THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, November 5, 1995 TAG: 9511020040
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Medium: 87 lines
DAVE SAYS:
So there I was, Kerry, in the fifth inning of the sixth game of the World Series, a lifelong Cleveland fan whose curse might finally be lifted, and Atlanta's Tom Glavine was throwing a no-hitter at my Tribe, and I was coming unglued.
My nerve endings were dancing a tarantella up and down my spine, and if a cardiologist had EKG'd me he would have slapped those electric paddles on my chest, right then and there, and whipped the dial over to ``superstun.''
All I could think was, ``Jeez, it could be worse. I could actually be watching the game.''
Instead, I was sitting at a banquet table at Kay's college reunion, picking up reports from husbands who would sneak out to check on the game on a TV in the lobby.
I was left to make small talk with a nice group of William and Mary grads who, on watching me twitch and babble, must have thought Kay had picked me up behind a tent flap at a traveling midwestern carnival and taken me home out of pity, like a palsied dog.
I know you think I'm a knuckle-scraping Cro-Magnon male, Kerry, but not only did I give up my couch and remote-control for the final game of the Series, I gave up genuine tickets to the game. To attend my fiancee's college reunion.
To Kay's credit, when she found out - quite accidentally - that I could be in Atlanta cheering the Indians instead of undergoing a jewelers'-eye appraisal by her sorority sisters, she gave me an out. Go to the game, she said. I'll understand.
And I'm sure she would have. But what kicked in here, Kerry, was that male-female mental accounting system that keeps us honest. When a friend called to offer the tickets, we even laughed about how long I'd be paying for them as opposed to how long I'd be collecting ``good-boy'' chits by sticking to my word and going to the reunion.
I knew that somewhere, somehow, I could keep track of the game during the dinner-dance. (I had actually pulled out my sports coat to see if I could Velcro my Sony Watchman to the inside of the lapel. Too bulky, I figured.)
But I also knew there'd be a long, chilly re-entry period if I'd forced Kay to go to her reunion without a man in tow - even the jellied, rather piteous shambles of a man who was praying over his dessert - aloud, no less - for Albert Belle to just once, please Lord, put his bat on a Tom Glavine slider.
I think I made the right decision, Kerry, but I need some reassurance. If I'd gone to Atlanta, would I have returned to my own personal Ice Age? Or should I have taken Kay at her word and gone to the ball game?
KERRY SAYS:
Davey, Davey, Davey. Of course you made the right decision. Does the word glacier mean anything to you?
Anytime a man blows off a social engagement for a sporting event there's bound to be trouble. But a class reunion - are you out of your head, man?
For some people autumn is a time of celebration: Halloween, Thanksgiving, a bountiful harvest. But for baby boomers - and I hate to remind you, you are one - autumn is the dreaded season of class reunions.
The minute that invitation hits your mailbox a gland yet undiscovered by medical science kicks in. Pounds begin to drop, gray hair disappears, fingernails are impeccably groomed and, speaking of grooms, mates are made to look as presentable as possible.
Dave, I noticed you mentioned that Kay found out about your chance to go to the World Series ``accidentally.'' Be honest. You MADE SURE she knew about those tickets - otherwise how do you reap those months of sweet good boy paybacks?
But back to reunions.
I remember my own 20th high school reunion in November of 1990. A chronic late bloomer, I had just given birth to my second child. I was determined to return to Trenton, N.J. looking like anything but what I was - a lactating new mother.
I starved myself down to a size four, had my gray washed away and even anted up for glamorous fake fingernails. My make-up that night, if I may say so myself, was superb.
Alas, I peaked that night. It's been downhill ever since.
It was the sort of thing you only have the energy for every decade or so. When the invitation to my 25th reunion arrived in September I did what any sane woman would do: threw it away.
But getting back to William and Mary's little get-together. You did the right thing, Dave, trust me.
Now enjoy those treats. Good boy. by CNB