This horrible set of cookies (sorry, msolga) reminds me of the time I was in an infantile teenage tharn about Notre Dame Football players. I, of course, had no love life but fantasy.
After reading The Virginian five times, mostly for the sex scene (what sex scene?), I advanced to an uncle's Zane Gray novels, stuffed into a dining room cabinet. This was around age fourteen. By sixteen I was well enamored of a Notre Dame quarterback, Paul Hornung. I used to pray for him. At seventeen, still paid attention to the team. And the team was in LA, I suppose to meet USC. My father knew they would be showing up at a certain restaurant. My mother made me a kelly green jumper (in the american sense, a kind of dress). Her idea.
We went to the restaurant. Ate. The team was in the back room of the Nickodell. I needed to pee. I had to walk the walk in that green corduroy to get to the bathroom. I remember not looking at them, back or forth. I don't think there was much of a reaction, but I was preoccupied with making it through the room.
I know my parents weren't setting me up for destruction - more for a thrill as I liked football. Nick Pietrosante was there..
It's a strange memory, shortly before I signed up as a postulant and then backed out.