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High-density, multi-dimensional, full-on boat congestion stretches all over Stevensville and the surrounding area off the shore of Brad’s house.
For several miles extending from his dock, you can see crammed-together submarines, cruise liners, battleships, freight liners, ferryboats, canoes, dredges, livestock carriers, fishing vessels, catamarans, kayaks, rowboats, and every other type of water vessel you can image clutter up the waters of Kangaroo Beach, Crab Allen Bay, Chester River, and Eastern Bay.
Of particular note is a Navy aircraft carrier packed with thousands of Midshipmen from across the Bay in Annapolis. The carrier works its way to within a hacky-sack toss of Brad’s dock.
Within this flotilla, you can see bobbing and weaving dozens of Coastguard boats loaded with members of the U.S. National Guard and Navy Seals Teams. They smell danger on these here waters.
Hundreds of parasailers fly overhead crashing into thousands of entangled air balloons.
You are witnessing the biggest boat festival in the history of the United States.
Today is the over-ballyhooed Rally on the Chesapeake advertised and Twittered about across all of Delmarva and into the Midwest, Great Lakes, and further points westward.
The sun just peaked its noggin over the horizon moments ago on this momentous occasion that will live in infamy, June 17th, 2023.
Unbearable congestion is not confined to the waterways. Back on the D.C. area beltway, known as 495 (also hell), it’s 18 miles of immobilized parking lots. The entire city – corrupt politicians, career bureaucrats, Potomac elitists, irresponsible College Park students, Prince George’s County malcontents — are stuck in traffic but nonetheless hell-bent on making their way to the biggest party the D.C. area has ever seen. Everybody’s been hearing it’ll be more debaucherous than Woodstock, bigger metaphorically than Head’s Head.
In one of these cars is a motley crew of Maryland marauders. Moving at 1 mile per hour over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Rudy, Sportface’s frenemy since second grade, kills the time hurling insults at his friends.
They weren’t invited to the party, but they read about it on the Sammy Sportface Baby Boomer Brotherhood Facebook Page. Being who they are – classless and ruthless – they concocted a plan to crash the Rally on the Chesapeake.
“The plan is to barge in on the party and rack all of Sportface’s Wake Forest friends,” said Rudy. “I used to rack Sportface in grade school and I think it’s time to punch all his worthless Wake friends in the balls. For this event, we’re all wearing T-shirts that say ‘Rudy’s Rackers’.”
Coming off the bridge, Rudy notices Sportface riding bikes with Nikola Jokic. They’re on a nature ride to Love Point Park – one of the featured hot spots on the Rally’s weekend agenda.
“Look at Sportface,” says Rudy. “The guy is in love with the Joker. Figured this is how Sportface would end up.”
All T-shirted up, Rudy and the Rackers arrive at Brad’s party. A standoff situation ensues immediately. Like the Jets and the Sharks in “West Side Story,” the Wake Guys (Jets) and Rackers (Sharks) face each other with animus on their minds and disdain in their hearts.
Wasting no time, Rudy kicks Pistol Pete in the nuts. Pete’s nuts explode into an eggplant the size of a watermelon.
“Sportface told me all I had to do was rack you and your nuts would turn into an eggplant watermelon,” said Rudy.
Tensions mount. These are two incompatible groups within the Sammy Sportface Baby Boomer Brotherhood. The Wake brothers think Sportface’s high school knuckleheads are losers and vice versa. Never has there been any compatibility or closeness between any of them. Just distrust and lack of interest. Both groups mostly bitch about the quality and quantity of Sportface content with some side jabs about each other.
There are serious ideological differences and the only common thread that has brought them into the same brotherhood and now in this knife-fight situation is Sportface.
Both groups pull out their knives – all except Rudy.
“I don’t need a knife,” says Rudy. “I’ll just kick guys in the balls.”
“Where’s Sportface?” asks Pistol.
“He’s riding bikes with Joker.”
“How about instead of fighting with each other when Sportface gets back we all kick his ass?” suggests Scott Lawrence.
Scott has never liked Sportface and sees an opportunity here to get revenge for all the emails he gets from Sportface that irk the hell out of him.
Meanwhile, many at the party are in the pool including Charles Barkley and Bill Walton, both in thongs. They’re playing “Marco Polo” except Walton yells “Sammy” and Barkley yells “Sportface.”
“This game is turrible,” says Barkley. “I knew we shouldn’t have come here. I hate Sammy Sportface.”
“It’s the Jets and Rudy’s Rackers,” says Walton. “What could be more wondrous than that? And we’re swimming together in thongs. So natural, back to the cavemen mentality.”
Sportface returns with Joker.
“Let’s throw Sportface in the Chesapeake Bay,” says Rudy. “After we rack him.”
Rudy kicks Sportface in the nuts. He bends over in agony and pukes up the barbecue sandwiches he ate a few minutes earlier. Then the Jets and Rackers team up by carrying Sportface to the end of Brad’s dock and heave him into the water.
As this happens, all the boats on the water set off countless cherry bombs.
Back in the pool, dozens more people join Walton and Barkley.
“Sammy,” one person yells.
“Sportface,” all the other swimmers yell.
Out of the dock the Jets and Rackers get in the spirit, yelling “Sammy” then “Sportface” when the swimmers do. In the water Sammy Sportface shouts along while swallowing water: “Sammy” “Sportface.”
The noise builds. The thousands of people in the flotilla start yelling “Sammy” and then “Sportface” while opening and guzzling bottles of Jack Daniels.
The fish and crabs underwater shout along: “Sammy” “Sportface.” Underwater, the sea animals start mating like they never have before, yelling “Sammy Sportface” all the while.
The noise reverberates across the Chesapeake Bay, beyond the Bay Bridge, over to the Choptank River, down to the end of the Potomac River in Southern Maryland, up to the Delaware River, and over to Poodle Beach.
“Sammy” everybody yells.
Then “Sportface.”
The SWAT teams jump on the dock. They fear the noise is too loud and this party is far too out of control. Noise pollution is running amok.
“Mr. President,” one team member says in his call to the White House. “We have an emergency situation. This Rally on the Chesapeake is out of hand. Too many people. Too many boats. Too much shouting Sammy Sportface. What should we do?”
“What is the Chesapeake?” the president asks.
“The Chesapeake Bay,” the SWAT leader says. “You know, that Bay near the White House.”
“What day is it?” asks the President.
“Nevermind, Mr. President.”
The SWAT team unleashes teargas. They need this party to stop, the noise to subside. It’s all just too much. Too many boats, too many swimmers, too many things going on that don’t make sense, too many pro athletes, too many bike rides.
The tear gas hits Bill Walton who is still in the pool.
“Ah, Chuck, take in this terrific tear gas,” he says. “Did you ever think life could get any better than it already was? This teargas feels like a potion in my eyes, making me see the world’s axis more clearly than I ever have. The pool, Rudy’s Rackers, ball racking, crabs shouting Sammy Sportface, the Navy Seals, the president of the United States. How could anything be better than all this? The only way is if we all got teargassed. And it happened. A perfect ending to this spiritual journey into oblivion. These tears in my eyes are tears of unvarnished joy, tears of merriment, tears that shout to all the world two magical words: Sammy Sportface!”
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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