1.0The Sourcehttps://the-source.netrich600338<blockquote class="wp-embedded-content" data-secret="LwBtbzxwdo"><a href="https://the-source.net/not-brightest-idea/">Not my brightest idea</a></blockquote><iframe sandbox="allow-scripts" security="restricted" src="https://the-source.net/not-brightest-idea/embed/#?secret=LwBtbzxwdo" width="600" height="338" title="“Not my brightest idea” — The Source" data-secret="LwBtbzxwdo" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" class="wp-embedded-content"></iframe><script type="text/javascript"> /*! This file is auto-generated */ !function(c,l){"use strict";var e=!1,o=!1;if(l.querySelector)if(c.addEventListener)e=!0;if(c.wp=c.wp||{},c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage);else if(c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if(!t);else if(!(t.secret||t.message||t.value));else if(/[^a-zA-Z0-9]/.test(t.secret));else{for(var r,s,a,i=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),n=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),o=0;o<n.length;o++)n[o].style.display="none";for(o=0;o<i.length;o++)if(r=i[o],e.source!==r.contentWindow);else{if(r.removeAttribute("style"),"height"===t.message){if(1e3<(s=parseInt(t.value,10)))s=1e3;else if(~~s<200)s=200;r.height=s}if("link"===t.message)if(s=l.createElement("a"),a=l.createElement("a"),s.href=r.getAttribute("src"),a.href=t.value,a.host===s.host)if(l.activeElement===r)c.top.location.href=t.value}}},e)c.addEventListener("message",c.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded",t,!1),c.addEventListener("load",t,!1);function t(){if(o);else{o=!0;for(var e,t,r,s=-1!==navigator.appVersion.indexOf("MSIE 10"),a=!!navigator.userAgent.match(/Trident.*rv:11\./),i=l.querySelectorAll("iframe.wp-embedded-content"),n=0;n<i.length;n++){if(!(r=(t=i[n]).getAttribute("data-secret")))r=Math.random().toString(36).substr(2,10),t.src+="#?secret="+r,t.setAttribute("data-secret",r);if(s||a)(e=t.cloneNode(!0)).removeAttribute("security"),t.parentNode.replaceChild(e,t);t.contentWindow.postMessage({message:"ready",secret:r},"*")}}}}(window,document); </script> By Blake Schnitker Fair warning: this is another one of my meaningless, sarcasm-filled stories about another one of my own experiences involving sports. It’s intended to entertain, maybe even provide some humor. But for the really good stuff, the truly top shelf writing, please turn to page 3 where you’ll find Ken Bradbury’s article. While I accept the fact of having the better head of hair between the two of us, I’d trade in my comb over in exchange for KB’s literary prowess any day of the week – I mean really, there’s a reason page 3 is his page. Anyway, now that I’ve reciprocated Mr. Bradbury’s kind words, here’s a story about how an entire arena full of people came to despise me on my 24th birthday … sounds like one heck of a way to celebrate right? The middle of April is the time of year when baseball, basketball and hockey all come together – the MLB season is just starting while the NBA and NHL have entered postseason play. The middle of April also means that it’s birthday time for yours truly. And at this time last year, I decided to spend my birthday in a strange and rare way: by conducting my own (impromptu and very uncalled for) social experiment during a full day in St. Louis – a day in which, looking back, was both the scariest and fun-filled birthday I’ve had in recent memory. What I did that day was stupid and obnoxious – it really was – yet all things considered, I think I would do it all over again … okay maybe not. If you’re looking for a way to hone your trash talking/crisis-prevention skills, just do what I did on my 24th birthday: attend a playoff hockey game between in St. Louis Blues and the Minnesota Wild … in St. Louis … while wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Reminder: the Blackhawks were not one of the two teams playing on that particular night so yeah … I was that guy. If you’re unfamiliar with the Blues or the Blackhawks, or the NHL in general, what happened here was that one incredulous redhead (myself) willingly chose to enter a massive sporting arena filled to maximum capacity (just shy of 20,000 people) wearing a jersey that essentially read, “Please shout obscenities in my general direction. I deserve it,” in huge black and red letters. Sounds crazy right? It was, but let me explain: as a Cubs fan, I’m used to having the majority of St. Louis and surrounding Metro area despise me. Cardinals fans have gone out of their way to insult me roughly 4 million times in my 25 years of life, so much so that I’ve actually built up an immunity for it. Come to think of it, I’d probably be more uncomfortable if St. Louis fans weren’t constantly shouting their disapproval of me. In a weird way, this sort of behavior from opposing fans is welcomed because well … I guess I am (definitely) a little crazy. Hopefully by now it’s become obvious that what was said to me that night was 100 percent deserved. I quite blatantly asked for it in fact. But the good news is I made it out alive, and if you’re ever in a situation such as this, let me take you through my short, yet effective survival guideline. Step 1: meet every verbal attack with a polite smile and friendly wave – doing this confuses the hate-filled name-callers … it will freeze them on the spot. Not expecting to be met by a friendly gesture in the face of their expletive-ridden tirade, they walk away shamelessly, realizing that the joke is actually on them. The key here is to acknowledge your own stupidity. Retaliation only makes things worse. Step 2: carefully, and I mean care-full-y, choose short windows of time that allow for light-hearted humor – jokes must be harmless towards the home fans’ vulnerable psyche … tread lightly and don’t overstep your boundaries. Step 3: pray for divine intervention. In this case, my guardian angel arrived in the form of a highly intoxicate Detroit Red Wings fan – the one thing in the universe capable of uniting the fans of Chicago and St. Louis, even if only for a brief moment. Back to the story. Allow me to recreate that day, skipping to the part where we first arrive at the arena. As my friend and I walk to our seats, I can feel our section collectively trying to burn holes through my Blackhawks jersey with their flame-throwing pupils. We find our seats. Immediately the group sitting one row behind us let’s their opinions of me be known. But I try to remain friendly and positive. I tell them that yes, I know how stupid and obnoxious it is of me to be wearing this jersey in this arena on this particular night, but that I was not there to actively root against their beloved team. This exchange went over fairly well – much better than I had expected – and soon we were engaging in genial conversation with all of those around us. This was my first real test, and if I had to grade it, I’d give myself a B-minus … not great but not disastrous. Now for test number two. Unquestionably, the last place I wanted to be in this particular situation was inside the men’s restroom during an intermission, where I would surely be surrounded by increasingly belligerent St. Louis fans. So, logically, that’s exactly where I went as the first period came to a close. Lines to the men’s rooms at professional sporting events – especially during a 20-minute intermission of an NHL game – are typically comprised of thick-bearded, physically unpleasant men now fully regretting that fourth beer they finished just before the last period ended. But the worst part of this entire ordeal occurred as I was standing in the back of the line. With...