I remember the day of the Champions League final, only because me and my homies, three football fanatics, missed almost the entire match. We were to meet a friend up by Times Square, something we already didn’t want to do (cue: the sloth). We kind of just wanted to watch it by ourselves, but we figured this might be a good chance to hang out with people that we didn’t normally hang out with.
We pregamed the party by drinking a bunch of beers and taking one or two to the head. We called an Uber and the guy started driving us East and accidentally got onto the Williamsburg Bridge. The match had started by the time we realized he no longer had a chance to get off the bridge. We were already mentally gone, inebriated in ways that are not appropriate for three in the afternoon on a Saturday, so we just laughed. The driver, an African man, was completely unsure where to go, so we bargained that we’d tell him how to get back quickly so he could get another fare if we could drink in the car.
I mean, that’s some illegal shit but we did it anyway. We cruised and then took over the AUX chord and the driver lost all control of the situation. But we’re easy guys to deal with, so we did our best to hide our drinking. We’d each slouch down in the chair every time we took a sip of our Coors Light.
Fuck you, man, we’re still in college. What do you want us to drink? Blue Moon? Be happy we aren’t drinking Natural Light like the rest of the country, getting fat on their campuses and nice protected areas.
But that’s besides the point.
We’d get there eventually, and the driver actually compensated us for the entire drive, which came out to over fifty dollars because, again, we took a quick pit stop in Brooklyn.
The match wasn’t even that good anyway.