(February 11, 2014) I bragged the day I was scheduled to work with Angie McGinnis. I dialed my best friend and rubbed it right in his face.
We worked concessions at a local ball field, which meant busy weekends as cowbell-ringing parents and uniformed tots packed the diamonds playing all-day tournaments. Brad and I typically worked together, but this time brought a sudden, unexpected opportunity: not only was I scheduled to work with arguably the hottest girl in high school, but we were scheduled to work on a weeknight when the fat, retired, professional wrestlers played softball (in our area of the country we called them “rasslers”). Less sat in the stands than played on the field, which meant a slow night and lots of opportunity to talk, if only she’d talk to me.
I received mail in the friend zone, lived there with every girl I knew. Most of us attended our small private school since first grade, so I was “like a brother” to all the babes. However, Angie was different. She started our school in 7th grade and was a class ahead of me. Now, don’t misunderstand, I never dreamed I had a chance with her, but this was the one girl who hadn’t put me in the friend zone (probably due to the fact we didn’t know one another).
We talked right off the bat (no pun intended). I learned that she’d been to my house numerous times with her grandmother. My dad was a chiropractor and his office was on the front of our place, so when Mammaw McGinnis needed an adjustment, Angie tagged along, hearing about the Doc’s cute son who shot hoops in the backyard parking lot.
Then Angie suggested a game of iceball, the basic game that would at last give Valentine’s Day meaning in my life. The rules were simple: take an empty pickle jar (the boss always had a ton) and put it near the floor drain, then you grab a handful of ice, smush it in a ball, and shoot free throws—first one to 20 wins (with the health code standards today, iceball has fallen on hard times). The great thing about iceball is when you play between customer rushes, there’s virtually no evidence, just a pickle jar and a few puddles of water so the boss has no idea.
Angie will tell you she won that night, which is ridiculous, but something did happen, something sparked, and I awoke from my romantic coma (a condition perpetuated by the friend zone). We had flirted for sure, but more than anything, we laughed, and after 21 years of marriage we’re still laughing. Since that night we’ve celebrated 25 Valentine’s Days. Roses have been bought, poems penned, and chocolates savored, but those things never landed the girl of my dreams; that honor has been reserved for a simple game with ice and a glass jar, a little game where I won my wife—I think I got the grand prize.
By Blue Ribbon News special contributor Scott Gill of Rockwall. a teacher, coach and author of Goliath Catfish. Follow his blog at scotttgill.tumblr.com.
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