one particular credit person, it’s just a general statement that credit people can drink. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of constantly delivering and/or receiving bad news to or from customers and from semi-annual trips to Las Vegas.

 

But I digress

 

The meetings typically start at 8:00 for a “continental” breakfast consisting of fruit I won’t eat and pastries stuffed with things I can’t identify. I go for the coffee. Either way, this breakfast is designed to get people up and moving around and socializing a bit with the other attendees as well as filling our bodies with as much caffeine as physically possible in order to endure 8 hours of credit conversations and presentations. A LOT of caffeine is needed for this. Trust me.

 

So, at 8:00 that morning I left my room (don’t want to be the first one at the meeting) on the seventh floor of my hotel and proceeded to the bank of elevators. When the doors opened I walked in, turned around, pressed the button for the first floor, and headed for the back wall which I would lean against to prop up my, at that point, barely awake body.

 

And this is where the real story begins.

 

When the elevator reached the 6^th floor, it stopped and the doors opened to reveal an Asian couple. Now, when I say couple, I’m only using that term because they were together at the time. As with most “couples” in Las Vegas, I wasn’t sure if they were husband/wife, brother/sister, father/daughter, boyfriend/girlfriend, client/hooker, or pimp/hooker. What I do know is that the male was straight out the 1980s and resembled one of the henchmen from Karate Kid II (the one in Okinawa) and the female could have been anywhere from 14 to 42 years old. Oh, and she was stumbling. A lot.

 

HE LOOKED LIKE THE GUY ON THE FAR LEFT

 

 

As she moved into the elevator she staggered directly to the back wall where I was leaning in order to gain some stability. I’m not sure she had even noticed I was there up until this point but, once she did, it got very VERY interesting.

 

Upon leaning back against the elevator wall her arm brushed up against mine making her aware of my presence for the first time. She raised her head and essentially eyed me up from head to toe before uttering in a very thick Asian accent “Oh, you big American!”

 

Normally, I would have had something I deemed witty to respond to this with. I pride myself in having a semi-quick wit which is invaluable in situations such as these where you’re in a town with nothing but tourists and degenerates and you’ve just been eyed up by an obviously  intoxicated Asian woman on an elevator and you’ll more than likely never see this person ever again for as long as you live. But, as I mentioned, I hadn’t been to my continental breakfast yet and had not yet been infused with my daily intake of caffeine.

 

Instead, I just stood there.

 

I stood there as she took her hand and placed it directly on my knee. I stood there as that hand quickly worked its way up my thigh. I stood there as that hand reached my groin and eventually made a full on grab of my parts that need to be covered, by law, with underwear or a swimsuit at all times. Yes, this small Asian woman had, in the span of not even 10 seconds in the elevator, declared me to be a “big American” and then proceeded to unabashedly grab my crotch to check for herself if I was, I’m guessing, big all over.

 

Yep. I just stood there.

 

Upon grabbing onto what I can only hope she was at least moderately impressed with, she leaned into my body and whispered up at me “I high on estasy.” Nope, that was not a typo, that’s what she said.

 

Estasy.

 

At this point, her boyfriend/brother/father/client/pimp/Daniel Larusso Hater began pushing the button for the fourth floor (yes, we had only traveled down a floor and a half at this point) as fast as his fingers would go. Her hand was still grasping my manhood as the elevator door opened on the fourth floor and he grabbed her by the arm to pull her out and away from whatever she may have planned to do next. The most he could do was simply say “I solly, I solly” as they exited the elevator and out of my life forever.

 

Again, I just stood there. I hadn’t had any coffee and wasn’t awake enough to process any of it. In the span of 15-20 seconds I had entered an elevator, been approached and groped by a girl/woman/wife/sister/daughter/girlfriend/hooker, and arrived at my first floor destination without a thought or a word said. I slowly walked to my conference room where I was greeted by the fruit  I would not eat and the pastries stuffed with things  I could not identify and the coffee that now seemed rather unnecessary as, after thinking about it for a bit, I was most certainly up for the day.

 

Not in that way, you damn perverts. I mean I was awake.

 

Vegas, baby. Vegas

 

Thanks for reading.

Team Hope

 

Last year I spent a good amount of time begging people for money. Outside of that, I also spent a good amount of time asking people for donations for a great cause called Be The Match. For those that might have missed it here is the link for the blog I posted last year explaining how I was drawn to such a great cause and my motivation for running in the Be The Match 5k Walk/Run. For those curious, I finished the 5k in right around 33 minutes (I think) and am proud of the fact that I was able to “run” the entire race without stopping to walk. Not too bad for a guy who dislikes running and had only begun training about a month prior.

 

Along with being very proud of my accomplishment of “running” the entire race, I was also overcome with gratitude for all of the wonderful people who donated money to the cause. With the help of those donations I was able to raise over $1000 for the cause which made me the #2 individual donor/collector finishing only behind a man who had lost family members to various types of cancers and had made a VERY generous donation on their behalf. And while it was my name they called at the awards ceremony, I was only a small part of the process. I’m glad I could make people aware of Be The Match and successfully solicit donations for the cause, but I wasn’t the only one who opened up my heart and my checkbook. The credit was not mine alone to take yet I was the only one who went up and accepted my congratulatory certificate.

 

And that got me thinking.

 

Why weren’t other people up there with me?

 

Your donations alone would have pushed us pretty high in the rankings for the highest team total as well. Shouldn’t we get credit as a group? Sure, I ran the race but I was going to do that regardless of the donation amount. The money you donated was the only thing that made me look good as it sure wasn’t my time across the finish line. I wanted you up there with me. I wanted you to receive the adulation that I did. You were as big a part of it as I was and you should have been there with me.

 

And this year on September 6, you’re going to be.

 

Since the day of the Be The Match 5k Walk/Run last year I have, well, let’s just say I’m not in the same peak physical condition that I was at that time. I will get there again, but the winter weight needs to be shed first and the running shoes need to be dusted off.  During that time of not doing much of anything, however, I’ve had a lot of time to think. We raised a lot of money last year – and that was just us.  What if everyone who donated money to Be The Match not only donated again, but what if they also solicited donations of their own? What if those that couldn’t donate but instead joined the Be The Match registry solicited others to join the registry as well? Can you imagine the impact we could have? Can you imagine the amount of money we could raise? Can you imagine how many lives we could possibly save?

 

Yes, I said we could save lives.

 

Because we can.

 

Every person that signs up for the Be The Match registry has the potential to save a life. Everybody that donates money to the cause helps facilitate that process. I was proud last year to be a part of that and I want you to feel that pride as well. I hope that if you are reading this that at the VERY minimum you visit BeTheMatch.org to read about this amazing program that literally does save lives. I hope that if you are willing to take the next step that you join the registry. Above and beyond that, I hope that you are willing to make a donation to Be The Match to help them in all of the good that they do. And way above and way beyond that, I hope you are motivated enough to join my team: Team Hope.

 

I didn’t do it by myself last year. You were there with me in spirit but this year I want you there physically. I want you to run with me. I want you to walk with me. I want you to collect donations with me and cross that finish line with me and celebrate what we did TOGETHER with me. But most importantly, I want you to help save lives with me.

 

I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in. I don’t care how young or old you are. I don’t care if you love meor hate me – hug or punch me at your convenience. The important thing is that we all come together and do what we can for those that need our help.  We will be there as a team and we will celebrate as a team. We can all do this together in the name of hope.

 

I have set up a team page here: Team Hope

 

This is specifically for Team Hope. Please join my team so that we can do this together. I have initially set a team goal of $1000 which we were able to do last year on our own and should easily surpass. I feel that by asking family, friends, co-workers, employers, etc. we should be able to well exceed that amount.  As a matter of fact, I am so sure of that that I am willing to put some stakes on it. If we, as a team, are able to raise $3000 I will host a BBQ the afternoon following the race at my house. If we, as a team, are able to raise $5000 I will even buy the beer. I know the number seems high, but you’d be surprised what your employers are willing to donate as they can write it off on their taxes. You’d be surprised at how much friends and family are willing to donate for a great cause. I would say you’d be surprised how much people are willing to donate just to get some jackwagon to stop bugging them, but my $1000 total from last year is an excellent indicator at exactly how much. So let's get started right now and see what we can do together as a team.

 

I can’t do this alone. I need your help. Friends and family may one day need your help. Please, do this for them. Do this for a stranger who only you and your bone marrow can help. Do this for the hope that someday we can put an end for the need for these types of event  Together, we can do this.

 

Please join me

 

Please join Team Hope

 

Shooting From The Hip

I find it amazing how oftentimes, without even intentionally prompting it to do so, the human mind is capable of conjuring up memories from years ago as vivid as though they happened yesterday. This was the case yesterday when during my daily drive home from work I was struck with a memory from my grade school years that put a huge smile on my face. Fortunately, this memory did not involve getting in trouble nor did it end up with my foot being stuck in a wall. This memory was actually of my famed basketball career at St Mary’s grade school and the first game I remember my Grandpa Hopfinger coming to see me play.

 

First of all, I need state something that if you have read any of my previous writings should by now be abundantly clear: I am not an athlete. Sure, I always give it my all and try to have fun regardless of the outcome, but I have never had that competitive drive or the athleticism to back that drive up even if I had it.

 

But I always tried.

 

Due to the fact that I came from a very small school and there weren’t enough boys in the fifth grade to field a team and have players on the bench, when I was in fourth grade they allowed us to try out for the basketball team a year early. Now, when I say “try out” I mean that if your parents were willing to pay the money to buy the required Converse hi-tops then you were basically on the team.  Seeing as though my parents were, in fact, willing to buy these shoes I was given a spot on this team. My spot, however, was at the end of the bench. The very end of the bench. The end of the bench so far away from the coach that if he wanted me to go into the game he’d have to get up from his seat the day before just to tell me in time. To put it more clearly, I was never going to play.

 

Or so I thought.

 

As I stated before, this happened years ago so the surrounding details are pretty hazy. I don’t remember if I’d played before this day (I don’t think so) and I don’t remember why my Grandpa was at this particular game especially due to the fact that I never actually got into the game. Nor do I remember or if I’d even considered prior to this moment if maybe,  just maybe, I was only put in this particular game due to the fact that my Grandpa was there and, being that it was a small school, Coach Voss figured “what the hell”. All I know is that sometime late in the game on this Saturday afternoon in the miniscule gym at St Mary’s Grade School in Belleville, IL my coach screamed at me to get ready to check into the game.

 

At first, I had to make sure he was really talking to me and not the one- legged blind kid with no arms that was seated next to me who always seemed to get the call before I did. After determining that the Coach was, in fact, passing over that kid and looking to me I immediately ran over, ever so gracefully, to the scorer’s table to check in.  I can still remember the look on the kid’s face that I was going in to replace. There was shock, there was surprise, there was “are you freaking kidding me? Hopfinger?” I’m pretty sure he even trotted back onto the court thinking it was all a sort of joke on him but the coach quickly assured him that it was real and that I was going in to replace him.

If you’ve ever seen the movie “Rudy” I’d like to tell you right now how similar my experience in getting into the game is with Rudy’s experience. In the movie, the fans, cheerleaders, and players all chanted for Rudy to get into the game. When the coach finally gave in and sent him in he was rewarded with Rudy making a great defensive play and the entire crowd going nuts. It was magical. It was touching. It was Hollywood.

 

Unfortunately, the only similarity between my experience and Rudy’s experience is that we both got into the game. Rather than chant my name I think most people took the small break in play as I entered the game as an opportunity to either use the bathroom or go to the concession stand. Rather than chant my name the girls and other players more than likely took the opportunity to make fun of my hairless legs which consisted of 75% of my body’s total height. There was no magic. There was no Hollywood script. But there was Grandpa Hopfinger and he was cheering for me with a rousing “Come on Scotty!!”

 

And for those not lucky enough to have met him, the “O” in Scotty is a long “O”.

 

The facts surrounding the next series of events escape me. I don’t know if we were winning or losing or if the game was close or a blowout. All I know is that at some point shortly after I entered the game and while we were on defense I, Scott “Captain Klutz” Hopfinger, ended up with the ball.

 

This is where the memory gets extremely vivid. I can still see the court. I can still smell the sweat and the gym and the locker room.  If I try hard enough I can still see the direct path I had to the basket on the other side of the gym. I still know where my grandpa sat at that game and, although I wasn’t looking at him during this sequence, I know that he was on the opposite side of the backboard than the right-handed side that I would be dribbling towards. It’s as if it just happened.

 

Now, I had a decision to make at that time. I didn’t know it then, but I had a decision. I could have passed the ball to one of our guards who were better dribblers/shooters/athletes than I was. I could have called timeout because I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to touch the ball in the first place. I also could have just shot from there as the gym was so small that the half court line practically butted up against what would eventually become the three point line and with a good heave I could probably have come pretty close to making it.

 

But instead, I chose to dribble.

 

Yes, I dribbled. I dribbled that ball straight down the court all the way to basket. And somewhere along the way I made the decision that I was not going to stop until I got to that basket and scored. It didn’t matter that me dribbling was basically a means of self-defense as I tried  to make sure the ball didn’t bounce off the floor and crack me in the chin before throwing it back down again and repeating the process over and over. It didn’t matter that Mike Shields, who was a much better player and a year older, had already run down the court and was waiting on the block underneath the basket with both hands outstretched practically pleading with me to pass it to him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I had the ball and I was going to score.

As I approached the basket there was nothing in my way. There was no one guarding me and the only thing that was keeping that ball from being layed-up and into the basket was me and my basketball ability. I picked up my dribble, transitioned the ball to my right hand, raised my right arm and left leg simultaneously with such grace that it could be used as an instructional video for beginners as the 100% proper way to approach a lay-up. I was home free.

 

The only problem I had was that I had a little bit of momentum from my mad dash down the court that I had never really encountered in practice and, as a result, had no clue how to handle.  So, as I released the ball from my hand in the hopes that I would score, the laws of physics had an entirely different idea and the ball hit off the backboard with such force that it bounced directly back out to the top of the key. I wasn’t even close.

 

And I never touched the ball in the game again.

 

But this is not a sad story. Sure, I had my shot – literally – and I failed, but it wouldn’t be the first or the last time that happened.  Stuff like that doesn’t bother me. Regrets are for pessimists. If I chose to stew over everything that didn’t go my way I’d be a very bitter person. Instead, I choose to look at what I learned from the situation and, as long as I can learn something about myself or my life from that event, I consider it part of life’s bumps and bruises and simply move on to the next thing.  I’m guessing that I may have been a little distraught at the time, but I’m sure the feeling quickly passed the second I left that gym. My brain just works that way.

 

So, you may ask, what did I learn from this? Did I learn that basketball wasn’t for me? Nope, I kept playing throughout grade school and had a ton of fun doing so until I got to high school where there were more capable and competitive people to form the team. Did I learn to be more careful when it comes to “taking your shot”? Heck no. I’ve taken and missed more “shots” in my life than I can even recall. Shit happens.

 

The thing I take away from this was that even though there was very little chance of me getting into that game or ANY game for that matter, my grandpa was there to watch me. He was there to support me and cheer me on and he would have been proud of me no matter what I did with that ball. I could have made the basket or I could have tripped over my shoelaces on my way there. It didn’t matter.  Either way, I won simply because he was there and was going to cheer me on without judgement and with a rousing “Way to go, Scotty”.

And that’s Scotty with a long “O”.

 

Thanks for reading