Failure

This is perhaps the most difficult post I have ever had to write. For the first time in my short life, I have failed in properly completing a Century.

Those of you who lived in residence in university probably know that a Century involves taking a shot of beer every minute, for one hundred minutes. This works out to about 8 beer in an hour and a half, and a general expectation of drunken hilarity. Why we have not yet grown out of this, I can’t really tell you. Nevertheless, the idea surfaced the other night, and my friend Zubair and I took on the challenge. Now, generally you do this with 1 oz shot glasses, but unfortunately, the only ones we had were two or three ounces. So instead of spreading things out, we figured that 2 oz. per minute for fifty minutes, would suffice. In retrospect, perhaps a tactical error.

Things started off fine, as thing often do. We were cruising along with our shots and all was well. Around about shot 20, which would be about 40 ounces of beer, or 3 beer in 20 minutes, something in my innards shifted. It’s just gas, I told myself, since generally, this is the root cause of most of my afflictions. I thought it would pass, but somehow, the relentless onslaught of 2 oz of fizzy beer every minute didn’t help matters. Around about 25, I had that moment where I could have bowed out with minimal embarrassment, but I couldn’t. How could a Canadian bow to a Pakistani in matters of beer?

And then came the shot. Somehow I knew that it just wasn’t going to go down. There was some kind of gaseous riot going on inside me… call it an uprising. I have often referred to it as the beer drinking bubble, and I’m sure that all beer-drinkers have experienced it at some point or another. But usually you have the time (and common sense) to let it work itself out. In this case, all factors worked against me and I could not get the shot down. This led to a gagging, half-vomitous affair that was an embarrassment to all… and by "all" I really mean "me."

This made Zubair the defacto winner. But to retain some dignity, or perhaps none at all, I rallied back to the table and did a further twenty-some shots. In my mind, this was to show that I was not "too drunk" to continue, nor was I "too sick." I was merely the sad victim of circumstance. I was like a well-oiled machine, a 747 for example, that can take off and land every day without incident, but there is still the potential for that one crossed wire, that one maintenance error, to send things on a turn for the worse. Perhaps, for example, that 747 should have eaten something that day, or perhaps should not have taken that gut-riling malaria tablet a few hours earlier. But wait, I lose my train of thought and my metaphors become mixed.

Nevertheless, Zubair has been a good sport. But the only way I could stop him from making relentless fun of me for the rest of my life was by promising that I would relate this story on the blog for all to see. And, having never been afraid of laughing at myself (which should be obvious to anyone reading this blog), I have done so.

But don’t think that this means that you’re off the hook Zubair. If there was one thing my mother taught me it was to strive through adversity, never quit, and never admit to defeat. "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield" and all that jazz. I’m just not sure she would have meant it to apply to drinking games. Nevertheless, the next time the warm breeze caresses the Karachi night, and the bootlegger has some beer on hand, I will meet you on the battlefield, shot glass in hand.

Every heavy-weight gets a chance at a rematch.