Prescott Place

“Hey James. You and Ben are taking the boys to Monster Jam next month.”

That was the greeting I received upon arriving home after work one day last year.

“I’m sorry. It sounded like you just said ‘Monster Jam?’”

“That’s right. You know how much Nolan loves monster trucks. It’ll be fun. I’m sure you guys will have a good time.”

“So you’re going too, right? Because of all the ‘fun’ and what not?”

“Oh, no way.”

“I see.”

So began the story of my first – and in a perfect world, my last – trip to a monster truck show. If you are neither a child, nor a fan of pretty much any activity that involves filling a billion dollar stadium with a shocking amount of dirt, demolished cars and mullets, you needn’t bother with a monster truck show. However, Nolan does love monster trucks, so I took one for the team (however unwillingly) and agreed to take Nolan to the show.

If nothing else, the Monster Jam did provide me with an excuse to visit Jerryworld out in Arlington. It really is quite impressive, and that point was driven home each time I was presented with the opportunity to hand out great wads of cash. Parking? $20. Program? $10. Poorly constructed Hot Wheels truck? $30. Between the tickets and the, ahem, extras, we were in for well over $150 before we walked in the door. At that point, I thought, “At least we’ll have decent seats, right?” We didn’t. Once we entered the upper stratosphere where our seats were located, I was finally able to put my anxiety aside because Nolan did seem genuinely excited to be there. That made a huge difference for me.

None of us knew exactly what to expect before the show started. We quickly learned that the Monster Jam is basically pro wrestling with enormous trucks. Lots of yelling. Lots of manufactured drama. And don’t forget the mullets. I felt as out of place as one of the die-hard Monster Jam fans might feel if he or she accidentally stumbled into a David Sedaris reading. Once we were there, things seemed to be going as planned. Within 20-30 minutes, both boys said they were hungry. Trust me, overcoming hunger is no problem at all inside Jerryworld. We settled in with hilariously huge hot dogs and drinks that, based on the price, I remain convinced must have contained unicorn tears or water from the actual fountain of youth. All was well for another 30 minutes or so. In fact, things were going well enough that I decided to throw caution to the wind and take out a second mortgage to buy a couple of Miller Lites (proud sponsor of Jerryworld) for Ben and I.

Here’s the point in the story where mullets and beer prices became the least of our troubles. I had prepared myself to pretend to enjoy it for Nolan. I had prepared myself to stay for the whole thing. While waiting in the concessions line, Nolan said he wasn’t feeling well. Nolan sometimes feigns illness when he’s bored, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. However, as we headed back to our seats, he started lagging behind me a bit and said he wanted to find a restroom. At that point, I started to worry something was actually wrong. After a quick trip to the restroom, he seemed to feel better, so we headed back to the seats – about five rows from the top of Cowboys Stadium.

So, for those keeping score, we’re at a Monster Jam monster truck show, and we’ve spent enough money to buy a nice TV. How could it possibly get worse as far as a fun night out goes? It can. Believe me. It can and it did.

Fair warning – Don’t read on if you are easily grossed out. Seriously.

After reaching our row, we dismissed our Mt. Everest-trained sherpas and started working our way back to the seats. About three spots in, Nolan stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at me with absolute terror in his eyes, then doubled over and forcibly ejected the better part of a foot-long hot dog onto the empty (thankfully) seat in front of him, as well as his valiantly, yet ineffectively cupped hands.

Awful, just awful. The night at the monster truck show had somehow gotten worse, and poor Nolan was genuinely sick. Without a word, I glanced over at Ben before snatching Nolan up and fleeing the area in hopes of making it back to the restroom before another “incident” occurred. Somehow we had become the “undesirables” in a room filled with people who cling to the belief that the WWE and Monster Jam are actual sporting events.

By that time, Nolan was more upset at the idea of being forced to leave the show early than he was about feeling ill. After a solid 30 minutes of spoiled-hot-dog-related activities that remain better left unsaid, we decided to work our way toward the exit. Before we made it to the stairwell, Nolan asked if he could stop to watch one more race. He seemed ok, so I allowed him to stand in Jerryworld’s “party pass” area to watch one last race. Nolan seemed content to call it a night after the race, so we began our final descent back to the ground floor. All was well. Nolan and Brady raced down the ramps as if nothing at all had gone wrong. After a not-so-quick stop at the souvenir stand and we finally made our way out of the building and back to the car.

We had survived. We had (sort of) conquered the Monster Jam despite a violent attack of an undercooked stadium hot dog. We made it. Or so we thought.

As we rounded the corner and entered the highway, just as I thought we were in the clear, Nolan broke the silence in the car.

“Daddy, I don’t feel so good.”

All pictures here.