Blind Ambition | ✓

03 | Cornell Man

One of the ways to really secure your social standing in Fairfield county was how much you could show your face at parties and "country club socials" throughout the summer. Luckily for me, the neighborhood my family lived in was basically a cesspool of polo shirts, BMWs, and vintage Rolexes.

The upside of today's party was that it was the Wagner's turn to host some sordid summer affair, which meant I could get justifiably wasted and only have to stumble the 20 steps home from their backyard to ours. The downside? It meant my parents were also in attendance, playing a rousing game of who can humble-brag about their kids the best with the other parents...hence the justifiably wasted.

I'd come back from my run to see the party already in full swing, so I quickly showered myself with my Tom Ford cologne before making my way next door. Better to arrive sweaty than late...and with beer.

Chris helped me dump a case of Bud Light in one of the empty coolers tucked away under the build-in bar on the deck. Thankfully it was too tasteless for most in attendance, so Chris and I had almost guaranteed mutually assured drunkness.

"Welcome to the shit show," he said with a chuckle. He handed me a beer, already dripping with perspiration in the August heat. Chris's cheeks were almost as red as his hair, and I knew he was several beers ahead of me.

I popped mine open and took a long gulp, contemplating jumping into the crystal clear stillness of the pool below and pretending to drown just to see who'd jump in after me. A hand on the sleeve of my t-shirt pulled me out of my little fantasy. My mom whipped her Gucci sunglasses off and stared up at me with the same intense, dark eyes I inherited from her. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and led me down the deck and away from Chris, who I just looked back at with a grimace.

"That's what you're wearing," she hissed through a smile as we walked by a group of blonde, botoxed PTA moms, making gross attempts to smile back at us.

"I didn't know it was so early, I would have changed." I pulled at the black Nike football t-shirts we'd gotten for summer practice last year. Since all our logos and gear had gotten an update with last year's "generous donation," it was generally a sin to wear old stuff, but I still wore mine to run.

"Your father is looking for you." I was nearly a foot taller than my mother, but she still reached up and fussed with my hair as if I was a toddler. "The least you could do is act presentable, please."

"Alright, alright, alright," I groaned. She lifted the can of beer out of my hands before shooing me away across the yard to what I imagined the innermost circle of hell looked like - my father and his friends, clad in Brooks Brothers shirts with whiskey glasses in hand. Thankfully Chris and his shock of red hair stood out, a whole head taller than the rest of them.

"Dallas!" Chris's dad was the first to spot me, his level of inebriation even more exposed than Chris's with his tomato red cheeks.  I swooped in beside my dad, giving him a quick nod and then jumping into the conversation before he could fully assess me and my sweaty mess.

"You whipping these boys into shape for this season?" Derek Evans was the next to jump in. He looked like a beetle, and he was so much smaller than me I was sure I could actually step on him. I wasn't drunk enough for this.

"We got two of the sophomores to puke after drills yesterday, so I think we've got it under control," Chris leapt to my rescue with a grin.

"What about scouts?" asked Warner Mickey, who was a professor at UConn who lived down the street from us. "Have you and Coach Knox been in touch with who will be coming in the next few weeks?"

"Well, you know Dallas will always take care of his boys, even though he's already set." My father clamped down on my shoulder. "A Cornell man just like his father."