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" Last year, deep in the clamp of late winter, my friend Peter called to ask if I wanted a pair of box seats to the Kentucky Derby. &amp;quot;Rich uncle,&amp;quot; he told me. &amp;quot;Great seats.&amp;quot; Several friends planned to make the three-hour drive from my town, take in the racing, and grab a nice dinner on the way home. Peter bandied about the term &amp;quot;once in a life time.&amp;quot; Everyone, he asserted, should see the derby once. &amp;quot;Come on,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s still some need for pageant in the world.&amp;quot; It was snowing when he asked \u2014 the really unnecessary kind of snow, the sort that falls like wet clumps of dust disappearing upon landing in a world of cold, oversized puddles. Spring seemed a such great distance. But I claimed two tickets \u2014 one for me, one for my girlfriend \u2014 and considered it a done deal. I knew the drill \u2014 hats, seersucker, taffeta, silk, new shoes, mint juleps, a roll of cash \u2014 and I liked the sound of it. I was in. We both were.  Sure, there was a mixed appeal to the whole thing. I love horse racing, but I mostly enjoy the seediness of a half-empty track on a Thursday afternoon. I enjoy slipping on a suit, but I hate being jammed in with three-hundred-thousand people who are &amp;quot;dressing up.&amp;quot; And, god knows, I like a car ride with friends, but I don&amp;#039;t want to sit, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat of a minivan with people I know but can&amp;#039;t comfortably look at. So on one hand: a series of small hassles, with a small prospect of return. On the other: the opportunity to step out with my girlfriend for an afternoon of sun, booze, and enough oddly dressed people to make us laugh. The classy broad won in a walk. Stepping out with her is always fun. That was good enough for me. So I locked in. And winter ticked along.  Three days before the race, she backed out \u2014 for a perfectly good reason \u2014 and she encouraged me to go without her. I demurred at first, but she insisted. I didn&amp;#039;t give it much of a thought, really; she always means what she says. I love this about her. So I decided to go stag. I know what it is to go to a sporting event. I&amp;#039;ve been to the Masters seven times, attended a couple dozen Major League Baseball games, an embarrassing number of NBA tilts, and taken in my share of pro football. I&amp;#039;ve wasted many hours enjoying minor-league baseball, Major League Lacrosse, arena football, three variations of pro soccer and \u2014 dearest to my heart \u2014 jai-alai. Sports is a kind of checklist for me at this point. I&amp;#039;d never been near a Triple Crown event. Of course I was going.  Once we got to the derby, I knew what to do there. I sat in the good seats, I perused the tip sheets, I listened to what people were saying. I traded jokes with my pals. But I feel safe in saying that without my girlfriend for laughs, for looks, for someone with whom to observe the spectacle, I began to sense that I didn&amp;#039;t have a reason to be there.  Soon I wandered away from my paired-off friends. I sought out new angles on the track and made last-minute bets. When I headed back to our good seats \u2014 and they were excellent, mostly since they kept us out of the rain \u2014 I never once failed to miss the sight of her. There I was in the day long bacchanal \u2014 where nearby boys slid on the wet grass with no clothes on, and drunken women pulled one another&amp;#039;s dresses up and over their heads \u2014 and what I really wanted was to see how my woman would look coming around the corner in a sleeveless spring dress, carrying one bourbon-laden cup for each of us.  To top it off, everything else went right. We made money. Each of us and all. Several people called the winner. Three of us hit the very decent exacta. We drank a lot but not too much, and slipped through the drunken throng fairly quickly on our way out. On the drive home, I was hoping we&amp;#039;d skip dinner, but my friend Wayne used his winnings to buy us all a dandy meal in the architectural Mecca of Columbus, Indiana, replete with good wine and much merriment. A great day, by any standards. Still, I fidgeted. We drove him in darkness. I tried not to sleep. At my house, I crept in, rose up the stairs silently, and found her in the bedroom, where she lay, listening to a book on tape. She didn&amp;#039;t know I stood watching her, she didn&amp;#039;t know I was thinking: What good is a game without a friend? And what&amp;#039;s a spring day, really, without a woman?  Then she noticed me, and smiled. She patted the bed, asked me to come and tell her stories. I joined her. Finally. I was only too happy. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/sex/advice/a13704/sports-dates-syn/>