"There Goes The Fear"

Since starting at the latest country club, I've had more time than usual to recognize how often we're cheapened by something called the "Little League World Series." In case you're not familiar with the format, basically all the teams from the U.S. dwindle down to a single winner ... and then that team plays the lone team that emerges from the bracket that includes, well, the REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

Now, needless to say, I always had a tendency to root against the American team—most likely because I thought the system was unfairly balanced in their favor from the start, and then also because the U.S. team was also obnoxious snobs that acted in the same manner that makes you hate pricks like Barry Bonds for admiring home runs rather than running out hits like, say, Pete Rose. Another argument, another day perhaps.

Besides, on the day of the cataclysmic final game of this Little League World Series, I found myself at Great America—the local "Six Flags" theme park in Gurnee, IL. To me, this was another ritual of summer: somebody recommends going there, I turn it down and I further deny I have a fear of fucking roller coasters.

Strangely enough, the old plans always worked out. But this summer was different.

***

I had a secret dispassion for the Little League World Series for no other reason than that it reminded me that school was about to be back in session. That was always the ultimate buzz-kill: Every Sunday right before you resumed remembering a locker combination or wondering if that girl you had a crush on would be in your dumb-ass English class, you had to watch a group of American little-leaguers play baseball and come to the realization that "summer," as we knew it, was officially over. It sucked dick, in the fattest sense.

I'm not all that amazed by the number of people who consider summer to be their favorite season; by all means, it makes perfect sense (the sun, the beach, the pool, etc.). But I love fall more than any other season (the World Series is in October ... 'nuff said), and while I appreciate how much some people value the summer, I still think the importance of events that occur during it can be either an overblown recollection of small, albeit significant memories or, they can often be a tale of heartbreak involving that one sign of hope that dissipated all too quickly.

Occasionally, you come upon the sad sap who has nothing to say about how their particular summer went and my heart really does go out to those people. Like I said, summer, whether you love it or not, is the ultimate universal season: we all remember it. We're only left to deny the memories that occurred during it ... positive or negative.

***

My favorite summer had been, for as long as I knew, were always the ones when I met a girl and proceeded to fall in love. That's not terribly unique, I know.

But there was that particular summer that was magical because I met a new girl and the relationship blossomed from the very beginning (May) to the bitter end (August) of the season. There was the "catch," of course. One August, I said good-bye at O'Hare when she left for Scotland. A few years later, the girl from a different summer boarded a plane to California and subsequently left my life forever. Needless to say, we broke up and things were never the same—except for the night when we ran into one another in STC at the bars while both being completely hammered. Feelings come out in strange ways in situations like that, I suppose.

***

In case you hadn't noticed, I spent the the past summer or two doing the same shit: being miserable about my employment situation and desperately hoping to get laid. Can you guess how that worked out?

This summer, I was in love, then got dumped; I had a "respectable" job I hated and quit, then I returned to doing what I love; in short: this summer was far from some sort of acquiescence.

That said, I hate roller coasters. I create ways to NOT go on them. But here I was on Saturday afternoon, watching the Little League World Series semi-finals at the country club and helping set up for our "Bash on the Bayou" event that evening. "What a fucking waste of money," Chef lamented as I skirted another table.

Of course, I wasn't going to be working the actual party, instead using my night off to go and get sloshed with Gonzo out in Chicago. Granted, that's not terribly unusual for when the two of us get together—regardless of the season.

Waking up the following day and going to Great America? Now that is fucking unusual.

***

My former editor-in-chief was in line with the rest of us, a few former editors from the school newspaper. He was visibly nervous about being in line for something called "Raging Bull." I would have been the same way in years past. But for a reason I still can't determine, I didn't even try to wiggle my way out of any rides on Sunday. "I'm keeping an open mind," I said when everybody began discussing what ride to get in line for first.

When we strapped in for "Raging Bull," I jested to the old E-I-C sitting in front of me, "Is that bolt supposed to be loose?" And then we were off. I used to be shitting my pants when the coasters made that slow ascension before you rapidly plunged hundreds of feet.

But on Sunday, the strangest thing happened: I loved it.

We couldn't talk E-I-C into going on "American Eagle" ("It's wooden," he offered as his reasoning), which is still the single scariest fucking roller coaster I've ever been on. "I felt it leave the tracks," one fellow rider noted when we were drinking a beer afterwards. I had left my seat at one point. And you know what? I loved it.

After going on "The Demon," I was becoming more and more excited about trying out every coaster I had normally balked at in the past. We were in line for "Batman" and I was just beginning to plan out what the very next coaster was going to be after that ride when I dug into my pocket for my cell phone.

It wasn't there.

And, coincidentally, not more than a minute after that, sirens began blaring and we noticed the current riders on Batman were stuck. "At least they're not upside down," Gonzo said.

While going to the Lost & Found area to report my missing phone, we noticed that every ride in the park was not operating. It was all too coincidental, me being lost in a feeling of joy about no longer being afraid of coasters, only to realize I'd lost my phone and see everything in the park stop.

I didn't want to be the buzzkill for the day, urging my friends to go on one more coaster before we left. But people had to be up early for work on Monday, or didn't get much sleep the night before. Eventually, we all decided it was time to leave.

***

Ordinarily, a lost cell phone is the equivalent of losing your entire life. Or, at least, I put it that way. But coming back home that night, I was surprisingly unconcerned by the whole issue. Perhaps it was because I had been smart enough to write down most of the numbers of people I talk to. Maybe it's the girls I want to see can be contacted by alternative methods (thank you, MySpace), and the girls I'd been trying to avoid can now be told, "Yeah, I lost your number, see."

Or it could just be that this entire summer has been exactly like a roller coaster.

And I loved every minute of it.

UPDATE: Great America mailed the cell phone back to me yesterday. So happy ending all around.