Another obstacle is that stories are usually most interesting to the person who is telling them. Sure, I bet your summer camp was absolutely amazing, and ten times better than whichever summer camp I was at, but I enjoyed the one I was at far more than I enjoy hearing about how awesome yours was. That is the way our selfish little brains work, and something that makes me think, "Ehh, telling stories about yourself on your blog is ill-advised and incredibly narcissistic." Then I remembered that I long ago dedicated myself to living my life in ways that can only be described as ill-advised and incredibly narcissistic, so, here goes.
Regular readers (and by regular, I mean monthly) of this illustrious blog no doubt welcomed Clayton's return from his lengthy hiatus into the depths of irresponsibility with equal measures joy and excitement. My emotions of course ran at those same levels, but with a third reaction as well - inspiration! You see, Clayton mentioned a tenet of O'Delliciousness - gamesmanship. Winning is important, and winning is fun, but as the old adage goes - it isn't whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game. This doesn't mean playing fairly, or playing with all of your strength, but it means playing with style, gall, and the strange ability to make those who defeat you feel as if they somehow lost. There are many different ways to do this, but the blessing and curse of O'Delliciousness is that it can only be inherited, not taught. It can be observed, and it can be mimicked, but none can sit down and write a series of bullet points on how to play a game like an O'Dell. If Clayton and TT and I play against one another in a game, whatever game we're playing morphs into a strange version of itself where an observer would have a hard time even understanding what was happening. We used to play an very complicated version of Risk (A Game of Thrones board game) and it was a masterclass on confusing tactics. Every single move any of us made was wrapped in about three layers of deception, never conveying our actual objective, and we constantly brought up old grudges from the past as we tried to play each of our opponents against one another.
The one thing I can say that works best to encapsulate the O'Dellicious Theory of Gamesmanship is that O'Dells always win. They may not win the game, if you're scoring by the actual rules of the game, but the O'Dells are busy tallying up a completely different scorecard in their head - one on which biting witticisms, genius betrayals, beautiful moves, embarrassment of opponents, and straight up style take precedence far above anything like mere points. Due to this, the rules of the game are sometimes ignored. If it's a genuine contest of skill, no one really likes to win by cheating. However, if it's some unimportant game just being played for fun (especially against one another) and cheating is discovered, it often is begrudgingly respected as the real fault lies with the non-cheaters, for having one pulled over on them. All of this leads me to my story.
Back in the summer of...2006, I think, I lived in a small garage apartment next to a Bed and Breakfast in a little ghetto in which my neighborhood was 99.98% African-American. Summertime was now upon my town, with all the changes that it brings, and I decided I needed to set a goal with which to challenge myself for the summer. I decided that I would fall in love with the little blonde who was staying the summer in the Bed and Breakfast next door. This is a much different challenge than getting the blonde to fall in love with me - that requires much more aggression, time, and effort. I may like challenges, but I'm still lazy. She had some boyfriend, or fiance or something, but he lived in a different state so would present no obstacle. I announced my goal to my circle of friends and slowly began to work on it, taking my own sweet time. Her taillight on her vehicle quit working so, on my day off I drove out to her work and replaced it for her (that should have won it right there, am I right ladies? but it was only my opening salvo). I eventually invited her over for dinner (which I was going to cook myself) and she agreed. Immediately thereafter I realized I had no clue on how to cook a meal.
Always the improviser, I invited over a few other girls and Clayton (and maybe a couple other people that I don't remember). Margaret and I were in one of our, "Let's try to just be friends/enemies for awhile" phases, and getting along famously, so she came over to do the cooking. Like a gracious host, I got my neighbor to come over early to the dinner that I invited her to and help the girls cook, as I wasn't even in town yet. Feeling all Susie Homemakerish the girls not only cooked, but rearranged my apartment and went to the store and bought a kitchen table with four chairs (important things to have if you're having people over for dinner, I guess). After we ate we played the board game LIFE (yes, we know how to par-tay) with a twist on it - whoever gets to the wedding chapel first gets to propose to another player, and the player can either accept or turn down the proposal. Married couples share kids, a bank account, Home insurance, etc., but still drive separate cars. I, of course, proposed to my neighbor and she, of course, accepted. Our married life was going swimmingly (especially after her uncle left us a horse farm) and we were still in the honeymoon phase when I felt her hand brush my leg under the table. "Andrew," thinks I to myself, "There has never been anyone as charming as you." The hand bumps me again, more urgently, and then leaves something on my thigh. I slowly reach down under the table...and feel a short stack of LIFE cash. My partner and I make eye contact, and instantly my summertime goal has been achieved. I'm in love.
For the rest of the game, between turns or when play is on the other side of the table, I'll cause some ruckus or distraction to the annoyance of everyone else, and my partner will slip her hand in the bank, grab a few bills (so as no one notices they're missing) and then slide them to me under the table. We perform nearly a dozen robberies (while trying not to laugh) and in the end still end up losing. Second place is first last, so we lose nothing by proudly proclaiming our deftness at cheating and stealing money right out from under everyone's stupid, blind, snotty noses. We only played one other board game together that summer - Scrabble, in which we spelled a word over the Triple Word Score space by my hiding her "F" tile under the table and using a pen to make it into an, "E." We played it straight enough that no one noticed until the end of the game. (I brought this up to Clayton the other day and he confirmed my memory, saying that he still has that Scrabble board with the graffitied E).
Everything that happens to us does not necessarily define, or create, the person and persona that we become. However, the stories that we choose to remember and retell often reveal a truth about ourselves that we perhaps do not consciously realize. I use this story, my friends, my compatriots, my lovers, to attempt to give you a brief glimpse into what can only be called the O'Dellicious Theory of Gamesmanship. Store it in some small dusty cobwebbed corner of your brain and, next time you find yourself playing a game of soccer in which all the rules have been changed, and Clayton has your friend chicken-winged with his hands behind his head and forced down on his knees with his legs spread, think of me as you aim the soccer ball straight at his crotch and kick with all your might. No matter the final score, you've already won.
Everything that happens to us does not necessarily define, or create, the person and persona that we become. However, the stories that we choose to remember and retell often reveal a truth about ourselves that we perhaps do not consciously realize. I use this story, my friends, my compatriots, my lovers, to attempt to give you a brief glimpse into what can only be called the O'Dellicious Theory of Gamesmanship. Store it in some small dusty cobwebbed corner of your brain and, next time you find yourself playing a game of soccer in which all the rules have been changed, and Clayton has your friend chicken-winged with his hands behind his head and forced down on his knees with his legs spread, think of me as you aim the soccer ball straight at his crotch and kick with all your might. No matter the final score, you've already won.
