Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The new digs aren't the same as Digger's digs

Mrs. Hall watched the little "buffering" circle go 'round and 'round on her laptop screen.  "Oh, bother!*" she said. "I really wanted to see this game!"  Killer rolled over in the sunshine and expressed her excitement by actively ignored them.

The Hall was not wired for cable yet, so Mr. and Mrs. Hall were struggling with their remaining solutions for viewing The Big Game.  In the past, they would have just loaded up the family flivver with beer and peanuts, braved the latest installment of lake effect and camped in the friendly confines of Digger's Pub til the wee dark snowy hours of the weekend, watching the game (and accompanying wagering boards) with glee.
 What their little Hall out west might lack in slushy charm- the thermometer hovered at 70 degrees- it made up in spirit.  The Halls had been reminiscing all morning of game days gone before.  "We should give them a call-" started Mr. Hall, and Mrs. H's cellie suddenly started to ring. "Okay, that's just spooky." she said as she lifted the receiver.
  It was indeed Karen and Joe, wishing them well and missing them mightily. They had been busy keeping the snow at bay and shrugging off the subzero windchills.  (Mrs. Hall, in fact, thought she discerned a bit of the frost over the line herself, when she mentioned some concern about getting a sunburn on their morning constitutional.) They had received Mr. Hall's contribution to the good of the order a few weeks earlier and sent on facsimiles of the boards so the Halls could follow along.  Hugs and pictures were exchanged via various electronic methods, and their attentions returned to the field.
Mrs. Hall laid out some light fare and tried to adjust their reception. The little buffering symbol continued to taunt them, making it impossible to even sing along with the national anthem, much less make sense of some particularly entertaining commercials.
"That's it. I can't stand it." Mrs. Hall was adamant. "Let's head to the home pub and see if we can still get a seat."  Sliding out of the hanger, they coasted approximately a half a mile down the hill to the local watering hole and peeked in.  The crowd was a sea of red 49ers jerseys. "Uh-oh; you're in trouble now," remarked to Mr. Hall to Mrs. Hall, who had already expressed her support for the Ravens. She slunk over to an empty spot at the bar against the wall.
Despite a few technical glitches however, the game proceeded as hoped for, and every time the Ravens scored, the silence in the room, as they say, was deafening.  An ugly gloom began to settle into the crowd.  Mrs. Hall was of the opinion that interpreting the winners on the gaming boards was best left to the experts, and so was particularly relieved when her team took the trophy, and they were able to depart the premises without a scuffle.  "Too bad about your team," she consoled as they closed the hanger doors.  "I hope we didn't take too much of a beating this year."
"On the contrary," he replied "our little franchise is well into profit.  Despite the fact that the Ravens won, the Las Vegas oddsmakers had the Ravens ahead by four points. Anyone betting on the 49ers (here he paused to look crafty) would have still won because the Ravens didn't make the spread. Add to that, (-Darling, fetch me another one of those icy beers you stashed away, would you?) because of that safety in the second half, the scoring was so cockeyed, I'm happy to report I think we more than doubled our outlay on the boards."  Mrs. Hall could only smile as she brought him another plate of snacks.  Killer, barely able to contain herself, yawned and rolled over.

*or words to that effect.

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