When We Were Young

If you're driving east from Minneapolis through Wisconsin in Highway 94 and you get off at exit 59, the first exit for Eau Claire, go four miles and exit at Clairemont, take Clairemont to the right and go another four miles and turn left on Menomonie, take Menomonie until it turns into Water St., take Water until you hit 7th Ave.., take a left and stop in front of the first house after the American Legion parking lot, you'll be looking at the blue beast, address: 213 7th Ave. It's the place where an impossible amount of memories were formed and statements were made. A place where one roommate wondered, "What the hell is in the water in Wausau?" and another came out of his room at 4 AM and admitted, "I made a boo boo." And it's also the place where several of us cut our teeth at the game of Texas Hold 'Em, where we experienced our first successes and setbacks, felt our first pain and pleasure, and planted the seeds for the possibility of something bigger down the road. And what just went down, that was as much for the residents of the 213 as it was for me. My screen name on Full Tilt, the site that enabled me to go on this little tripvacatravaganza? 213 7th. It's only right.

I'm typing this in the presence of a former 213 resident. One drunken night back in 2003, we penned perhaps the greatest blog entry of all time in a joint effort. That was when he had a blog he kept up and he juuuust might have promised me that if I keep up some kind of regular posting that he will come out of retirement. Not like Favre. Not even like Jordan. More like George Foreman. Right to the top.

Tomorrow there will be golf. Beautiful and god awful golf. Majestic and horrendous drives. Breathtaking and hideous putts. Swearing rants, club throws, hand pounds and chest bumps. Many were invited but four will show. Nate Johnson, as ridiculous on the golf course as he is everywhere else, Will Jefferson, terrorizing the ball and chasing the perfect round, Brent Widmark, from Happy Gilmore one shot to Cosmo Kramer the next, and myself, as likely to draw blood as I am to make a par.

All in search of some kind of moment, like the one when Cousin Dave took a driver and a golf ball out in front of the 213 at 2:30 AM, took dead aim at Water St., and reared back.....