We Lost at Cornhole, But We Won The Dance Fight

I really dislike playing cornhole. That, and all other games involving hand-eye coordination. (For backup, please refer to previous posts about how I am right handed but left-eye dominant, can’t see whatever it is I’m supposed to see when I’m aiming, am bad all all sports everywhere, and have to be chased by zombies in order to run around my neighborhood.)

I do, however, love the people involved in the annual Capital Cornhole Classic.

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Chad there, on the right, was in charge of the whole thing this year, and he will give you a hip-hop nickname if you stand still for any length of time, and he and his wife are two of my favorite people, and all of the proceeds were going to go to Backpack Buddies, and there shouldn’t have to be hungry kids around here, y’all.  So I didn’t just go.  I played.

Veronica and I played, actually.  I love her because if you make it through architecture school together, like 120 hours a week, and you still like each other?  You are friends for life.  And then we survived my last dysfunctional workplace together.  Also, she is a lot of fun.  And she gives really good advice, and it’s right off the cuff, but it is always wise enough that you know she’s right. Also she rocks white sunglasses sometimes, and she’s just a badass in general.

“Can we have puff paint on our team t-shirts?” she texted me.

I thought about that for half a second.  “I am ONLY playing if we have puff paint on our t-shirts,” I texted back.

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So Team Aimless reluctantly reported for cornhole duty this morning, with plans to throw our first match and be day-drinking and heckling by 12:15. “It’s double elimination!” they told me when I registered.  “OMG I have to play at least twice?” I mouthed off before I could even help it.  “Get to! You GET to play twice!” they enthused.

“I don’t think I can even hit the board with my beanbag,” I told Red.

“Ahem.  It’s a CORN bag,” he pointed out.

Well.  That changes everything.  Thank you, Red.

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He heckles better than we do, straight out of the gate and without a beer in his hand.

Veronica and I lost our first match in spectacular fashion.  Actually, in my first round, I sank one in and landed two on the board, which is a personal best in the Three Whole Times I have ever played cornhole.  And then the helpful guy on the opposing team started giving me pointers, which I fell for, and then landed absolutely nothing in the next eighteen points.   But at least then we were cleared for heckling.  We got our second beers.

By our third beers, we were straight-up drinking on the curb, because that is what southern ladies in these situations do.  Drink beers in cans on curbs. (Hi Mom! At least I’m not wearing a tank top! Because I remember that “tank tops are for truckers.” See? I haven’t thrown it all out the window.)

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Please note, I also wore shoes in which I could barely walk, hoping I’d have something to blame other than my lack of skill.  This is all the yellow I own, in one place.  I am nothing if not committed.

During the drinking-on-the curb portion of the day’s events, the team nearest us started heckling us a little.  “AIIIIMMMMMLess! Aimless!” And then something like “I’m Too Sexy” came on the loudspeakers, and Yellow Shirt guy danced at us.  And he was really darn good.  We snickered.  Then he did a full-on booty shake in our direction.  We said, “Oh, my, gracious merciful heavens,” or whatever you’re supposed to say when someone booty-shakes at you.  And then we went for food.

It was at this point that they announced the next round of the Losers’ Bracket.  Yellow shirt guy found us at the food truck.  “Aimless! We are playing y’all! Sweet!”  And I looked him right in the eye, and said, “Here’s how it’s going to go down.  I say we bag cornhole, and we settle this with a Dance Fight. Right here on Fayetteville Street.” And the record the DJ was playing skidded to  a stop, and the crowd fell silent, and everyone turned to watch.

“You are so on,” he told us.

Y’all. Aside from car songs and trains, there are few things I love more than a Dance Fight.

The fabulous eighties music helped, but I think it was just pure momentum on our side.  Veronica and I threw down.  We hip swerved and overhead-arm danced our way through the match.  We lost cornhole, again in spectacular fashion, but we had more fun than anyone else in Round 2 of the Losers’ Bracket. (I have to give Yellow Shirt guy credit, he drained one in with a perfect arc, then turned to me and did a West Side Story chest-pop at me, and I actually fell back a step or two, although he was like five feet away.  He might have won that round.)

And after we lost the loser’s bracket for good, we got hit on a little by undergrads.  Veronica’s husband Jason showed up about then.  That’s him in the picture with Chad.  We reported on the curb drinking and dance fighting and undergrads, and he thought that was all pretty funny.

We told him we considered the whole day a win.

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