4 April 2015
It wasn't just any old Saturday at Keeneland as I drove up to the Louisville lot that morning.
It was a beautiful Kentucky Keeneland Saturday. Crisp, bright, nearly cloudless. The rains of the previous week had caused just enough misery to reward us with those ever-familiar rolling hills of budding bluegrass.
I came bearing three of my mom's most-prized camping chairs that sit in the back of her Acura SUV on the other 51 weekends of the year, searching for familiar faces as I wove through the endless rows of open truckbeds, coolers, and red-and-white-checked tablecloths. From a couple rows over I spot a familiar back-of-a-head; Annie's setting up a pair of cornhole boards.
The driver's side door to the SUV closes as I'm greeting her, and I'm introduced to Robert. He's currently the official photographer for Centre, and we exchange brief life synopses as the three of us unpack the sacred camping chairs. Normally, I would turn down any form of IPA, much less a double IPA, but I acquiesce to Anne's offering... its abhorrently unpalatable taste will slow my drinking pace, and free beer will indeed always be free beer.
Anne's brother Joe arrives on the scene a few minutes later, just as the conversations have lulled into us reaching for the tray of Chick-fil-A nuggets, which are perhaps better cold. Jennifer and Sara arrive to even the ratio of males to females, and we all begin the process of sunburning our foreheads as bluetooth speakers pair with our devices to start the party.
I take a look around - this is an excellent group of people. Everyone is happy to be out at the races, and the weather lends an electric vibe to the day. Bud Light Lime provides a reprieve for me after a Solo-full of double IPA swill (Trust me West Sixth, it's not you, it's me), and we settle in for a friendly game of cornhole (or BAGS, as midwesterners insist... brief aside, I always envision BAGS being in capital letters due to the accents of everyone that has ever used the term BAGS to me). We toss repeatedly, knocking over neglected BLL's and recalibrating our only-so-often used cornhole skills. We take turns at the helm of the bluetooth jukebox, introducing the latest and greatest of our itunes and spotify accounts.
Several beers and trips to the edge of the track later, the six of us have settled into an afternoon groove. We observe a brief moment of silence for the battery life of the bluetooth speaker, and Joe switches on the SUV's radio system.
It wasn't just any old Saturday at Keeneland as I drove up to the Louisville lot that morning.
It was a beautiful Kentucky Keeneland Saturday. Crisp, bright, nearly cloudless. The rains of the previous week had caused just enough misery to reward us with those ever-familiar rolling hills of budding bluegrass.
I came bearing three of my mom's most-prized camping chairs that sit in the back of her Acura SUV on the other 51 weekends of the year, searching for familiar faces as I wove through the endless rows of open truckbeds, coolers, and red-and-white-checked tablecloths. From a couple rows over I spot a familiar back-of-a-head; Annie's setting up a pair of cornhole boards.
The driver's side door to the SUV closes as I'm greeting her, and I'm introduced to Robert. He's currently the official photographer for Centre, and we exchange brief life synopses as the three of us unpack the sacred camping chairs. Normally, I would turn down any form of IPA, much less a double IPA, but I acquiesce to Anne's offering... its abhorrently unpalatable taste will slow my drinking pace, and free beer will indeed always be free beer.
Anne's brother Joe arrives on the scene a few minutes later, just as the conversations have lulled into us reaching for the tray of Chick-fil-A nuggets, which are perhaps better cold. Jennifer and Sara arrive to even the ratio of males to females, and we all begin the process of sunburning our foreheads as bluetooth speakers pair with our devices to start the party.
I take a look around - this is an excellent group of people. Everyone is happy to be out at the races, and the weather lends an electric vibe to the day. Bud Light Lime provides a reprieve for me after a Solo-full of double IPA swill (Trust me West Sixth, it's not you, it's me), and we settle in for a friendly game of cornhole (or BAGS, as midwesterners insist... brief aside, I always envision BAGS being in capital letters due to the accents of everyone that has ever used the term BAGS to me). We toss repeatedly, knocking over neglected BLL's and recalibrating our only-so-often used cornhole skills. We take turns at the helm of the bluetooth jukebox, introducing the latest and greatest of our itunes and spotify accounts.
Several beers and trips to the edge of the track later, the six of us have settled into an afternoon groove. We observe a brief moment of silence for the battery life of the bluetooth speaker, and Joe switches on the SUV's radio system.
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