Big Blue

Here I am at Mid-South FC, armed with a paper cup of the finest Columbian Drano that Durham’s off-duty bartenders can supply, watching a fencing tournament.

Were it not for the fact that I love My Fella beyond reason, I would not be here — not because I don’t enjoy the sport, but because this club is full of teenagers who don’t know they’re born.

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And unlike, say, the Hunger Games –the standard by which I judge all athletic competitions — I do not have the satisfaction of knowing that 96 percent of all participants will have bitten it by the time the final scores are tallied.

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