It was a bit of an off weekend for me.
Maybe it was bad going into the break knowing football’s spring practice was over and no one knows who the starting quarterback will be, or maybe it was just one of those weekends I wish I could have back.
(Definitely not a Weekend at Bernie’s.)
It’s was a sad couple of days for me, despite the Braves season getting into full swing.
Or maybe that was the start of it.
I’ve been a tomahawk chopper my whole life.
The sight of Turner Field with the lights on just does it for me. Next to Jordan-Hare, Turner Field is my sports Mecca.
To this day, I remember where I was (Best Western hotel in California), who I was with (my brother and my pops) and what I was eating (Butterfinger BB’s) when Marquis Grissom caught the final out of the 1995 World Series.
So imagine how great I thought my weekend would be after planning to go see the Braves play the Mets Friday night.
I couldn’t picture a better way to kick off a weekend. Wrong.
Despite common sense and the assistance of the Weather Channel, I took a shot at being an amateur meteorologist, convincing myself that the storm would narrowly miss hitting Atlanta.
I saw the radar. I read the 80 percent chance of rain. I even heard the tornado warnings.
Nonetheless, I stopped by Kroger and bought some sunflower seeds to take with me on my trip up I-85 to Turner Field.
I merged onto the interstate, blared my MP3 player and buckled in for the hour and a half drive.
I should have stopped listening to Enya and turned around.
As you can probably guess by now, the game was rained out. Not a single fastball was thrown. I didn’t even get the chance to buy some cracker jacks.
And yes, I was in the stadium when the announcement was given.
Paid for the ticket. Paid for parking. Paid through the nose for nothing.
The players never even ventured into the dugouts, and I was left sitting in section 201 with nothing but a Braves magnet to show for it.
So, needless to say, I was upset. My weekend was off to a bad start.
The Cheesecake factory and Club Cheetah would have to wait for another weekend in Atlanta. I was heading home.
After listening to Queen’s “Greatest Hits” album and ranting on the phone about the necessity of a retractable roof for every baseball stadium, I found my way home and called it a night.
Saturday wasn’t any worse, but it wasn’t any better.
After nursing a slight headache leftover from the night before I realized the Final Four was on that night.
I was saved! My night would be spent watching the games and eating some leftover Mellow Mushroom pizza.
What more could a man want?
Then I remembered who was playing — Kansas, Memphis, UCLA and North Carolina.
I was shot back down to Earth.
I barely maintain a slight interest in college basketball to begin with, and since there was no chance of an upset with all number one seeds left, it didn’t have the feel of a Final Four.
March Madness is about cheering on the underdog, but if everyone is supposed to be the best, who am I supposed to root for?
Memphis won. Big surprise. Kansas won. Ditto.
The games weren’t even close. Memphis pulled away in the second half to win by 15, while Kansas dominated UNC and coasted to an 18-point victory.
The feel of the tournament was gone, and I was left wondering what was on AMC.
From then on, my weekend was a wash.
A weekend that started with all the promise in the world, fell flat on its face.
Oh well, there’s still 153 more Braves games left to see.
