So there I was, hammered. It was the summer of 2014, and I was drinking beer at the Blackrocks Brewery in Marquette, Michigan. I was with my (little) sister and cousin. The sun was on a downward trajectory and there was a slight breeze. The ring game at this local establishment had three different sizes to hook. Large, medium, and wedding ring. It took me a couple tries to get the big one. Once I had made it, I immediately went to the medium size. A few more tries and it was on. Two rings down, one to go. I placed my feet, squared up, took a swig and let go of the ring. Ding, ding (think about a dramatic scene in a movie about basketball where the ball teeters around the rim before go no in), hooked! I don’t know if it was destiny or the booze, but one shot is all it took. The small crowd that had gathered went bananas, and a small news crew popped up to interview me. After hooking the ring, I abruptly retired and rode off into the sunset towards the next barroom game.