It had been raining on and off all day with not even a mention of sun in the forecast. Yet, I found myself, for the seventeenth time in the past month heading out towards Williamsburg for a hash. Considering the day, an impressive number of people arrived at our drippy little spot in Brooklyn--perhaps a Hasher's Dozen in the end? Just who were all these idiots?
And why, we wondered, was Byron-Brown stealthily installing earphones? Was it a direct connection to the hotline? Was the hash now under surveillance? Who was the VIP hasher requiring secret service protection? Was he awaiting instructions from his home planet? These were questions we attempted to answer after a lot of running, yelling and drinking.
As soon as we collected a pack, it amazingly stopped raining. But had the blobs of flour survived? For the most part, they had. The hare seemed to enjoy street construction sites, and I lost my bearings in the endless rows of unique, yet equally tacky, brickface and stucco facades. Ewa quickly became confused and almost incoherent, and started repeating, "Where's Manhattan? Where's Manhattan?" John reassured her with the sight of the Twin Towers looming down the street. Where we went, I'm not sure, but we moved around Greenpoint a lot and crossed Manhattan Avenue a few times. We then came upon a great Brooklyn sulfur factory--yum! Emerging from the fumes stumbling and gasping for air, we found ourselves among warehouses. I have a book that uses the Williamsburg/Greenpoint area as a case study for environmental monitoring, and I began to suspect that the hare had followed the hazardous facilities map to locate all the points of interest on our trail.
Every once in a while, we'd pass Byron-Brown and yell something at him (occasionally something rude). He'd invariably reply, "On on," seemingly oblivious to anything but the voices in his head. But when we yelled louder, "What's the score?" he yelled back, "Two-nothing Mets! Robin Ventura's at bat!" Aha! A clue. Suddenly, I found myself skipping through the bleak urban scene, in search of some pack marks.
It was quite a pleasant run that managed to distinguish itself from all the recent runs in the area. It didn't rain at all until we were back in familiar bar territory. Then the trail ran just a bit too long, as the hare led us back and forth past all our haunts and we got just soggy enough to get grumpy. We then found ourselves at The Abbey. The old timers wondered if this could possibly be the same place that they'd been to years before. The last time there, the hare, Byron-Brown, was forced to take them to another bar on the way home to make up for the lousy on-in. But where was the hole in the wall and where was all the Bud? Instead we found shelter, a good beer selection, a well-stocked jukebox and amusing bathroom graffiti (including a very positive review of Lara).
Led by a couple of Englishmen, we gradually formed a huddle (mixed-sport metaphor) around the TV showing the Mets game. Was it possible that the Mets, who'd been steadily digging themselves a hole, wouldn't choke after all and would actually make it to the playoffs? There was a brief commercial break for our sponsor (the hare), our visitor (Retched), our birthday-girl (Lara) and some others to drink some down-downs.
Byron-Brown drank his down-down and went back to his TV. Perhaps he was recalling his lost dream of becoming a baseball player. Have we discovered what becomes of old baseball players? Like some well-known hashers, they 1) sport beer bellies and 2) wear stretchy pants despite #1, while they 3) run in fits and starts and 4) grab their crotches a lot. Still, the hare, for one, didn't understand our fascination with the game. Others explained its appeal by comparing it to cricket. I don't think that argument will win anyone over!
We started to wonder whether we could stomach another beer while we waited for the Mets to lose. (You gotta believe they'll lose, because as soon as they get any confidence, they choke.) Then they actually won the game! Triumphant, we jumped in the secret service car and were whisked safely to home. Now, two full weeks later, after yet another heart-stopping win that took only 27 or so innings, the Mets are still alive. And we, too, are here to hash another day in Brooklyn, ready to catch up with a Brave hare, Yank those stretchy pants down, and douse ourselves in beer.
(Or, if you're like Robin Ventura, take a shortcut to skip most of the running, and get the pack to carry you straight to the beer.)
| www.hashhouseharriers.com | aol alternate site | e mail to webdom@hashnyc.com |
|---|