 Nick and Sarah were withering a bit in the Southern heat. They were, however, looking forward to Birmingham, Alabama, engagement rings, and plenty of sports history. The South was fun, and it was like going to a different country for them, but they were not accustomed to the humidity. But going into a sports history mecca like Birmingham got them both charged up. “I almost wish I needed Tommy John surgery,” Sarah said as she drove faster to keep the wind whipping through the Jeep. “We’re in the right place for it,” Nick agreed. “You know, we can turn on the a/c,” he reminded her. “I like the fresh air,” she told him. She was bending and extending her elbow over and over. “It just doesn’t even hurt. Nothin’,” she said. Birmingham, Alabama was where most professional athletes ended up when they needed some kind of career-saving surgery. Dr. James Andrews was the sports medicine guru, and athletes from all over the country flocked to the Deep South—in the heat of summer, if necessary—to have him fix whatever ailed them. “Do you think if I fake an injury, we can meet him?” She wondered aloud. Nick smiled. “Only if you tell them that you’re Sarah Clemens, or Sarah Brady, or Sarah Barkley, maybe.” “Did you know that over 140 baseball players have had Tommy John surgery?” Sarah asked. “Frankly,” Nick said, raising an eyebrow, “I did not know that. Are you going to list them for me?” He visibly cringed. “No,” Sarah told him as she reached over and whacked him lightly on the arm, “But I will tell you that some of Dr. Andrews’ most famous patients include your aforementioned Roger Clemens, Tom Brady, and Charles Barkley, but also Michael Jordan, who rules…” “True, true,” Nick agreed. “Also, Bo Jackson, John Smoltz—who, as you know, returned to actually pitch really well, Michael Irvin, David Wells, and Jack Nicklaus.” Sarah stopped, but she could have gone on. “How do you get injured golfing?” Nick said. They both knew the answer to that, of course, and they both respected Jack Nicklaus and the game of golf, but it was hardly as physically demanding as, say, having five or so 7-foot tall men jumping on you, or repeatedly throwing a ball over a hundred miles an hour. “I’ll injure you golfing,” Sarah offered. “That’s only because you prefer full-contact golfing,” Nick responded, “which is not officially recognized by either the PGA or the LPGA.” “Dude,” Sarah said, “program Bob, okay? This disaster of a highway system makes me feel like a rat in a maze.” Nick dutifully pulled Bob the GPS out of the glove compartment and programmed in the hotel address. They had gone a little too far on one of the highways, so they ended up doubling back. Sarah knew that Nick was resisting all temptation to make a remark about ‘women drivers’. The finally pulled up to the Hotel Highland at 1023 20th Street South, Birmingham, AL 35205 about an hour after they planned to. After checking into their room, they went out to walk around and see the “historic South Side of Birmingham”. First, they went to Jim ‘N Nick’s BBQ, which had the advantages of both being right in the neighborhood and having cold beer available. They both ordered ribs, because it kind of seemed like they should. They stuffed themselves to the gills with cornbread and baby back ribs and “mac the cheese”, and even tried collard greens to have a full-on southern experience. Washing down his cornbread with an ice-cold Insurance Adjustor Pale Ale from the Hurricane Brewery in Mobile, Nick looked at the menu again. “Did you know?” Nick asked, “that this is a chain?” “It doesn’t taste like a chain,” Sarah noted, shoveling in some mashed potatoes. “It is, and I just realized that I’ve eaten at this place before,” Nick went on, “But it was in Charleston, SC. It didn’t taste like a chain there, either.” Sarah nodded and kept eating like she’d never seen food before. When they were finally full, they leaned back and ordered coffee. “Is this a good time to bring up your cousin’s wedding?” Nick said to Sarah. Sarah looked at him and rolled her eyes. “I guess we should,” she responded. “We’re supposed to fly out of Atlanta in how many days?” he asked. Sarah sighed. “Four,” she told him. “Which cousin is this?” he asked. “Allison.” Sarah rolled her eyes again. “And you don’t like her, right?” Nick went on. “Not much, no.” Sarah told him. “So we’re flying to Maine…why?” “Because,” Sarah said, gesturing to the server to bring more coffee, “No one in my immediate family likes this side of the family, but my Mom feels obligated to go, and I’m going for moral support.” Nick raised his eyebrows and asked, “So why am I going?” Sarah threw her napkin at him and asked the server for the check. “If you want,” she told him, “You can wait here in the steamy, sticky South while I go up north and frolic in the icy-cold surf.” “Enough said,” Nick told her. “What time did you set the appointment with this jeweller?” Sarah asked. “You really had to set an appointment?” “Yes, I did,” Nick told her, “and it’s in about 30 minutes, so get your butt in gear.” They were about five minutes early for their appointment with Anastasia, the jewelry designer. The shop had plenty of pre-set engagement rings, but the shop, for whatever reason, saw people by appointment only. Nick and Sarah walked in looking like two people who had just driven a few hours, gotten lost, and then washed away the day with beer. They carefully ignored the very-nearly disdainful glance from the designer. It was a most un-Southern disdain. “How can I help you today?” Anastasia sat down in a chair across from a small Victorian-looking couch. Nick and Sarah, understanding that they, too, should sit, did so. “We’re looking for an engagement ring,” Nick said. “But it has to be the PERFECT engagement ring.” “Of course it does,” Anastasia said cheerfully. “Do you have anything in particular in mind?” Sarah stood up and began looking in the display cases. Nick noticed that she was getting a tiny little hole in the back of her denim shorts. “Something like this,” Sarah said, pointing straight down into the case. “Three stones, but all emerald-cut, with the big one in the middle, of course,” she said. “This one is princess-cut, and the sidestones are something else. Sapphire, maybe?” “Would you like a custom design, then?” Anastasia asked, taking out a sketch pad. “You don’t have anything like that pre-set?” Sarah questioned. “Nothing emerald-cut, no.” Anastasia stood up and showed her a few other rings, but either the sidestones were wrong or the diamond shapes were wrong. “It’s not that the rings aren’t lovely,” Nick said, “because they are, but Sarah has a very specific image in mind.” Putting his arm around Sarah, he asked how much a custom-designed ring would cost. “That depends on the size of the stones you choose,” Anastasia explained. Sarah spoke up without looking: “2 carats for the center stone, a half carat on each side.” Then she raised her head, looking the designer in the eye. “I saw it online for a very reasonable price.” It was a dare. The designer looked at her and warned, “You never know what you’re getting when you order on the internet.” “I can loupe it on the site, and pick the exact diamond I want,” Sarah told her. “And if it isn’t right, I can return it.” “Well, it’s certainly not the traditional way to buy an engagement ring,” Anastasia said. “How much would such a ring cost from you?” Nick asked. Consulting some information on her laptop, she wrote down a number and handed it to Nick. Nick looked at it and handed it to Sarah. “I DO love your work,” Sarah said. “But I think we can get a better price.” Turning to Nick, she said, “What do you think?” “Whatever you want, babe,” Nick said. Sarah reached out her hand and said goodbye to Anastasia and her custom-designed jewelry. Once they were on the street, Sarah took Nick’s hand and told him, “If you spent that much on a ring, I’d expect it to massage my feet every day and tell me I’m beautiful hourly.” “Whatever you want, babe,” Nick echoed, knowing better than to get Sarah started on the price of designer jewelry. She could go on for hours. The next day, refreshed from a full night’s sleep on a full stomach, Nick and Sarah got coffee and went to the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame. They looked at memorabilia from some of sports’ greatest athletes from Alabama, and the list was impressive. They saw a few Joe Namath jerseys and cleats, some Carl Lewis magazine covers, a huge display of Charles Barkley pieces, Bo Jackson’s Heisman trophy, and bits from Satchel Paige, Hank Aaron, Don Sutton, Virgil Trucks, Willie Mays, and Early Wynn. They could have stayed in the air-conditioned time capsule of their sports heroes all day, but they wanted to have time to wander around downtown and get the full Birmingham experience. They also checked out the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, which had all kinds of displays about the struggle for equality between blacks and whites, including the actual door from the jail cell in which Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote his famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail”, and the “Confrontation Gallery” in which they learned about 50 or so unsolved, racially-motivated bombings that earned the city the nickname “Bombingham”. As they walked out into the heat of the day again, having gone from sports heroes to civil rights struggles without time to switch gears, they decided to find a quiet place to sit, suddenly realizing that there was nothing quiet at all in the downtown area. They somehow stumbled into Birmingham, Alabama just in time for the City Stages Music Festival. “How do we do this?” Sarah asked. “Not sure,” Nick said. “I think it’s just luck.” They grabbed a brochure to see who was playing. The only act they really wanted to see that day was at the same time as their evening ballgame, so they vowed that they would come back the next night. “How can we pass up the opportunity to see the Doobie Brothers and Young Jeezy back-to-back?” “We simply can’t,” Sarah told him. “Let’s make sure we get whatever tickets we need now.” They then retreated to their hotel room to change, go for a run, and then nap before the game that night. The Birmingham Barons were playing the Mississippi Braves, and no one loved a baseball game like Nick and Sarah. While Sarah got the beer, Nick got the foam-rubber finger and a few souvenir t-shirts for his friends who were White Sox fans. As they settled into their seats to watch, exchanging beers and nachos and hot dogs, the game began. “You know,” Sarah said, “That this is, of course, the team Michael Jordan played for when he decided to play pro baseball.” “Of course,” Nick nodded. “But have you seen the totally amazing bus they get to ride from city to city?” Sarah went on. “I imagine MJ was used to traveling in style,” Nick said as he chomped on a hot dog. “Of course.” Sarah told him. “My friend who used to work for Chattanooga told me that she got to look in the bus once. I assume one of the players smuggled her in. Anyway, she said it was all luxury, all the way.” “No doubt,” Nick said, reaching for his beer. “I guess it was nice of him to leave it behind,” Sarah yelled over the crowd as they both stood up as “the wave” went by. “What was he gonna do with it?” Nick asked. “I can’t imagine him driving the wife and kids around in a bus large enough for a minor league baseball team.” Sarah nodded and they watched the game, cheering for Birmingham all the way. Five beers each and 9 innings after they sat down, they decided to go out. They had heard about this place known as “the CBGBs of the South”, and they wanted to see what it was like. Plus, it was named after one of them. Well, not really. The Nick was a sort of dive bar with a stage and ice-cold beer. They would have stayed for the beer and atmosphere alone, but then the first band started playing. They were pure rock—not metal, not punk, not alternative. There was nothing specifically Southern about them. Sarah later found out from the bartender that the band wasn’t from the South. They were actually from Florida. The place wasn’t packed—no doubt because of the music festival. They had plenty of room to move around and for Sarah to dance, which she didn’t stop doing, even after eight or so ballplayers came in and stood around, watching. “How can you tell they’re all baseball players?” the bartender asked Sarah after she made some remark about them. “Well, first, you see,” Sarah began in a teacherly voice, “they all tend to cluster together. Also note the freshly showered, freshly towel-dried look about them.” Nick started to laugh. He had heard this spiel before. “Also note the unusually liberal use of hair products.” The bartender nodded and tried not to stare at her customers. But Sarah kept going. She walked over to them and said something. They looked at her strangely, but nodded. When she came back, she gestured to them, and they all turned around, a few turning their heads to look at her. “Now notice the unusually large rear-ends,” Sarah said. “This is the most obvious feature of a ballplayer. The bubble-butt.” She gestured again and they all turned back to face the bar. She pointed to the stage as if to tell them they should be watching the band. “I’ll need 8 shots of Jagermeister now,” she said. “I used to get this stuff out of ballplayers for nothing, but now I have my honey.” She pulled Nick toward her and put her arms around him. He kissed her on the nose and patted her on the tush as she walked towards the group of guys with their shots. Then she went back to dancing. Through the first band, and then through the second, she danced and drank whatever was the coldest beer in the house. She and Nick got back to the hotel at about 3 a.m. and fell into bed. “Do these sheets feel Brazilian to you?” Sarah asked. “I don’t know,” Nick responded. “Why?” “Because the hotel says that the sheets are Brazilian linen,” Sarah explained. “I’m trying to get a feel for Brazilian linen.” “It’s just like regular linen,” Nick told her, “Only with a much closer shave.” Sarah hit him with a pillow. They curled up together, giggling about seeing the Doobie Brothers and Young Jeezy, one right after the other. They fell asleep, still giggling, saying, “Only in Birmingham, Alabama.”
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