Anticipation

Tomorrow, my wife and I are going to see the Tulsa Talons final regular-season home game. I think it's gonna go something like this:

At the gate: As we walk in, buzzers will sound and confetti will fall as it is announced that I am the 1,000'th fan to enter the arena. They give me a $50 Arby's gift card. I decline.

1st Quarter, 2 minutes into the game: Tulsa scores its first touchdown of the night. The player tosses the ball up into the stands in celebration. I make a leaping one-handed grab and come down with the ball. Souvenir!

End of 1st Quarter: The cheerleaders come out to Rah! Rah! Rah! and throw freebies into the stands. One of them tosses a free t-shirt right to me. Smitten by my bold manly beauty, she trips over the mascot's oversized feet and falls face-first into the turf.

2nd Quarter, 2 minutes to go: In the stands, a drunk fan mistakes me for Barack Obama. As I happily sign an autograph for him, he wishes me luck in the upcoming election.

Halftime: An armed man is trying to rob the concession stand. As he attempts to make his get-away, he bumps into me and trips. He is easily caught, and I am hailed as a hero. Grateful stadium officials reward me with a $50 Arby's gift card. I decline.

3rd Quarter, 5 minutes in: A brutal hit results in a player's helmet flying off. It bounces up into the stands, off the peanut vendor's head, and lands near my wife. She hands the helmet to me, but the referees insist that I return it to the damaged player.

End of 3rd Quarter: The cheerleaders take the field again for more Rah! Rah! Rah! and freebie tossing. The one with the heavily-bandaged face is still not completely in tune with her surroundings. She sees me and starts to cry. Looking around sheepishly, I make "Who, me?" gestures and quickly sit down.

4th Quarter, 4 minutes to go: An illegal family of Mexicans is discovered to be living in the oversized head of Tulsa's mascot. Play is suspended while all nine are rounded up and given jobs with ODOT's road crews.

Post-Game: Tulsa wins a thriller, 54-52. Most of the un-bandaged cheerleaders have become smitten by my rugged charm and obvious wealth. They wave to me from the field. One shouts, "Take off your shirt!" My wife suggests that I not. I listen to her.

As we head off to the car, a scrap of litter catches my eye. I pick it up. It's a $50 Arby's gift card. *sigh*