T’was the night before St. Paddy’s Day in North Bend and all through Boxley’s, the men were looking handsome and the gals were all foxey.

Sno ValleyWrites with their moderator, one by name Casz, put on a two-hour show appropriately titled “Word Jazz.”

That’s how it began and it just got better from there. With several original pieces written by the group, a prize of $100 was awarded to a non-member participant in our writers challenge. While space prohibits me from printing all the readings, I humbly submit my contribution for the evening as just a taste of what you missed by not being in attendance. I titled my piece:

Pigskin Pete and a steak that’s rare

My head, oh my poor head, throbbing, everything dark. Sitting down, not being able to move or see, I’m tied to a chair, blindfolded, and really hurting. A man’s voice says, “Looks like he’s coming around.”

Someone with him says “Let him get fully awake.” I recognize that voice. I know that voice, it’s Diane, my wife, and — what the…? I tried to maintain my cool, pretending to still be “out.”

“He’s waking up,” my wife said. As my senses returned, I tried to remember what had led up to this situation I was in. How did I end up blindfolded and tied to a chair?

It started out like the usual autumn Sunday. I was sitting in the den watching football on the 52-inch HDTV and Diane was puttering in the kitchen. Or was that right? With the headache I had, it wasn’t easy to remember anything. Let’s see, she was in the kitchen, that was right, she was rattling pots and pans, making a racket, I was having a hard time hearing the game. Now, it was coming back — I got up to see what was wrong, and to get another beer. I entered the kitchen only to find Diane, on the floor with pots and pans all around her. I asked, “What’s going on in here?”

Her reply was brief. “Get your beer and get out of my kitchen.”

For some reason that really set me off. I tackled her like I was a lineman and she was a hapless quarterback. She screamed. Then everything goes blank. And suddenly here I am, tied up, blindfolded, no beer, no football game. I groan and try to sit up.

The male voice says “OK, he’s awake enough, take the blindfold off, but be careful.”

I feel something loosening around my head, then blink my eyes as bright light hits them. I see that I am sitting in my own backyard, tied to a chair, facing the outdoor grill. My wife has just removed the blindfold, and I see, on my right, a big burley guy I don’t recognize. I notice his muscles right away, he is wearing a skin-tight T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a helmet with horns on his head. He speaks to me.

“OK, bub, you’re wondering what happened right? OK, here it is. You were watching the football game, right? Well I’m Pigskin Pete. My job is to protect “football widows” from their obsessed husbands. I heard your wife’s screams with my super-power hearing and did a quick end-around to get here in time to save her life.”

By this time I am really confused. “Pigskin Pete? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No jive, Clyde. I protect women whose men get swept up in football and other sports, accompanied by a severe case of beer mania. I have been granted super powers by the Vikings.”

“The Minnesota Vikings?” I stammer out.

“No you idiot, the Vikings of old, you know, Valhalla, Odin, Thor, those guys.”

My head was starting to clear, at least enough to ask, “Well, what are you going to do, torture me? Maybe the old waterboard thing? What is your game plan, anyway?”

“First, I expect you to apologize to this lovely lady here. Then I’ll free you from your bonds, watch while you kiss and make up, then you and I reach a little agreement, and finally I expect to see you fire up this grill and fix a nice steak for all three of us. I like mine rare.”

Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a legal-sized set of paperwork and said, “This is a contract, it’s binding, and official. It says, briefly, that you will never again attack your wife, never over-indulge in beers during a sporting event, and always think of those around you first, at all times.”

“OK, untie me, I promise I’ll be good,” I replied.

“Oh, one other thing, signing this ties you to me spiritually. I will always know exactly what you are doing and if certain internal physical and mental levels in your system are activated, I’ll be here in the matter of a few seconds.”

Begrudgingly I took the pen and affixed my signature to the contract in front of me.

He took the pen, folded up the contract and, shaking my hand, said “OK, lets get those steaks going.”

A word of warning to all of you football aficionados out there. Don’t get too carried away with that game you’re watching. You never know when Pigskin Pete may be watching. Remember, he likes his steak rare.