Got off the hard floor of Disco's basement and went to the fields. Our themed uniforms consisted of slips. I wore mine over a shirt. In the first game, we were thoroughly toasted by the University of Rochester Little Piggies From the Future. We defeated the “SCAM” squad of Albany in game 2. Our success was short-lived, though. I hurt my back somehow in that game and sat out game 3, which we lost to a team of Rochester alumni dressed as mimes. They threw a zone defense resembling a five-man cup and stifled us. Smashy got hurt for the first time ever and joined me on the sideline. Henry pegged a cup defender in the face with a thrown disc, from close range. As he explained it, “I saw Francis open downfield, and I just had to get it to him. Then the defender put his face right in the path of the disc.” Ouch. Everyone came out all right. Smashy and I, aided by Vitamin “I”, returned in the day's last game against the Smurfs of Mount Union. We lost. Much fun was had and all of our opponents were graced with a rousing postgame cheer and some candy.

Traditional dinner followed at the local Olive Garden. We all got good and stuffed on breadsticks, salad, pasta, and other niceties.

Fatigued and worried about my back, I opted out of the party in order to secure myself a couch. This worked well until sometime in the middle of the night, when a confused person from some other team climbed in on top of me and proceeded to steal bits of my sleeping bag. Idiot! Apparently thinking them to be an obstacle on his road to comfort, he started tugging at my jeans. What is going on? I am in the middle of a good rest and some dimwit interrupts me by constraining my vertical movement through the judicious placement of his person. I entice him to get the hell off me with the offer of the use of my sleeping bag, elsewhere. It works. Ah, sleep…