Kan Jam!

In the past ten years, tailgating games have evolved significantly. It used to be that a tailgate involved nothing more than a keg, a grill, and maybe a football. If you were ambitious, you brought a beer pong table. Then along came Cornhole. And Washers. And Norwegian Golf. And Norwegian Tennis. And Mayonnaise Face. And Fuck the Leprechaun.

Just when you thought the market was saturated, comes the motherfucking mother of all tailgating games: Kan Jam.

This past weekend, I was in B-town for the huge IU/Murray State game. I was tailgating with Tradd, some Kashmans, some Davidsons, some Eckerles, Bapp 5, a legendary Hoppin' Hoosier, Gibson, and several others. We had cornole and Norwegian golf. It wasn't enough.

Luckily Holt was on his way. He was practically crying on the phone when he told me that he had a new tailgating game. He wanted to bring it to this tailgate. I could hardly contain myself as I explained, "Holt, that's exactly what this tailgate needs." "What's it called?," I asked with bated breath. I'll never forget the next two words that came from his mouth: "Kan Jam." I squealed with excitement. "Tell me everything about it. Is it dangerous? Are there cans involved? What about jam?!" I exclaimed, before retreating, "No, no! Don't! I want to be surprised. Now hurry up and get over here, you big lug!"

When Holt and Katie arrived seventeen minutes later, everyone at the tailgate turned and stared in outright amazement. "What on God's green earth is that man holding in his underdeveloped arms?," asked everyone in unison. I had always viewed Holt as a kind of messianic figure, and had preached his gospel all across Judea. I have never felt more vindicated than I did Saturday sometime around 5:41 p.m. Eastern.

He held two plastic black cylinders, each about two feet tall and about 18 inches in diameter, with a rectangular slot cut about five inches from the top of each. "It looks like he's holding two ninjas," everyone shouted in unison, followed by gasps and muffled whispers, then by thunderous applause.

Because he is the devil and loves to toy with the emotions of us mere mortals, Holt delicately set the ninjas down on the ground, retrieved a Miller Lite tallboy from the blue soft-sided mini cooler that flanked his side, shotgunned the beer, and shouted, "I am Spartacus, and this . . . is . . . KAN JAM!" Tailgaters as far as the eye could see dropped to their knees. Men and women alike had uncontrollable, instantaneous orgasms. Babies became adults.

Mystified and anxious, I worked up my courage to ask Holt, "How is this Kan Jam played kind sir?" After a series of lashings at his hand, Holt told his minions all about Kan Jam.

According to Holt, according to the Kan Jam website, Kan Jam is sweeping the nation. While I could not find that statement anywhere on the Kan Jam website, having seen the game a total of one time in my life and knowing that it made the trip from Dayton to Bloomington, that statement is absolutely true.

The game is played as follows: the two ninja-like cylinders are placed 50 feet apart, with the aforementioned slots facing each other. The game involves teams of two. Like cornhole, partners stand opposite each other, next to one of the ninjas. One partner throws a Frisbee at the ninja, and, get this, the receiving partner can deflect the Frisbee in order to score points. Points are scored as follows:
-1 point for a deflected Frisbee that hits the ninja
-2 points for a non-deflected Frisbee that hits the ninja
-3 points for a deflected Frisbee that goes into the ninja, either through the slot or the top. Usually this is done in an authoritative manner. I call this a "Kan Jam." After a Kan Jam, the person who deflected it into the hole has to yell "Kan Jam!" in Duff Man's voice and then thrust his or her crotch into the ninja, knocking it over.
-Automatic victory for a non-deflected Frisbee that goes into the ninja, either through the slot or the top. From what I can tell, this never happens.

As I explained to a curious geriatric passerby, it's about as dumb as it looks.

Later in the evening, Tradd and I had the pleasure of taking a picture with Wayne Larrivee outside an English Hut once owned by a man named Nick. Of course my camera is insolent, so the picture didn't save. Rest assured, next time I see him I will make sure that my camera is not full, and I will know that his color commentator is named Chris Martin and the other dude with them will be named Tony McGee, who I was informed once caught the winning touchdown in Rose Bowl. I don't really know what that means.