Piece o' cake
By BRET HART -- SLAM! Wrestling
Every year on my birthday, my sister Georgia bakes me a cake.
Now this isn't just any ol' cake. This is the best darn cake in the world -- really!
Please don't send me samples of your secret family recipe. I'm sure I'd enjoy trying each and every one but the thing is I really don't need to be eating chocolate cake in the first place 'cause I don't think it would take much for this retired wrestler to end up like Homer Simpson.
It reminds me of when I was a kid. Georgia would bake a cake and put it out for everyone. I confess, I'd take piece after piece until -- oops -- it's all gone. Meanwhile, Georgia thought everyone had eaten it.
This year, I didn't eat some of Georgia's cake. I ate the whole thing.
Well, except for one giant piece that my 11-year-old son Blade tackled -- and then he was too full to eat for a week. My friend/assistant Marcy was going crazy. She's a certified chocoholic who exists on rabbit food. Every time she opened the fridge to get a drink of water, there was this magnificent chocolate mountain calling out, "Eat me," and she'd walk away shaking her head, chewing carrots.
At my birthday party this year, there was this keg of beer. Of course, no one thought to chill it in advance. Various well-meaning, humourous and completely useless ideas were passed around on how to make that much beer cold that fast until finally we made due with just foam in plastic cups. Sad but true.
Anyway, about two weeks later, my friend Wilk and I filled some pitchers with brewski and stuck them in the freezer. Yeah, the beer got cold all right -- well, OK, we forgot and it froze solid.
So, after it thawed enough that we could plop it into a couple of those big Britney Spears cups from 7-Eleven (borrowed from Blade), we finally sat down to a cold one.
Getting up was another story. There was something about our unique defoaming/leave keg in the sun for two weeks/freeze and thaw process that seemed to enhance the alcoholic content of the stuff that barely resembled beer any more. Just then, Wilk and I were summoned to accept a challenge for three-on-three basketball with Blade, my youngest daughter, 13-year-old Beans, and two of their friends.
I was greatly amused by how Wilk was having a hard time making any shots. My dribbling was fine but Blade said I should call our friend Vince Carter for some pointers on my layups. Well, I went to block Wilk's shot and gave him a teeny-weenie push (Blade's version is I ran Wilk over like a train).
"Ahm, hey, watch out Wilk, don't hit your face on the (splat!) pavement!"
The next day, Wilk had a big shiner. I know it's awful but all I could do is laugh and think: What goes around comes around! See, Wilk has been my friend since Grade 1 and he holds the unique distinction of being the only kid to blacken my eye in grade school.
The way it happened was Joe Louis -- yes, the real Joe Louis -- had given Stu a pair of boxing gloves.
All the Hart kids would slug each other around in the basement. The gloves were so big and padded that it wasn't much different than a pillow fight.
I was coming up with a big uppercut when Wilk pulled his knee up in self defence and ended up kneeing me right in the face.
In school the next day, the whole sixth grade wanted to know how I got the big shiner and I told them.
Wilk was walking around with his head high and let them go on thinking that he was the guy who clocked Bret Hart in his dad's basement.
Wilk, it's taken more than 30 years but we're even.