Wednesday September 5, 2001

If there is ever a time in life for excess, it has to be the college years. This weekend, I embarked on a trip that turned into being one of the largest weekends of excess I have ever had.

Too much sports, sun and alcohol. Although it may sound like a good thing, I learned that moderation is the key to keeping my ass out of trouble.

It started out simply enough - go cheer on UA's football team in its season opener against San Diego State. In theory, everything was fine. But I could never have possibly conceived the events that followed.

Upon our arrival to the game, we strolled up to the ticket window and simply purchased the cheapest tickets possible with full intention of sitting wherever we wanted to, security be damned. Once we got into the stadium, we noticed open seats on the 50-yard line, so the decision was made to put them to good use.

By our dumb luck, we chose to sit in the middle of the San Diego State Alumni section. Let the harassing began.

"We don't like people from Arizona" and "Go back to Yuma", were two of my particular favorites. What are these San Diego State fans yelling at me for? Why do they think we're from Yuma? Did that lady steal my beer? All of these questions were befuddling me.

I mean, this team isn't even in a real conference - the audacity!

Maybe they wouldn't be so bitter if their quarterback would have been able to complete a pass.

We decided that it wasn't worth the hassle to argue with these football-impoverished fans, so we moved to the Arizona section. The team proceeded to win the game (and how!), and we all felt much more comfortable surrounded by all the other Yuma residents.

One day down, lots more to go. Friday brought us yet another trip to Qualcomm Stadium, this time to see a doubleheader between the Diamondbacks and the Padres. This is where the excess begins.

At Qualcomm, like most other stadiums, beer is only sold until the seventh inning, but since this was a doubleheader, there were 16 prime innings of drinking. At the time it seemed like a good idea - have a few beers and relax, just don't become "that guy". Everybody knows him, the one who curses from the outfield bleachers and receives the dirtiest looks from the parents who are taking their kid to the game.

My wallet and liver equally didn't appreciate the decisions I made that evening. The ticket was only $5, but every beer was $5 and a quarter. After awhile, I had lost track of both how much money I had spent and how much alcohol I had consumed. I, unfortunately, became "that guy".

Cursing at Diamondbacks and Padres in equal parts, chanting "Let's go Mets!" and receiving stares from anyone within earshot of my vile mouth all followed.

The excessive spending continued later that night as we proceeded to trek to the Gaslamp Quarter for more of what I didn't need - alcohol.

But this part of the story has a rather interesting twist. Sitting at the bar next to two of my friends were Diamondback pitchers Brian Anderson and Matt Mantei, obviously crushed after losing to the mighty Padres only a few hours earlier. As my friends struck up a conversation, I walked around the bar trying to both keep my balance and avoid any trouble as a result of my ever-growing loud and sarcastic mouth.

After my friends and the ballplayers had had their laughs at my expense, they offered us seven tickets to the game the next night. That was all well and good, but at the time I really wanted them to buy me a drink. As far as I was concerned, they were the ones making millions of dollars and I hadn't eaten in a day trying to preserve my precious money for more liquor.

The next morning, upon my regaining consciousness, I stated the obvious question at that point - "What happened for the last 12 hours of my life?"

Did last night really happen? Were we really going to the next game for free?

Did I really throw up on myself in my sleep and not know it?

As I tried to piece together the parts of the evening that I couldn't remember, we were off to the beach, where I needed to relax for a bit. However, still feeling a bit intoxicated, I overlooked the importance of suntan lotion, which led to my pale Irish skin turning red and blistery within hours.

Enter Saturday night - after almost dying the night before, my face is burning and at this point, I'm in no mood to sit through another Padre game. But I persevered, and got to see Trevor Hoffman run onto the field with "Hells Bells" blaring out of the Qualcomm speakers. It was a rush.

Although the tickets were free, the beer nazis were still charging $5 and a quarter, and since I had bankrupted myself the night before, I couldn't afford to once again transform into "that guy".

There's more, I'm sure, but both my memory and my space fail me, so the rest of the story will have to go untold. But I thought that it would prove beneficial to assess the damages from the trip, which go as follows:

Hotel room (3 nights) - $50.

Food and alcohol (only for the nights I can remember) - $150.

Tickets for four games - $12.

Making an ass out of myself in front of my friends and professional ballplayers that I had been cursing out only a few hours before - priceless.