Tim and Jenni continue the countdown to their 25th anniversary this week by discussing 2017. They review their most recent stay-cation filled with multiple trips to the Minnesota State Fair, Ludacris & TPain concert, and a trip to an AirBnB. They then travel back to 2017, talking about some of the most memorable pop culture events, such as Beyonce’s memorable(?) Instagram pregnancy announcement, the Fyre Festival debacle, and Bhad Bhabie asking the audience to “catch her outside.” From there, they play their movie games: guessing what won the box office and reviewing the winners and nominees for Best Picture at the Oscars. From there, they discuss what happened in their lives in 2017 as they adjusted to life with a toddler. Join Tim and Jenni on The Kids Are In Bed this week for nostalgia and laughs.
I sit down for breakfast with most of my ten roommates at the Boston Market on University Avenue near the University of Minnesota campus. We leave the gray drizzle and get a table big enough to seat our group of college undergrads, all nursing hangovers.
No hangover cure works like a cheap, greasy breakfast—at least, not one I know of. A Greek yogurt parfait, half a grapefruit, and a green smoothie may also do the trick. Still, I prefer a breakfast skillet with questionable hollandaise dumped on the top, which pushes me toward the line of bowel incontinence.
Looking back through my mind’s eye, it’s hard to believe any of the guys seated at that table have become successful and fathers.
This was not a lazy breakfast. We had business that needed our attention.
The weekend before the final exams for the spring semester has been special on the U of M campus since 1942. However, it wasn’t until the early otts that the University began to book bands and reserve a place for them to perform. The names of the artists booked have historically been underwhelming, but I wouldn’t know, as parties are held all over campus to celebrate spring jam for the bargain price of five dollars per solo cup.
For my roommates and me, the coup de gras of parties was held in the parking lot behind the houses at what some people called “11th & Uni” (11th Street and University Avenue) while others called it “10th & 4th” (10th Avenue SE and SE 4th Street). Neither was better than the other as it got you to the same place. On Spring Jam weekend, that parking lot would host the keg race.
If you’re unfamiliar with a keg race, I’ll explain the rules, but first, what is drinking responsibly like?
The rules of a keg race are simple:
1. Assemble a team of seasoned binge drinkers.
2. Buy a keg and tap (*Note: The tap can be rented, but you should be aware you may forfeit a pretty hefty security deposit if you don’t return it to the liquor store in working order).
3. Drink until the keg is empty. If you are the first to complete this task, you are rewarded with nothing but pride(?).
Our business at breakfast was the keg race—specifically, how to win it. We had been talking through strategies over the week, but nothing had piqued our interest.
“What will really slow us down is having to piss all the time,” someone said.
“Well, there is no getting around the fact that drinking beer makes you have to pee,” another of my roommates countered.
Do you ever have an idea that is equal parts genius and stupidity? An idea whose mixture is such that voicing it is a no-lose proposition because you will either be lauded as a forward thinker or everyone thinks you are telling a hilarious joke?
“We could pee and drink simultaneously if we wore diapers,” I said.
Everyone looked at me, processing what I had just said. Then, the discussion started with an even split between pro and anti-diaper people, and that is how it remained until we realized we could turn it into a theme with nothing more than a handful of white t-shirts and a black permanent marker.
“The front could say, ‘Boxers or Briefs,’ and on the back, we could each have a letter of Depends.”
Bringing the shirts into the mix transformed the idea from strategy to costume. The group unanimously agreed we had found the plan that would win us the event. Some of our mathematically inclined roommates even calculated how much time it would save our team by remaining within pouring distance of the keg. Needless to say, the data strongly suggested we had uncovered something revolutionary. I remember thinking, this is what the Wright Brothers must have felt like when they designed their first successful glider.
The day of the keg race arrived with warm weather and clear skies. We put on our, er, uniforms and made our way to the battlefield. We placed our keg in the first open space and readied for battle. One of the benefits of a keg race is that the only requirement of the playing surface is to be level enough to allow the keg to stand upright.
As we walked between a couple of houses into the rear parking lot, it was clear the keg race would not be the sole event of the day. A wrestling ring stood lazily in the center of the parking lot. The ropes dangled like forgotten Christmas lights hanging from a deck in July.
Our plan was to drink beer slightly faster than a typical Saturday afternoon while relying on the time-saving secret weapons hugging our loins to save us the trouble of walking away in search of a bathroom. Other teams decided speed was the only solution, so they brought beer bongs to speed up consumption.
Race officials positioned a large packing barrel in the center of the racing teams. This barrel was specifically designed to catch and hold at least fifty gallons of vomit, and it was used. I witnessed people vomit and immediately chug another beer. Countless college students threw up the foamy cold beer that had only made it halfway down their esophagus.
So immature, I thought as I tipped my red solo cup upward, finishing my beer in my adult diaper.
Shortly into the race, it was time to test the strategy. The warmth of my urine saturated the absorbent core of the diaper, and I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t feel pleasant, like easing into a warm bath.
A short time later, a teammate approached me looking anxious, “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Use the diaper.”
“It’s what they’re made for. I’ve already used mine, and,” I paused waiting for the flow of urination, “I’m using it again right now as we speak, you’ll be fine.“
“Fine,” he paused momentarily, “I’m going.”
“See, it’s kind of nice isn..”
“Goddammit,” my teammate said, looking down at his shoes.
I followed his gaze downward as a small amount of pee trickled down his right leg.
“I didn’t think it was possible to use a diaper wrong,” I gasped with laughter.
The race went on, and, as in so many sports, speed killed. Our strategy had failed, and we were not victorious that day.
My Own Worst Enemy by Lit played as I allowed myself to take in the sights of the field of play while I stood in an adult diaper sagging from repeated use. To my left, another person was using the vomit barrel. Behind him, the backyard wrestling continued, with one wrestler bleeding from his forehead. Behind me, a girl sobbed about her boyfriend talking to another girl. A light breeze carried on the warm May air blew through the parking lot, reminding me that the urine in my diaper was now cold and uncomfortable.
I made my way to change out of my racing uniform when I came across another of my roommates. This was the roommate who was the physical manifestation of my worst impulses.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to change. My diaper is about to fall off,” I said.
“We should probably change into another one of these, right?” He asked, holding up the box of diapers with two more diapers left.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
We went inside the house to use the bathroom for the first time that day. The bathroom was on the second floor, and we waited in a short line until it was my roommate’s turn. He walked through the doorway and turned to me, “You’re not going to change me?”
“Change you?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you were going to change my diaper,” he said, looking at me as though I was his father breaking my promise to play catch in the backyard.
A smile formed on my face as I said, “Yeah, I’ll change your diaper.”
We entered the cramped bathroom. My roommate lay lazily on the floor, put his feet straight in the air, and said, “Change me.”
“You need to lift up your butt,” I instructed through laughter as I crouched down, attempting to pull the diaper over his hips and up off his legs. As the diaper went past his knees, the heavy inside of the diaper inverted. It must’ve weighed three pounds.
“How many times did you go?” I asked.
“Oh, I lost track, but you are definitely going to need to wipe me.”
“Wipe you?”
“Yeah, haven’t you ever changed a diaper before?”
As I leaned to grab the toilet paper roll sitting on the toilet tank, I heard a light knock on the door, followed by the click of the latch. I turned to look over my left shoulder as three girls opened the bathroom door, eyes wide and jaws hanging slack as they tried to understand what they were witnessing.
My roommate propped himself on his right elbow to glimpse the girls who had walked in and said, “We’ll be out in just a minute.”
The girls slammed the door quickly, and laughter erupted on the other side of the door.
The embarrassment was too great, and I needed to explain. I left the bathroom, but the girls who walked in were nowhere to be found. I never got a chance to explain what was going on. I think about those girls often and wonder what the scene looked like from their perspective.
My roommate left the bathroom after a moment. “Thanks for your help,” he said, adjusting his fresh diaper while handing me mine.
I went back into the bathroom, locking the door this time. I changed into my new diaper and left the bathroom. As I walked out, my roommate stood beside an open window overlooking the back parking lot. I saw the party, and the wrestling was still in full swing.
As I walked toward the stairs, my roommate said, “Should we go out there?”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“No,” he said, gesturing to the open window, “out there.”
The window opened out onto the roof without a screen. My roommate wanted to go on the roof. It’s tough to say how many beers I consumed at that point in the day, so it isn’t shocking that I made a responsible decision and said, “Yes.”
I’m unsure if it was because we went on the roof or just a song added to a long playlist, but it wasn’t long before we were doing the “Macarena” on the roof in our diapers.
I wore my diaper for the rest of that day, though I didn’t use it until the night’s end.
Many people will roll their eyes at this behavior, which they find immature and reckless. I will not argue that point. I am well aware of the dangers of binge drinking and climbing out onto roofs. I understand that wearing a diaper for the sole purpose of drinking more beer is concerning behavior.
However, that day played out like a scene from a stereotypical college movie. It is a scene you would see and think there is no way that would happen at a real college, but it did.
People ask, “Wouldn’t you be concerned if this was one of your children’s stories?”
Last night, as I watched the Minnesota Timberwolves clinch victory and advance to the Western Conference Finals, I was reminded of the breathtaking essence of sports. It was a moment of pure poetry, exactly two decades since the Timberwolves last won the seventh game of a playoff series. Games like these remind us why we love sports—the drama, the passion, the sheer unpredictability.
Critics often argue that professional athletes are overpaid and lazy. But in the final game of a playoff series, none of that matters. Contracts and bonuses fade into the background. Game seven is when these athletes show us why they’re worth every penny. Their talent, skill, and teamwork are on full display, and it’s impossible not to be in awe.
Watching those players on the court last night, I was struck by the realization that they were living their dream—playing in a game seven of the NBA playoffs. It’s a dream shared by countless kids who’ve spent hours shooting hoops in their driveways or local parks. I couldn’t help but wonder: What does it feel like to step onto that floor? How do they handle the deafening roar of the arena? What must their families be feeling as they watch?
As I watched the second half with my wife, Jenni—a rare occurrence—I wasn’t thinking about the players’ political beliefs. The focus was on the game, the thrill of the competition.
This brings me to Harrison Butker. The attention this small-minded, football-kicking man is receiving is infuriating, but not for the reasons you might think. I disagree with Mr. Butker. His face alone suggests he’s a misogynistic, homophobic, antisemitic, small-minded individual. But despite my disdain, he has the right to hold and share his beliefs. It would be hypocritical to criticize his freedom of speech while exercising my own.
Athletes and celebrities often believe they are more important than they are, a belief we perpetuate by listening to their opinions on matters outside their expertise. A week ago, most people wouldn’t have known who Harrison Butker was. Now, he’s likely getting calls from political groups because he’s proven to be polarizing and divisive.
Before letting outrage consume us, we should ask ourselves: Do we really care what a football player with the handle @buttkicker7 thinks about anything? We shouldn’t.
When I watched Top Gun: Maverick, I did not think about how Tom Cruise believes he is an immortal alien being with amnesia trapped on Earth (See: Scientology). I sat down excited to see a fictional character named Maverick fly a make-believe plane.
Similarly, I wouldn’t ask the Timberwolves for gardening tips or look to an NFL kicker for advice on anything other than kicking.
We must stop expecting these people to be everything we want them to be. You are allowed to be a fan of someone’s professional skill while disagreeing with them on big topics and small, like what the best candy bar is. Does Harry Butker look like he would claim Mounds as the best candy bar? Absolutely. Is that grounds to have him fired? Of course not, but it’s close.
Living in this country means respecting others’ beliefs, regardless of how backward they are. It is the other side of that coin which has allowed the little progress to be made for people in marginalized communities to date.
Harrison Butker’s commencement speech reads like I asked ChatGPT to sum up everything that was taught to me on Wednesday nights in confirmation class as a teenage Catholic. He was given a platform to say what he said because, unfortunately, he is not alone in how he thinks. An organization with far more power and influence has taught people these things for centuries, The Roman Catholic Church.
An online petition to remove Butker from the team garnered over 220,000 signatures, demanding accountability from sports figures who should promote respect for all.
The petition states, “We demand accountability from our sports figures who should be role models promoting respect for all people regardless of their race, gender identity or sexual orientation. We call upon the Kansas City Chiefs management to dismiss Harrison Butker immediately for his inappropriate conduct.”
Roughly 1.6% of NCAA football players are eligible to be drafted annually. .016% of the players in that pool will be drafted. To beat long odds like those, the players are forced to live, eat, and sleep football because there isn’t time for anything else. So, are we asking that the NFL only draft players with progressive, liberal ideals?
As a Liberal, that sounds great. As a football fan, that is the worst idea ever. Southern Conservatives and football go together like a full bottle of hair gel and Harrison Butker’s hair.
Change doesn’t come from bullying anyone into agreeing with you.
I love my brother-in-law dearly. We have so much in common that we once bought the same car within a week of each other without having discussed it. He is a person I trust and respect more than most people, and that jerk is a Republican (far more handsome than Harrison Butker).
Not once have I attempted to change his mind. I have explained my views on topics, and he has done the same; I think we have helped each other expand our understanding of different political and social issues. However, when we step into the voting booth, we know what boxes we’re checking the majority of the time.
Change happens at the dinner table. Shouting into social media echo chambers to all your friends and celebrities you follow because they agree with you on all fronts changes nothing.
Harrison Butker deserves any and all criticism regarding his remarks. He does not deserve to lose his livelihood.
While it may feel good to get the gratification of seeing results from action, this result will not move the needle in a meaningful way. Odds are, it will move the needle in the opposite direction as there are Catholic parishioners reminding themselves to bring a little extra cash to put in the basket when it makes the way down their pew this Sunday at Mass.
We should be sharing stories and truths. Will Harrison change his views? Probably not.
However, there are thousands of people who are on the fence. Honest stories about why the remarks made in Butker’s commencement speech are hurtful, insensitive, and/or flat out wrong will tip them in the right (left?) way. Maybe after tipping, that parent will have a child. Maybe they will give that child a name that won’t lead to getting made fun of in school. Maybe that child will grow up to be a professional athlete, give a commencement speech at a real institution of higher learning (University of Minnesota, for instance). And maybe, just maybe, that speech will be written to include ALL who hear it.
In the meantime, we can enjoy every missed extra point and field goal, like the one he hit off the upright in Super Bowl LVII. And, who knows, maybe Taylor’s boyfriend decides to have a conversation with him in the privacy of the locker room and changes his mind.
This is my opinion. As the father of a five-year-old daughter, I have a vested interest in ensuring she doesn’t grow up in the future Harrison Butker or those who support him envision. I will advocate and do what I can to further progress, but I will not do so by infringing on another person’s rights. It’s a waste of time to work to get a kicker cut from a team because, well, they usually take care of that themselves.
Let’s leave the athletes to play their chosen sport and marvel at the talent and dedication it took to get them there. Let’s stop expecting them to be role models because, if you look around professional sports, those are few and far between.
The year 2000 was the beginning of a new millennium and our first full year together as a couple.
This week on The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni talk about their recent trip to a Minnesota Twins game in the midst of their winning streak and the Timberwolves’ hot start in the playoffs. There is nothing Minnesotans love more than a winning team. They move on to the year 2000 and discuss the music that topped the charts (Eminem, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Papa Roach, Blink-182, and more!) and the movies that crushed the box office (Gladiator, Coyote Ugly, Almost Famous, and more!). Tim can’t share Jenni’s enthusiasm about the new Max Harry Potter series that has been announced to Jenni’s chagrin. Tim does his best to comb through Jenni’s memory for… anything! Will he be successful, or will we be astonished by Jenni’s lack of recall? The only way to find out is by listening. Thanks for being here.
In episode 2 of The Kids Are In Bed, join Tim and Jenni as they discuss the most recent piece added to TimTalks, Holding Doors. They go over a few Super Bowl prop bets, Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, the Super Bowl start time, and ‘Saltburn.’ Please like, comment, subscribe, follow, and all that good stuff! Thanks for watching!
One night, during my Sophomore year of college, I was talking with a couple of roommates about “blacking out.”
That is, drinking so much alcohol you cannot remember a portion of the evening despite walking around like a semi-functional human.
As a twenty-year-old from rural Minnesota, I had done my fair share of drinking. I had been around people claiming not to remember things from the night before. Still, I had been with them and consumed roughly the same amount of alcohol, yet I could remember the night’s details clearly.
This led me to feel as though there were two options:
I am not capable of blacking out due to a superhuman liver.
People claim to blackout because they can’t own the embarrassment of their actions.
I gladly played devil’s advocate against my roommates in this discussion as they crafted theories opposing my viewpoints on blackouts.
Heated debates were taking place in other houses and apartments around the University of Minnesota campus. However, those debates covered high-brow academic hypotheses. Future brilliant minds were discussing philosophy, politics, or mathematic proofs.
All the while, I had split my roommates on the question of whether or not a blackout could happen by drinking beer alone since I almost exclusively drank beer at the time.
Our debate was as vigorous as the others throughout campus, but our subject matter was sophomoric.
When the dust settled, it was agreed that blackouts are real. We decided to conduct an experiment to determine whether or not I could achieve a blackout, an investigation for which I was happy to be a guinea pig.
Our group of scholars determined Red Bull mixed with vodka would be the best catalyst for a blackout if it were going to happen.
Since I was only twenty, I gave money to one of my roommates, who was of legal age, to purchase a liter of Karkov vodka.
I went to retrieve the Red Bull.
My sophomore year of college was the first year I had my car on campus. My parents gave me a Mobil credit card to ensure I always had a full gas tank.
Having a Mobil credit card meant I bought gas exclusively at Mobil gas stations. Fortunately for me, Bobby & Steve’s Auto World was a short, 7-minute drive away. It was the sole Mobil station in the immediate area and the best gas station in the area. If they gave awards for gas station cuisine, this gas station would be highly decorated.
While filling up my gas tank one day, someone came walking out with a slice of pizza that caught my eye. I decided to treat myself to a slice as a twenty-year-old with little impulse control.
When I approached the register and reached for my wallet, I realized I had come without it. Massive panic took over my body.
“I, uh, I forgot my wallet, so I’ll just take this back where I found it,” I said, holding my Mobil credit card in my hand.
“You can use the card in your hand to pay for the pizza,” the employee behind the counter said flatly.
“I thought this was only for gas?” I said.
“Umm, no,” he said. The look on his face showed he was trying to figure out if I was messing with him or just a run-of-the-mill half-wit. He quickly realized I was a half-wit by looking at my face, so he slowed his cadence down when he continued, “You can use your credit card to buy anything in this store.” He gestured to the store floor in case I needed help understanding what constituted a store.
The cashier had no idea what he had set in motion. I looked at the store floor through the lens of unlimited possibilities. Frozen pizza, ice cream, sandwiches, chips, cigarettes, and beer were now at my fingertips. At that moment, I promised myself I would not abuse this newfound power, a promise I would quickly break.
“In that case, I’ll be right back,” I said, turning on my heel to walk back through the store for a little extra grocery shopping.
Mom wouldn’t want me to go without Coke this week, I thought, as I reached into the cooler for a twelve-pack.
Fortunately, my diet in college didn’t require anything I couldn’t buy from a gas station.
Every convenience store on campus (including the convenience store down the street) also sold Red Bull, but it was expensive. I went to Bobby & Steve’s to buy a four-pack of Red Bull. Not wanting to waste a trip, I also got some “essentials. ”
I got home, put my frozen pizza and a pint of Phish Food Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (see: essentials) in the freezer, and grabbed a giant cup from the kitchen.
I poured my first stiff Red Bull vodka of the night and drank it in short order, grimacing after every gulp. If you’ve never had Red Bull vodka, it tastes like a sweet, tart lollipop dipped in hand sanitizer.
Before long, a half liter of vodka was gone, along with two Red Bulls.
The plan for the evening was to go to a Gopher men’s hockey game. Before going anywhere, our tradition was playing a few foosball rounds in the living room at a foosball table surrounded by old student newspaper pages that had been used to clean up previous spills.
The last thing I remember is taking the final gulp of my third Red Bull vodka and everyone agreeing to play one more game before we left to go to the hockey game.
I open my eyes to find myself lying in my bed, on top of a mostly broken bed frame from Ikea due to a scuffle between two of my roommates spilling into my bedroom a couple of weeks into the school year.
Where am I? Is the first thought that runs through my head.
What happened? Is a very close second.
I remember playing foosball, then… what happened? I must have passed out before we went to the hockey game.
After I got my sorry ass out of bed, I went to find my roommates to find out what happened the night before.
I did make it to the hockey game. The conversation could have ended there. Blackouts are real, and I did not have a superhuman liver.
The conversation did not end there, however. My roommates insisted on filling me in on the details, as we all like to do when talking to the person who over-indulged the night before.
Allegedly, I asked Goldy if he was interested in my girlfriend… sexually.
As it turned out, he was not interested. It’s a good thing, too, because I married that girl, and Gopher games would be mighty awkward these days if he had taken me up on the offer.
The season ticket holders in the seats in front of us had a tradition of wearing firefighter helmets to the game. Allegedly, I decided to test their effectiveness by treating the tops of their helmets as drums at various times during the game.
This picture is not from the night featured, but it gives the right idea.
Outside of making an indecent proposal to a mascot and annoying the people in front of us at the game, my roommates filled me in on what else happened the remainder of the night. Luckily, there wasn’t much else to be embarrassed about.
My consciousness traveled through time, leaving my vacant, meat puppet of a body behind to walk around unsupervised. Few feelings are worse than the first moments after waking after a blackout.
It was the last time I drank a Red Bull vodka.
I wish I could tell you it was the first and final time that I experienced a blackout, but it would be a lie.
Viewing this story as another binge-drinking college story is short-sighted.
I took full advantage of the resources college afforded me. I made an observation, asked a question based on that observation, formulated a hypothesis, developed a method, and recorded my results while allowing my peers to review those results.
In academia, they call that the scientific method.
“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint (see: jog).
“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner.
They were too late. I was off on my own in a neighborhood in Boulder, CO.
In September 2021, I traveled with some friends to Boulder, CO, to watch the University of Minnesota Gopher football team play against the University of Colorado.
Few things match the energy of traveling to a college town to watch your team play. It opens up a sense of community in people. People you see wearing your team’s colors from the airport to the stadium are no longer strangers. They are your friends, if only for 72 hours.
From smiles and head nods to “Go Gophers,” “Row the Boat,” and “Ski-U-Mah,” said in passing, a strange city starts to feel much more inviting. If you choose the right hotel, all the other guests are fans of your team.
Come game day, the excitement in the air is palpable. You know you are in enemy territory when you leave your hotel. Usually, the opposing fans greet you with good-natured jeers; a “boo” is shouted with a good-natured smile, for example.
Unless you are in Wisconsin or Iowa, those people are savages that take out their frustration of living in the worst two states in the country on opposing fans. Some of the worst things I’ve heard from opposing fans have come from the mouths of sixty-year-old women wearing Wisconsin red.
In Colorado, we heard the same thing repeated all weekend leading up to the game from the female Colorado students, “Sko buuuhfs!”
The first time we heard it, my friends and I looked at each other in confusion and simultaneously asked, “What did she say?”
By the third time we heard it, we realized it was a shorthand for “Let’s Go Buffs.” For those of you not up on your college team names, the University of Colorado team name is the Buffaloes.
As it turns out, shouting, “Sko buuuhfs!” at an unsuspecting group of Colorado fans as they pass by is massively entertaining. Watching the excitement melt from their faces as they realized the cheer came from three men in their late thirties from Minnesota made for endless fun.
What completes a road trip to watch your team is a win. The Gophers delivered on that front blowing Colorado out 30-0. The ten thousand Gopher fans that made the trip were ecstatic.
When your team wins a road game you traveled to see, it makes money spent on travel, hotel, food, and massive amounts of beverages feel like an excellent investment.
Before I tell you about the post-game celebration, I must tell you about the day before the game.
My friends and I set out in the morning to visit the campus sites and find a bar. That bar led to a brewery, which led to a wine bar. By 4:00 PM, we were having a great time.
We connected with a couple of other friends who made the trip and made plans to meet them for a drink and some appetizers.
We went to a restaurant on Pearl St. in downtown Boulder to grab cocktails. We sat at a table on the sidewalk, sharing laughs and cheering with every Gopher fan that passed by. After a few beers and fireball shots, my friends needed to return to the hotel around 6:00 PM.
This is the responsible thing to do. However, I have spent twenty years training for marathon day-drinking days. I knew returning to my hotel room could lead to an abrupt end of the day.
No, thank you.
As we got up from the table, my friends mentioned getting an Uber.
“Our hotel is a mile away. Let’s walk,” I said.
My friends saw through my plan. They knew my strategy would lead to me convincing them to stop at another bar. They explained that the night wasn’t ending and needed to “reset.” I probably would have submitted until I heard the word “nap” uttered.
I have never started a good story with, “So I laid down to take a nap.”
“Let’s just take an Uber to the hotel and find a bar to go…”
“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint.
“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner.
I sprinted for a few blocks until my limited energy ran out. I found myself in a residential neighborhood walking down the street with the sun setting behind the mountains.
I knew if I walked a couple of blocks south, I’d be back where the action was. However, I understood a walk and a break from cocktails were necessary, so I continued down the quiet street.
I wasn’t sloppy by any means. I was in the day-drinking sweet spot. I had my wits about me and found humor in almost everything I saw. Like this gnome carved into an old tree.
After a few blocks, I stumbled upon a park with a basketball court. Eight guys were playing a game of 4-on-4. I stopped to watch because, well, I had nothing better to do.
One of the guys playing clearly had the lion’s share of talent. I watched silently as his teammates took terrible shots and turned the ball over. Eventually, their ineptitude became too much to handle.
“Kick it to short shorts in the corner,” I yelled through the fence.
The best player was wearing running shorts. You know, the shorts you see those runners wear when they fly past running faster than you sprint, but they are on the seventh mile of their daily run. Then you think, show off, because you can’t remember the last time you ran more than a mile, let alone with your shirt off.
No? That’s just me?
The guy with the ball threw a wild layup that gonged off the backboard.
I shook my head in disgust.
On their next possession, I figured they didn’t hear me and, with a little more gusto, yelled, “Feed shorts shorts!”
The team again ignored their new inebriated coach, turning the ball over. “Come on,” I said in frustration, running my hands through my hair.
The sound of movement stopped. I looked at the court, and all the players stared at me.
“Do we know you?” asked one of the players.
“No,” I said.
“Then shut the hell up,” he said.
“Sounds good,” I said, deciding to move on with my journey back to the hotel.
I walked a couple of blocks trying to get my bearings, when a familiar aroma hit my nose.
I’m in Colorado!
I scanned the area for a dispensary. I was slightly confused since I was still in a mostly residential neighborhood, but I was like a bloodhound on the scent. I spotted a blue and red neon sign that read, Open, illuminated in the window of what looked like a small house.
I entered, learned some new things about marijuana from the lovely woman behind the counter, bought a souvenir, and continued my journey.
I was confident I knew how to return to my hotel, but I checked my phone for directions. My phone died as the route pulled up on my Google Maps.
If I can direct your attention to the graphic (below), I have highlighted (in case it needed to be clarified) where I got a little lost. Fortunately, after a few minutes of standing at the intersection of Pearl and 28th St., I remembered the Apple Watch on my wrist could lead me home.
When I returned to my hotel room, I started texting my friends who took the Uber home. When they didn’t respond, I walked out the sliding glass door to the hotel courtyard and down to their room.
In the courtyard, I noticed a glass pipe filled with marijuana. I looked up at the hotel and realized someone must’ve dropped it from their balcony. I continued on to the back patio of my friend’s room. They didn’t answer, so I started texting again.
Here’s what that looked like.
Those are the texts from a man desperate for a good time.
Eventually, they got up and going and appeased me by going out for a couple more drinks.
The following morning, game day, we went to a bar near campus with a couple hundred other Gopher fans.
It is hilarious watching Colorado fans walk away from a campus bar in disappointment when they realize it has been overrun by Gopher fans chanting, “M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A!” Which we did a lot.
By the time the game ended, we had put in a full day’s worth of drinking. We opted to head back to the hotel to regroup, shower, and decide what the night would bring.
Fortunately, we had the foresight to stock our hotel room with beer and snacks for just this occasion.
We watched more college football and listened to music for a while, but I could feel the energy being sucked out of the room. I could feel the mood of the evening reverting to what I had encountered the night before. We needed to make decisions.
“Where should we head?” I asked, hopping out of my chair.
I didn’t receive the enthusiasm from my friends I was looking for. Then I got an idea.
I walked out the sliding glass door to the courtyard. Walked into the grass and found the glass pipe I had seen the night before. I walked back to the patio of my hotel room with the pipe in hand.
“There’s no way you’re going to smoke that,” one of my friends said.
I can’t remember my exact intentions when I walked out of the room, but that sounded like a challenge to my drunken brain.
“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.
I had barely finished asking the question before a lighter sailed through the open sliding glass door.
Without hesitation, I lit the remaining weed in the pipe and inhaled deeply.
Look, I’m not proud of doing this. It wasn’t my finest decision. It was a calculated risk to get a rise out of my friends. And, yes, it was run-of-the-mill marijuana.
I’ve realized I am addicted to getting attention on my own terms. Hell, it’s why I write these stories. I don’t care if people are laughing at me as long as they are laughing.
Also, it worked. I don’t know if my friends were worried I would find other drugs in the courtyard or if they decided I needed an activity to keep me busy. We went out to a bar and got some pizza.
We chatted with a guy at the bar who was nice enough, but I grew bored of his stories quickly.
“I smoked yard drugs!” I shouted in a mostly empty pizza restaurant.
That put a quick ending to our conversation.
It’s a fine line between being a gainfully employed husband and father of two and a bum smoking things you find on the ground and yelling about it to strangers. I, for one, think that is an important lesson to take away here.
Although it should go without saying, don’t do what I did. There are much wiser ways to entice your friends to hit the town on a Saturday night.
Before the 2012 season, I wrote Why I Go(pher). The Gopher football team would finish that season 6-7. And under that coaching staff and administration, it never felt like they would be more than a middle-of-the-road Big Ten team.
Yesterday, 7 years later, we turned the corner I wrote about. And as I predicted, I was there.
At the time that I wrote those words, I had no clue that I would have a 3-year-old son and a 9-month-old daughter sitting next to me. Long gone are the days of drinking as much as I want because I had nothing to do on Sunday.
Our Gopher gamedays are decidedly different. In this special edition of TimTalks, I am going to hand the mic over to my lovely wife to give you a gameday-in-the-life as the wife of a Gopher fan:
It’s 5:30 am on a Saturday. Warm in my bed, I’m awakened by my husband’s alarm. I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes, considering trying to catch a little more sleep. I decide against it. Time to move. My husband looks up, surprised, as I walk into the bathroom. “I understand. I know this is the biggest game in decades. I’m up.”
Two hours later the car is packed, the kids are dressed, the baby’s been fed, and we are ready to go.
For the first time in years, I have convinced my husband we don’t need to make it in time for the open of the tailgate lots. Lots open six hours before game time or 7:00 am for an 11:00 game. On our drive in, at 7:45, we hear from my brother who has beaten us there. I can tell instantly my husband is disappointed at our late arrival. We pull up at 8:07 am. Three hours until game time. Our shortest tailgate of the season.
Growing up with three brothers, I spent my fair share of time at football games. However, I was more interested in talking with my friends than staying up to speed on the play by play. My first Gopher football game, in 2001, my future husband and I sat in the Metrodome as he tried to explain the basics of the game. I listened, not realizing as a 16-year-old girl that this would become a staple of my life.
Gopher football as a college student and twenty-something without children was A LOT of fun. I loved the social aspect. The chants, the traditions, and the beers. I cheered loud for the big plays but didn’t lose sleep over a bad game. But it got a lot tougher with one and now two kids. And I’ll admit, some days I get a bit salty.
Making it to a tailgate lot at 8:30 am with a three-year-old and an infant requires a lot of work. Arriving home a solid twelve hours later makes for some tired kids, and parents too. And some days I just wondered, could we maybe go at 9:30, or 10:00? Is it absolutely pivotal to the success of the team that we arrive for six full hours of tailgating? And the answer is, yes.
Yes, it does matter. Because it matters to my favorite human on this earth. It matters to him to show up for his team, week after week, some years loss after loss. And this moment, this day, was to date, the most important day in his lifelong journey as a Gopher fan. My husband has never missed a game in TCF Bank Stadium. His three-year-old son and 9-month-old daughter haven’t missed a home game in their lives. He’s been there for the electrifying wins and the heartbreaking losses. He always shows up.
So I show up. I nurse a baby in the sleet under a Gopher blanket to watch the team beat Nebraska. I stand in the pouring rain in Evanston to see the team suffer a truly unwatchable defeat by Northwestern. I’ve never been to Hawaii or Palm Springs, but I’ve been to Ohio State and Maryland.
But some days, like this beautiful November morning, I sit in the sunshine holding a sleeping baby, my hooligan three-year-old being a perfect angel, and watch the Gophers lead a top-five ranked Penn State team through not one, two, or three, but four full quarters of play to maintain their perfect season.
We lovingly refer to my husband as “Timmy Baby Pants.” It’s a lot of fun. On cue, Baby Pants shed a tear in the stands as “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” played and fans rushed the field. Honestly, I shed a tear too. I’m so grateful for the husband and father that he is. And seeing the joy on his face while he hugged our three-year-old in the final minutes of the game, I’ll get up at 5:30 on a Saturday for that. I’ll stand in the snow and the rain to see those smiles on my two favorite boys’ faces.
And I know it’s only going to get easier, and better, as my kids grow up. I can already see the excitement and joy on my son’s face when he talks about “Minnesota.”
We are laying the foundation for a lifetime of tradition.
I’m a big Fleck fan. I love his energy and enthusiasm, and he’s easy on the eyes. Some people roll their eyes at the catch phrases and mantras, but I love them.
FAMILY. Forget About Me, I Love You.
It perfectly encompasses my Gopher experience. I love the energy and the party and the celebrations, sure. But I can’t tell you the score or even who we played in the opening game of the 2018 season. What I can tell you is what the face of a father looks like when his 2-year-old son walks into the stadium for a new season, looks out over the field with eyes full of wonderment, and unprovoked exclaims “row the boat.”
I can tell you about the pride on a first-time father’s face as he walks into the stadium with his son strapped to his chest for his son’s first game.
I can tell you about the sparkle in a father’s eye as he watches his wife unwrap his daughter’s first pink Gopher shirt.
I can tell you what a father and son sing on Fridays before gameday. (Les Mis – “One Day More”)
I can tell you about the grin on a toddler’s face as he signals for another “Golden Gopher First Down!”
I can tell you how a tailgate lot full of strangers become friends (it takes a village.)
At the end of the game, win or lose, I can tell you about my husband and the amazing bond that he will forever share with our children over this team called the Gophers.
You do not get to choose your nicknames. They follow you around, silently stalking until they attach themselves to you, like a parasite, when you least expect it.
Sometimes they are funny and endearing. Sometimes they are malicious. Sometimes they are cool and catchy. The nickname that attached itself to me is somewhere in the middle, I suppose.
You have no recourse if the nickname that finds you is one that you do not care for. Resisting only results in the moniker taking a stronger hold, like a Chinese finger trap. Though, you do not realize this until it is too late.
My nickname found me in the fall of 2002 the Monday following the final football game of my senior year. The last football game of my life.
Now, it is important to give a little context that involves football, rest assured that this will not turn into a nostalgic reliving of my glory days on the football field. I have no illusions that my career was anything more than what it was, mediocre. I was not the star of the team or anything close to it. I had a weak knee, due to a snowmobile accident that I have written about previously, that caused me to play hesitant in a game that has no patience for hesitant players. I did what I could to fill my role on the team as a Fullback. I had a few games where I made solid contributions that would show up in a box score but nothing to brag about.
Well, I was 100% (1/1) kicking extra points as the backup placekicker.
That being said, I had an amazing time playing and enjoyed all of the time spent on the field with my teammates and coaches. What’s more, I was a part of a historic season as our team had the first undefeated regular season in 64 years. It’s hard not to have fun when your team is winning all of the time.
Everything came down to the section 8, Class 5A championship game on November 1, 2002. A cold, blustery day. The kind of day that you don’t want to play football unless there is something important on the line. With temperatures below freezing, everything hurts and the field, which was forgiving green grass a few months prior, now more closely resembles an asphalt parking lot.
A win on this day would send us to the next round, competing in the state quarterfinals.
Athletes, in general, are superstitious people. All sorts of traditions and rituals are followed as the competition approached. This was the case for the Brainerd Warriors. Before we would take the field to warm up for the game, we would slowly assemble in the dark basketball gym. This was not only a respite from the stench of high school locker room but also a chance to relax and visualize your upcoming performance. Time to mentally prepare for the game ahead and the game plan that was installed during practice.
This ritual was interrupted by the opposing team as they opted to warm up in the gym, avoiding the cold temperatures outside. This was an unwelcomed distraction, to say the least.
The other ritual is lining up at the top of the long stairs that overlooked the football field below holding hands with the teammate next you. The goal here was to be a cohesive unit and to have “one heart beat” as a team. Looking down at the field illuminated under the stadium lighting with our friends and family in the stands, it occurred to no one on the team that it would be the last time we would do so.
As a teenager, I spent so much time dreading football practice. Putting on the same smelly pads day after day. Conditioning in the unforgiving August heat twice a day for two weeks.
It wasn’t until we lost the game that I realized how much it all actually meant to me.
I couldn’t believe that it was over.
After shaking hands with the opposing team, we huddled as a team under our goal posts. Another ritual but this was the first time we had done so as the losing team. Another sobering pang of reality.
After a brief speech from our team captains, the field is flooded with family and friends offering condolences on the loss.
I am an emotional guy. I often wish I wasn’t but it is just who I am. I cry easy and the more I try to prevent it, the worse it gets.
Tears flooded my face as I realized from now on playing football would be nothing more than a fading memory.
Now, I will maintain that I was not the only guy crying on the field that night. There were many others. If any of you are reading this, you know who you are.
As I made my way to my parents and my girlfriend, crying, I saw the flash out of the corner of my eye. At the time, I paid no attention to this. There were pictures being taken by families all over the field. I hugged my parents as they congratulated me on a good season.
I walked around to teammates, doing the same thing.
It wasn’t until the following Monday morning that I would realize that the flash that I saw out of the corner of my eye was my nickname attaching itself to me.
As I walked into the high school a little before 8AM, still in shock that the season was over, one of best friends approached me, “Hey! It’s Timmy Baby Pants!”
“What?” I said. I had no clue where this was coming from, I was confused and anxious (the state that I am in about 75% of the time).
Laughing he said, “Nice picture in the paper, Timmy Baby Pants!”
“Wh- what picture?” I said. I had not seen the paper.
Oh no.
He calls out to another one of my “best” friends, neither of them played football, “he doesn’t know! He hasn’t seen the paper!”
They lead me down a hallway to a bulletin board hanging outside of a classroom where a teacher would pin-up articles that highlighted students performances, athletic or otherwise.
Even from a distance, I knew exactly what the picture was.
This picture adorned the front page of the sports section.
Why me? Why would they use a picture of me? I was a meaningless role player at best. What did I do to the photographer?
“Are you sad, Timmy Baby Pants? Should we call the wambulance?” one of my “friends” says.
“Did Timmy Baby Pants lose the big game?” says the other.
This is my life now.
I tried to justify. I tried to explain that I wasn’t the only one crying. This made it worse.
By the end of the day, most of my friends were calling me Timmy Baby Pants.
By the end of the week, my mom was calling me Timmy Baby Pants.
This picture is framed and on display in my house.
It has been 14 years. The nickname remains. At least yearly, the picture is posted on Facebook by one of my loving friends. One year, a large number of people even made it their profile picture. This winter I was introduced to a mutual friend at a bar and after a moment of studying my face he said, “Wait, you’re the crying football player!”
Over the past 14 years, I have surrendered. I now realize that the stupid nickname fits. But that doesn’t mean that I have to like it.
Baseball. America’s pastime. Endless opportunities for me to embarrass myself.
I did not have a long career on the diamond. I played until I was twelve years-old (skipping a season when I was eleven because of an accident). But, my first season in what is called “Bronco” league baseball was a memorable one.
I can remember pulling up to the baseball field for the first game.
The late, hot afternoon June sun drying out the grass along with the wind blowing infield dirt in circles. The ting of baseballs being hit in the batting cages echoed. Cheers from over zealous parents came intermittently as did the laughter of the little brothers and sisters running to the concessions stand to buy gummy worms for 5¢ a piece.
It’s amazing that I can look back on this with fondness.
I played for the Pirates. Our uniform consisted of a t-shirt that identified the team and had a number on the back. I cannot remember what my number was but, it most likely it was in the 30s since the numbers corresponded to the size. Mine might as well have said XL on the back (it still fit a little snug).
The rest of my uniform seemed reasonable when I got in the car with my mom. Black sweatpants, to match the shirt. Basketball shoes from the previous season and a hat with the logo of whatever team I was most interested in at the time.
One minute of scanning the field and batting cages showed that I was, once again, unprepared.
Kids wore baseball pants like the professionals have. New baseball cleats adorned feet all around me. Kids even had special bags to carry their bats, balls and gloves.
Don’t get me wrong, if I would have asked for these things, I would have gotten them. I just didn’t know to ask.
Besides, I had an awesome glove with Ken Griffey Jr.’s signature on the palm.
Now, what made Bronco baseball different from what I had played in the past was that the coaches no longer threw underhand to us. We would see real pitching from other players.
If I didn’t look so dopey in my sweatpants, I may have looked intimidating due to my size. But, instead I played the part of the tall, chubby, awkward wuss with over-sized feet that didn’t fit into the holes that had been dug into the batters box.
There is no way to sugar coat it, I was afraid of the ball. I don’t know why, I just was. I hate that I was. I am embarrassed because I love baseball, but I was flat-out scared.
I was as self-conscious then as I am now. I was scared of getting hit. I was scared of striking out. I was scared of everybody laughing at me.
My at bats were a coin flip between a walk and a strikeout. If the pitcher threw especially hard, I would probably not swing the bat. If they threw a little easier, I would take pathetic swings and strikeout. I can remember my mom telling me on the way home after games that I should never strikeout with the bat on my shoulder.
Easy for you to say, mom. You’re not on the field risking your life on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
This is not hyperbole, I got one hit the entire season. One. Uno.
When I got that hit. I clapped for myself on first base through the first few pitches of the next players at bat. It was a big deal for me.
In the field, however, I was able to hold my own. The majority of the time I spent my time playing first base or right field (where the slow kids play).
For some reason, when we played the best team in the league, my coach decided that I should give left field a try.
There was a twelve year-old on the opposing team that I had only heard stories about. He threw the hardest fastball in Bronco history and was on his way to setting the record for the most home runs in a season.
I had enough to worry about stepping into the batters box against this freak of nature. Now I had to worry about trying to catch fly balls?
Not good.
See, when this kid played. All of the others kids hanging out at the baseball field wanted to watch him hit home runs.
He batted right-handed. I was playing left field. I knew enough to understand that I was going to have balls hit at me in left field.
Luckily, I had gotten little to no action through most of the game. Then, he stepped in to the batters box.
My heart started to pound.
It stopped every time the pitcher released the ball.
Ball. Strike. Ball. Ball. Then…
Ting, a high fly ball was head my direction.
Oh, dear God why?
I took two quick steps forward for some unknown reason. Spun around awkwardly and started retreating toward the fence.
You can do this. You can do this.
I was running full speed and the next thing I knew I was laying on my stomach with my foot caught under the chain link fence.
I focused so hard on catching the ball that I forgot about the outfield fence.
I was running after the fly ball with my hands in the air (looking extremely athletic, no doubt) preparing to try to make the catch when I ran into the fence, which came up to my chest. My arms flung forward over the fence then recoiled and flung back over my head. By some cruel miracle, my glove managed to swat the baseball and stop it from clearing the fence for a home run.
Now, I lay staring at the ball 15 feet in front of me as I make labored wheezing noises since the collision with the fence had knocked the air out of my lungs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My foot is stuck. Get up. GET UP!
Over my wheezing, I heard the laughter. It came from the crowd, from the opposing dugout and from my teammates.
Don’t cry.
I struggled to my feet and got to the ball as the batter rounded third on his way to an inside the park home run. I made a weak, off target throw to the infield as he crossed home plate.
The embarrassment was too much. I started to cry and faked an injury (not my most proud moment). My coach came out to my aid and luckily was sympathetic enough to replace me in the outfield.
I shouldn’t have been in left field anyway.
My teammates continued to giggle as I made my way to the dugout.
I hated baseball that season. But, looking back, I learned some real valuable life lessons.
Don’t strike out with out swinging.
It doesn’t matter how you look as long as you give it everything you’ve got.
If you give it everything you’ve got, you’ll eventually get a hit.
And, most importantly, if you find yourself in an embarrassing situation… start crying and fake an injury.
