I had my first redwood hot tub in the little house I bought after my first failed marriage. The house had two fireplaces and a sunroom that could be viewed from the living room by a floor-to-ceiling picture window. My business partner and I sponsored a slow pitch softball team at the time and I was the pitcher.
There were some pretty fair athletes on the team, but we were in a tough league and didn’t win most of our games. Still, we had lots of fun and would usually go out for beer and pizza, win or lose. There was one team in the league sponsored by the now defunct International Health Spa. The team members were all jocks and they were undefeated – at least until they came up against our team.
Somehow that night the moon and planets were all aligned just right, our luck was running high, and about every other sports cliché you can think of when describing the change in condition of an otherwise underdog competitor. Whatever, we did more than squeak out a victory. We stomped International Health Spa.
Celebrating our victory at Shotgun Sam’s seemed somehow unsuitable after our almost impossible-to-comprehend win. Instead we picked up cases of beer and other imbibeables and descended on my bachelor pad.
Everyone’s personas were soon loosened, both by victory and free-flowing spirits. The players, their wives, girlfriends and significant others began jumping (almost literally) into the hot tub, most still wearing their uniforms. Before long the room was overflowing with bodies and soap suds washed out of the uniforms.
The party continued into the wee hours and next morning there was barely six inches of water left in the hot tub. The rest had gone on the floor and soaked through the wall to my living room, the carpet soggy and reeking of stale beer.
Maybe that was the night that my brain connected hot water with a positive change in human condition. Maybe, but the carpets in my living room might belie that supposition.
