Your coaches and other administrators in the Athletic Department witness you plastered, pitching down a city street wearing Drinking Team shirts and what can only be described as lingerie.
A few years ago appropriate Halloween costume apparel baffled me and my friends. Until we prepared a plan. We would ornament ourselves in Drinking Team attire. What originated as beer boxers and tank tops with "Drinking Team" across the front, our nicknames and numbers on the back, metamorphosed into tank tops, underwear, and, in a few instances, tights. Collaboration with Mister Jack and The Captain equated gratification with our whorish ensembles.
Alcohol in hand, spirits steep, we swung down San Francisco's Castro street. Careening through what was closely three hundred thousand people (according to the news the following day), and haranguing loudly about the most desirable alcohol, we passed our coach, trainer, and some others central to our soccer program. We awkwardly conversed, struggled to appear sober, and then circuited away, cringing that we had practice the following morning and were in a supposedly dry season, not supposed to be accompanied by Jack or The Captain.
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