Cheese and Whine
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The wind whipped harshly around you, and it would have hurt the exposed skin of your cheeks and nose had they not already been decidedly frozen and numb. Walking twenty minutes to your favorite bar usually wasn’t an issue, but perhaps you should have checked the weather and grabbed a thicker scarf before heading out tonight. As you passed the RenCen, you took notice of the temperature; eighteen degrees. You vaguely recalled hearing someone mention in passing that temps would drop below zero tonight with the wind-chill and had considered, only briefly, that maybe you should enjoy the game from the comfort of your home. But, you reasoned, it was the last game of the season and they’d played so well every time you watched at the bar. If you watched from home and the game was a complete blowout, you’d feel personally responsible for the loss. So out in the cold you went. Never could anyone question your dedication or loyalty to your team. The frozen tip of your nose was evidence of all you were willing to sacrifice for a win. As the wind howled around you, you struggled to pull open the door to the Greektown bar. A brief moment of reprieve from the wind allowed you to yank it open and finally find shelter from the elements. You were hit with a blast of warmth as you stood in the doorway that instantly began to thaw your frozen body. Someone else was coming in behind you, forcing you to move further into the bar and that’s when you noticed how absolutely packed it was. All the booths and high-tops were full, servers buzzed around as quickly as they could in the sea of Honolulu blue. There were specks of gold and green throughout, but Lions fans easily out numbered the few cheeseheads. But of course the only empty spot you could find was at the bar next to a guy in a heavy brown coat, hunched over his drink with eyes intently on the screen, with a green and gold beanie pulled tightly over his head. The game was about to start and you didn’t want to risk having to stand all night, so you reluctantly headed for the empty spot, fixing your own blue beanie to proudly display the logo so this guy would know that you were not going to be friends. You hoped against hope that perhaps this would be one of the few civilized Packers fans in the world so you wouldn’t have to listen to any taunts and could focus on the game in peace. This game was a big deal. Not as big of a deal as it could have been, thanks to the Giants doing their job and winning earlier that day, but still. If the Lions won tonight, they’d be the champs of the NFC North, earn a bye week heading into the playoffs, and have home field advantage for the duration of the playoffs. If they lost, well, it’d be same day, different shit, playing the Packers again, but at Lambeau—a stadium the Lions managed to be completely incapable of winning in. You settled into the barstool next to the cheesehead, and he straightened a bit, shuffling closer to the wall to give you more space. Before taking a swig of his beer, he tipped it in your direction and smiled. “May the best team win,” he said, finishing his beer. He had an accent, but not that of the typical Midwesterners that traversed this area. He was British. And beautiful, you noticed, as you let your eyes linger on him a bit longer than necessary. His dark hair was just peaking out from under his hat, curling at the ends, and he had these dark pink lips that settled into a charming smile.
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