Operation: Jayhawk Down


This story is about 8 years old, and my complete lack of game back then both amuses me and makes me sad.  Like The Legend of Elizabeth Reid, I’m going to serialize it and not subject you to all the horror at once.  Hopefully it will give my faithful readers a few laughs.

(The meaning of the title will be made clear in time.  Trust me.)

Chapter 1: The Shit I Get Myself Into

March, 2003

Let me tell you a story…

No, this is not the actual Julie.

Back when I worked for that school in Southern California, there was this girl on our water polo team, Julie.  When she arrived on campus as a young 18 year old freshman (I was 23 at the time) she was already hot, but the years were especially good to Julie and she blossomed into a smokin’ hot 21 year old.  Although I worked the water polo games for four years I never spoke to her because I try not to bother the athletes while they’re focused on their competition.  (Believe it or not, I try to be somewhat professional at work.  When I’m not hung over.)

Indulge me for a moment while I describe Julie to you.  She’s about 5’7”, with long brown hair, a little bit curly, and gorgeous green eyes.  She’s got just a few freckles around her nose and under her eyes that are just adorable, but they’re offset by a square, jutting jaw that can look downright mean when she’s not smiling.  Her body is nothing short of amazing.  There’s not an ounce of fat on her, every muscle is toned and defined.  She has an athlete’s small breasts, A-cup at best.  But that’s okay because she’s got these remarkably sexy, powerful legs and an ass that could crack walnuts.  The muscles in her back ripple and she’s got shoulders that make me envious.  Top it all off with a Southern California tan and she is a sight to behold.

Over the years, whenever the subject of hotties came up, I put in my two cents that I thought Julie had the best body on campus.  My student Country would promptly jump in and start ripping on her.  “She’s such a skank!  She slept with this guy and that guy and that guy.  She tried to hook up with this guy and got mad at me when I got him instead.  Blah blah, blah blah blah.”  So, without any other frame of reference, I took Country at her word and didn’t really think any more about her.  Classic story of the hot bitch: don’t waste your time.

Then one day we were working at baseball and the familiar subject came up, only this time Country goes, “Wait a minute.  Julie from water polo?  Oh!  I thought you were talking about the Julie on the swim team.  Oh yeah, she’s so cool, I love her!”

I think my head turned red like a cartoon character as steam started coming out of my ears.  “You mean to tell me I had written this girl off for four years because you told me she was a skank and now you’re telling me she’s your friend?!?”

“I’m sorry.”

(More steam coming out of my head.  By now I’m turning purple.)

So now I’m like a man on a mission.  She’s a senior, not much eligibility left, the perfect time for me to work my way into the picture.  But I still never see her away from water polo, so how will I make a move?  A conundrum, to be sure.

Ahh, but as always, the Single White Alcoholic has a plan.  Besides Country, I also have Prada who works for me and was once on the water polo team.  She knows Julie.  I also have another girl, Hot Hippie, who played soccer or some shit with her in high school.  They used to be pretty good friends but had fallen out of touch.  That’s three links.  Surely one of them can come through for me.  I pulled each of them aside and issued the challenge;  the first one who gets Julie out to one of my bars (’cause I play better on my home turf) gets dinner on me anywhere in San Diego.  Sounds like a good plan, right?  I mean, just set up a surreptitious encounter on my own territory where I can be drunk and money.  I’ll handle the rest.

Well, you know what they say about best-laid plans…

Prada has a class with a teammate who is part of Julie’s group of friends.  But rather than being subtle (“Hey, I haven’t seen you guys in so long, why don’t you come out to the Beachcomber some night with me and my friends?”) she just lays it all out:  “My boss is very interested in Julie.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, Country tells her roommate on the baseball team, “Scott thinks Julie is hot.  We need to hook them up.”

And so the soap opera begins…

*              *              *

The next weekend was one of the busiest weekends I ever had at the school.  I won’t bore you with details of all the events going on, but I will tell you that Saturday the rain poured like we were back in the Midwest.  I was already in a pissy mood about missing the conference basketball tourney in Vegas.  (My roommate Sandpaper called to inform me he had sex in the back of a stretch limo with a random girl he’d just met.  “You know what I did after that?  I went back into the casino to tell every stranger I met that I just had sex in the back of a limo!”)

Through the course of the week I had listened in horror as the events described above unfolded.  Now instead of arranging a chance encounter where I could do my thing and work my magic, it was turning into junior high.  “My friend likes you.  He wants to go steady with you.  Scott and Julie sittin’ in a tree…”

Water polo, of course, is not deterred by rain, so while Softball was delayed and baseball was trying to squeeze in their game before the field turned to mush, I had to be at the pool.  But all seemed well.  The team was warming up as usual, there didn’t appear to be any pointing and giggling like you would expect from this whole fiasco.  Maybe word hadn’t spread and I could still salvage the situation…

After water polo I went back to softball for a few innings in the rain before they finally had to call it quits.  I was actually enjoying myself, the rain wasn’t too cold and it was rather refreshing, though I was starting to get soaked.  But then I had to drive the Gator (the little John Deere 4×4 we use to groom the fields) across campus to the baseball stadium.  Imagine driving a convertible without a windshield in a driving rainstorm.  About halfway there the rain wasn’t so refreshing anymore.  I was soaked through and colder than a dead hooker.

When I got to the baseball field they were delayed, they’d pulled the tarp and were waiting the mandatory two hours before calling the game.  But everybody knew there wouldn’t be any more baseball, the delay was just a formality.  The teams were all in the locker rooms or bullpens hiding from the rain.  I locked the Gator up in its shed and then had to trudge around the field, shivering in the cold.  As I walked past the stands where a few fans were still huddled under an overhang, I saw someone out of the corner of my eye pointing at me.  I assumed it was just some people laughing at the drenched moron out in the rain.  I glanced up briefly and it was Julie pointing me out to her friends.

My worst nightmare has come true.  I’m a 26 year old trapped in junior high.

Scott and Julie sittin’ in a tree…

*              *              *

Damage control is never a good situation to be in.  It’s tough enough just trying to survive and get laid in the single world.  But when you have to worry about your dignity and self respect too, then you’re really in a bad spot.

Monday we had another water polo match.  Nothing too exciting, except that I was decked out in a shirt and tie because of a meeting.  I was wearing my stylish bright green tie.  I took a lot of grief at work about it, but I knew I looked money so I just told people to fuck off.  Maybe I was becoming paranoid, but I swore there was some childish giggling from the team when I showed up at the pool.

Normally I follow the water polo matches pretty close because I do enjoy the sport, but on this day I was talking to a buddy and not really paying attention.  Besides, it was Indiana, and there’s no way those chubby Midwestern girls were gonna have a chance against the West Coast.  So I was chatting it up with my friend when suddenly we heard a muffled scream.  It was Julie, having just taken a vicious elbow to the face.  She was hanging on the edge of the pool looking half dead.  Ouch.  As Tommy Boy would say, “That’s gonna leave a mark!”  But she shook it off and got right back in the game.  My kinda girl, I bet she can take a pounding in bed.

Wednesday I called Prada and put it all on the line; find out where she’ll be the next few nights.  I don’t care how, just do it.  Now, this is a gutsy move.  You’ll recall I originally told my Harem to get her out to one of my bars, because home field advantage is crucial.  But desperate times call for desperate measures.  I feel like a mid-major basketball program, having to go on the road just to schedule big time competition.

Although Prada was the one most responsible for the clusterfuck I was in, I have to give her credit for surreptitiously getting me the scoop.  Through her contacts she was able to learn that Thursday night Julie would be at Effin’s.

Effin's. As in "it's an effin' good time."

Effin’s is a little dive bar right by campus.  They had only recently gone from beer only to full bar, so I had never been there.  Definitely a road game, a strange gym.  The kind of place where your shot can sometimes just be off.  I called in both the wing men, Tripod and Will The Mormon, and after dinner we ended up heading over early so we could watch some NCAA basketball.

In retrospect, arriving at the bar at 8:30 was a mistake.  I started drinkin’ and carousin’, havin’ a good time with my boys.  The gin was flowing and my eyes were wandering over the lush young college bodies displayed before me.  Tripod was flirting with the waitress, I was openly ogling 21 year old girls, all the things you’re not supposed to do when you’re trying to make a good first impression.

I wasn’t exactly drunk, but I wasn’t exactly sober either, when I suddenly realized that right in front of me was about half the water polo team.  No idea how long they had been there.  Oops.  Another smooth move by the Single White Alcoholic.

Now the pressure is really on.  I’m sitting there sucking down drinks trying to figure out how to pull this off.  Just wade right into the group or try to divide and conquer?  While I’m mulling it over, a drunken Will The Mormon shouts over the music, “Dude, where’s your girl at?”  I just shook my head.  Not good.

My head was spinning by the time Julie walked by our table and I stopped her with a drunken “Hey, what’s up?”  We had a pleasant conversation, I dropped a few jokes, made her smile, but things seemed a bit awkward (maybe because she had heard from god knows how many people that this old guy she’s never spoken to is hot for her).  It went alright, but before too long she went off to see her friends again.

She looked good.  A very dressed down and casual look, she had on tight jeans and a tight brown T-shirt that said “Not Everything Is Flat in Kansas,” with the outline of the state framing her breasts.  Wow!  Of course, I found it amusing because I’ve seen her in a swimsuit and knew she had to be wearing a padded bra, but it was still a sight to behold nonetheless.  (I’ve never really cared about big boobs; give me a tight, taut body any day.)  She had a Billabong beanie hat that I wasn’t particularly fond of, but it somehow managed to cast a shadow that made her black eye less visible.  In fact, I didn’t even see it and commented that I expected it to be worse; then she pulled her hat up a bit and I saw that it was indeed a nasty shiner.

Effin’s is actually a pretty good spot.  They have one of those performing musicians/comedians that plays funny songs, mocks the crowd and puts people up to drinking contests.  One of the water polo girls won the beer chugging contest, crushing the reigning champion (a huge skinhead-lookin’ guy they call “Suck Boy” because he can drink his beer with a straw faster than most people can pound one).  When I went over to congratulate her, Julie jumped in, “Hey Scott, that green tie you had on Monday was awesome, dude!”  I got a high five, which isn’t as good as a kiss, but at this point I was glad to take what the defense gives me.  I was utterly shitfaced by this point.

Some guy had brought a trumpet to play a song with the performer.  After he was done he was sitting down at a table putting his trumpet away and Julie walked up to me (another good sign) and said, “Who does that?  Who brings a trumpet to a bar?”

“Well,” I said, “everybody needs a gimmick.” I gestured towards Tripod.  “I bring a midget.”

He shoots, he scores!  Julie nearly fell over laughing.

Things seemed to be going reasonably well.  I was passing shitfaced, headed towards incoherent, but we were still hooking up every once in a while for a short chat, making some progress.  But then things started to go south.  It started with Prada’s friend, Becky, the one Prada had been talking to in class and passing all this info back and forth with.  She was utterly trashed and thought it was extremely amusing that she knew so much about me even though we had never met.  She then proceeded to hang on me all night.  I couldn’t shake her as she kept wanting to talk about the whole situation.  Tripod was convinced she wanted me.

In the meantime, Julie was dancing on a table and I couldn’t break free to get in on it.  Tripod was getting more time with my girl than I was while I was stuck with a friend of a friend who I really didn’t want to know.

At some point Julie just up and disappeared.  No good bye, nothing.  Not a good sign.  Becky still wouldn’t leave me alone and I was stuck trying to figure out how to extricate myself from the situation.  Finally I succeeded and went home.  By morning I had nothing to show for the night but a massive hangover, not knowing whether I had made any progress or not.

It was not my finest hour.

To Be Continued…

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4 Comments

  1. Excellent story…. Is an 8 year late apology worth anything? I never claimed to be smooth, quite socially awkward would be a better description, she was way cooler than I ever was. I will, however, take credit for “Julie” even knowing who you were. I can’t wait for the next instalments… It gets better!!! 😉

  2. I have said the same exact thing “Prada was the one most responsible for the clusterfuck I was in.” – but thats another story.

  3. Oh the shirt…. There is no way those belonged to her. She had pecs not boobs.

  4. […] awhile since I continued the sad story of my quest to bang a water polo player.  Catch up with Parts 1, 2 and […]


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