A humorous investigation into the process by which a sports ignoramus compiles a "Big 12 Power Rankings" list
"How are you?" my 8,003,395,392,543,201st customer of the day asked.
"Well enough to fake it," I said for the 8,003,395,392,543,202nd time.
"I like that. Fake it till you make it."
"So they say," I said. "Would you like corn or flour with that?"
Needless to say, it was with some slight despondency I received The Barry Lewis' telephone communication.
"Hello?"
"What are you doing?"
"Speaking with you, it would seem."
"Are you jobbing?"
"Before I answered the phone."
"Are you busy?"
I checked the line. It was about forty bodies long to the door.
"Not really."
"It's that time of the week. We needed your Big 12 Power Rankings list at noon."
I checked the time. Four o'clock.
I threw my phone down and uttered curses such as no man in the history of measured time. Then I replied: "Barry, dear man, I understand you are my boss and all, but could you please find a very high cliff and go for a walk!"
The reply was swift: "What in the world is wrong?"
"Power rankings, that's good and what, I tell you I know nothing, and every week, every single week, I have to prove it, over and over."
"Just fake it," The Barry Lewis, of infinite wisdom, advised.
"Goodbye, dear man," I said.
"America, I'm leaving," I said.
"You can't do that," she said while taking a customer's order. She looked at me and pointed. "We have a line."
I looked over her shoulder and, sure enough, the line had grown, an elongated snake with human scales that stretched past the door, around the far booth, almost into the kitchen, and each breathing, mouthing scale would ask how I was doing, all of whom I would be reduced to asking: Corn or flour?
"Nope," I said. "You have a line. Best of luck."
I tell you, dear reader, were telepathy a true phenomenon in the day-to-day world, judging by her look, my head would have exploded right there, Scanners-style.
"I hate you! Never come back!"
And I made my way to Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107 (please, no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned).
The doors were being fixed for some reason, which left last week's shattered window the logical place of entry. They had cleared the broken glass and remaining shards so that the window was a perfectly square framed hole. I climbed onto the sill with one foot, brought the other over and, with a little leap, I was in the building.
At the bar I found my mates, The Alex, aka., The Kruising, and The Gordon, aka., The Irishman. Alex was an actor. Gordon was Irish. It was, therefore, logically true that they both were actors, but not necessarily Irish.
Alex was telling a story about St. Patrick's Day, when a country bumpkin redneck, about as Irish as John Wayne--The Quiet Man notwithstanding--had an eye for The Kat, and rather than trying to impress her by affecting wit, or sincerity, its opposite, he resolved upon mimicking the most ludicrous Irish brogue in the history of bad accents.
"Do you remember that?" The Alex asked.
"How could I forget," The Gordon said. "Guy was a bloody wanker."
"I like that word," I said. "I miss it from my time in Scotland."
"It's a noble word," The Gordon said. "And it's great to say in the United States because you can call a wanker a wanker and they won't have an idea what you mean."
"Cheers!" I proposed. "To introducing the word wanker into the American English lexicon."
"To wanker!" said The Alex.
"To wanker!" said The Gordon.
And we all drank.
"So what did you do?" I asked.
"Gordon saw it. He can tell you."
"I didn't."
"You didn't see what I said to the guy?"
"I did not."
"Well, I went up to him and I said with my own Irish accent," (here I must add that The Alex was an excellent actor) "'you Amorikins with yar sentimental roobish thinkin we Irish ayre your playthings or mascotes because yar grandmudder had a last neme of Murphy or somethin or auther goin roond usin ayre accints to impress some garl. You think I'm a bludey leprechaun? Do I look lookey to you?!' At which point the guy went white as a sheet and pulled me aside and said, 'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Where are you from in Ireland? And I said, 'Doublin,' and the idiot bought it, hook, line, and sinker."
"This is why it's important always to be yourself!" I suggested.
"I wish I had seen that," said The Gordon. "I gotta say, though, the marketing guys at Guinness are a bunch of geniuses. One day a year they make everyone the world over want to be among the unluckiest people in the world."
"I'm Irish," I said.
"Not exactly," the Gordon said.
"My grandmother's maiden name was Kennedy."
"And mine's was Tolstoy but you don't see me going around saying I'm Russian do you?"
"Well, I've definitely inherited the bad luck."
The Bruce, aka., The Boss, looked down at me, tweaking his beard, light reflecting off his bald pate. “What’s the matter?”
“I have another rankings due and not an idea how to go about it.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“Boss, has it ever occurred to you that were you to shave that beard you’d have wig to rival Robert Plant’s mane with plenty left over?”
“A little gray, though,” he said.
At that point, in walked a tall, frail gentleman, with ash blonde hair and a look that gave the suggestion he belonged somewhere else.
“How about that? It’s him,” Alex said.
“Who's it, who?” I asked.
“That’s the guy. That thought he was Irish on St. Patrick’s day.”
“Or thought we would think he did,” I said, when I was struck with an idea of such brilliance my fingers can hardly stay still, typing for glee, as they are this very second. “I’ve a grand idea. Watch this.”
“Hey friend,” I said, approaching the stranger. “Feeling Irish today?”
“No.”
“Let me ask you, do you happen to know anything about college sports, particularly the Big 12?”
“Yes.”
“Baseball?”
“It’s my favorite sport.”
“I figured. So you see the guy over there? Not that one. Him you’ve already met. The other guy. With the red hair and beard. He plays rugby, you understand. Which is football without pads. Naturally, the man is insane. And he’s Irish. So what do you say you do me a favor, and I’ll make sure he likes you, rather than sending you through that other window that still has its glass.”
The man looked at me like I was Jack “Legs” Diamond himself.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Simple. Rank the Big 12 teams for me.”
“All nine? In which order?”
“From best to worst.”
Five minutes later he gave me a list that was almost perfect. It went:
“Excellent,” I said. “Just hold on. Gotta fix that.” I swapped the Tech and TCU positions. “There, perfect.”
“What do we do now?”
“I introduce you to The Gordon and we teach you how to drink like a true Irishman.”
The Gordon couldn’t help himself. First it was a Guinness. Then a Paddy’s. Then a Guinness. Then a small bottle of Merlot. Then another Guinness. A Paddy’s. A Chardonnay. A Paddy’s, double. And a Guinness to top it all off.
This lasted for a few hours. Then The Stubbs came in and the stranger went out, his insides with him, all of which happened to land on The Stubbs’ shirt. The man must have eaten serious quantities of pea soup for lunch because The Stubbs’ shirt, which had been an immaculate white, suddenly became a Baylor jersey.
“Oh man!”
“I’m sorry, I . . .” the stranger said, before running to the bathroom to alleviate his stomach of whatever remained.
“I don’t believe this,” The Stubbs said, sidling up to the bar. Meanwhile, The Boss behind the bar was in tears.
“Glad you think it’s funny.”
“I can’t help it, man. If you’d seen how much he drank!”
“Consider it the luck of the Irish,” The Gordon said.
“If it please The Boss, I’d like to buy the Stubbs a Paddy’s on the rocks.”
“I don’t drink Paddy’s.”
“You are today. You’re a true Irishman, are you not?”
“Extra rocks,” he said.
“To The Stubbs!” I said. “One true Irishman!”
“Damn it. My name is Bobby!”
“To The Stubbs! One true Irishman,” we all said, clanging glasses.
The drinks among the three of us, The Alex and The Gordon and me, were drained with one great gulp. The Stubbs, meanwhile, was still sipping his fifteen minutes later. I don’t know whether he liked Paddy's or not, but he was good enough an Irishman to fake it.
Want to join the discussion? Click here to become a member of the Killer Frogs message board community today!
Follow KillerFrogs on Twitter to stay up to date on all the latest TCU news! Follow KillerFrogs on Facebook and Instagram as well. Download the KillerFrogs app on Google Play or in the Apple App Store.
Tyler Brown graduated from TCU in 2007. After brief stints in Glasgow, Scotland and Durango, CO, he returned to Fort Worth where he currently resides. He is happy to be writing for KillerFrogs while working on a new novel.