Evolution of Monday Nights

A quick warning for those hoping to see how the t-ball Cubs did this week: this blog is more about growing up than it is about grand slams and ground balls.

Nearly 12 years ago, by luck of the draw, I became suitemates with Nick at UW-Milwaukee’s Sandburg Halls. Almost immediately, we were best friends.

As the months and years rolled on, our web of friends grew, with various interests weaving us together: sports, video games, similar career paths and, gasp, professional wrestling.

Yikes. I can’t believe I just admitted that. But remember, we were young 20-somethings and the brash, comedic monologues of The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin fit what our group thrived on: finding new ways to make each other laugh. We’d get together every Monday Night, pick up the new insults Raw had to offer, order pizza and play video games. At times, we had two TVs going at once – one with Undertaker beating the hell out of Triple H and the other rockin’ a few fast-paced games of NBA Live on the newest, most expensive game system available.

We eventually (and thankfully) grew out of wrastlin’, but kept getting together Monday Nights. Monday Night Football filled our time in the falls and winters, coinciding with plenty of fantasy football trash-talking. (I, by the way, am the defending league champ). Other Monday Nights were spent watching baseball or basketball or just playing video games. It didn’t matter if we did nothing at all – we looked forward to Mondays.

As it turned out, we were growing up together. Jobs, marriages, kids and houses replaced skipping class, apartment hunting and girlfriends.

As we got older, our lives got more complicated. But we always had Monday Nights as our outlet, our chance to be 20 again and not care about much else. We planned our weeks around that day and those who knew us best knew not to schedule anything to interfere with those precious hours at the beginning of the work week. And if you missed a Monday Night – no matter what the reason – you were blasted by the group in only a way your best friends can do.

Over the last year or so, our Monday Nights have become increasingly rare. Life finally grabbed hold and prevented us from forgetting about it even for a few hours a week, at least not in the way we had grown accustomed to.

As our priorities evolved, so too have Monday Nights, especially for Nick and I. For the last few months, 13 players have looked to us for baseball guidance, and Nick’s son, Jacob, whom I once held in one arm hours after he was born, is showing baseball instincts that have me believing he’s a superstar in the making.

We’ve traded our well-intended verbal assaults, video game controllers and fast food for encouraging words, batting tips and post-game snacks.

Last Monday Night, I was reminded again how grown up I was. My wife, Angela, and daughter, Hannah – the two most important things to me – attended their first game of the season. Angela spent most of the time trying to keep Hannah entertained and off the field.

Once she finally got a chance to run on the infield dirt, Hannah did not want to leave. She cried and pleaded to stay so she could play games and hang out.

And who could blame her? It was, after all, Monday Night.

Up next: Our final game is 7 p.m. Monday, July 20, at Malone No. 7.