When The Cubs Win The World Series

During July 4th’s South Salt Lake Parade I took a tumble. At one point Ben, his son James and I wound up well behind our group. Eventually a decision was made to recover that lost distance in a gallop. So off we went, James in the lead followed closely, (in fact, too closely) by me, and then Ben.

James, unaware that I was close behind, stopped suddenly to pick up something from the asphalt.

Over him I flew doing a summersault that sent my camera tumbling down the street. I landed next to my own twisted pair of glasses with a cut above one eye that bled profusely.

James was spared save the terror of nearly becoming a crêpe suzette. I however, looked like the last Confederate soldier on Pickett’s charge.

Julie McAdams

Fortunately, the look was worse than the reality. As I stumbled to my feet a huddle of McAdams family members arrived to guarantee my survival. Baby wipes appeared from thin air, my camera was retrieved still in fine shape, and somehow Julie McAdams bent my glasses back into a normal configuration.

At the end of it all I was wearing a small cut while Julie had more blood on her blouse than a battlefield nurse. Everyone was making over me while I felt like the idiot who had erased his forehead on a caring bystander.

Once the spectacle was over, and all were hopeful that I would be well, the parade continued with me in it. A few hours later I was marching in a second parade with no ill effects.

Julie was encouraged by all this, but never fully reassured. Her continuing concern was palpable.

At the end of the Magna parade I was ushered into the front seat of the McAdams family van as if I were an elderly aunt on a rare outing. Ben drove and Julie sat in the back under a tumbling pile of exuberant children.

Ben was in strange terrain trying to find his way to a familiar street. Suddenly, Julie, who had originally parked the van, piped up, “Turn right here!”

Ben’s expression became surprised and quizzical. “What?” he asked.

Julie responded with new urgency, “Turn right here!”

“Oh,” Ben replied, “I thought you said, ‘George, I have some beer.’”

How Ben heard those words coming from Julie will remain a mystery. There was general laughter at the preposterous image of Julie offering beer as the cure for my wrecked forehead. But I, owner of a refrigerator that’s no stranger to a six pack, immediately responded, “Sure Julie, I’ll take a cold one.”

To which she countered, “Sorry George, it’ll have to be next time.”

About it all she was a marvelous sport, but that did not stop me from thinking, "Yes, next time... the next time the Cubs win the World Series."