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History isn’t my passion-not like football. Might not look like it, I want to boast, but I’m in celebration mode.Ĭelebrating my return to the motherland, as well as my new teaching job at London High. “Never thought I’d see the day when Aspen Levi walked back on in here.” Fifteen years is a heck of a long time to be away.Ĭatching my eye, Shawn drops his hands to the bar, a damp rag slung over one shoulder. The rest of the place is a waltz back in time, complete with tapered candles, which sit dead-center on every table, and equally fancy sconces decorating the walls.

The bathrooms are hooked up to electricity, too, but that’s to be expected.

It’s the oldest pub in town, built sometime just before the turn of the twentieth century, and the only technology in here is wired to the cash registers, the jukebox blasting Aerosmith like the 90s have risen from the dead, and a massive TV hoisted behind the bar. It’s probably for the best that the Golden Fleece isn’t a pool table kinda place. No snide remarks about how my ring finger is surprisingly bare since we last crossed paths or that I’m already straddling the thin line between sober-and-boring and drunk-and-dancing-on-pool-tables. Luckily for me, Londoners are the sort to forgive, if not forget, a fact I’ve never been more grateful for than when Shawn, the pub’s long-time bartender, flips over a fresh pint glass, fills it to the brim with Guinness, and plunks it down in front of me with a we-knew-you’d-come-crawling-back-at-some-point gleam in his dark eyes. No New Englander betrays the beloved Patriots like I did and lives to tell the tale. The minute I eloped with Rick, the general manager for the Pittsburgh Steelers, heads started to roll. My lack of penis being the first, and my status as a “traitor” trailing behind in a close second place. Loves me for it, even though I have two strikes against me. I don’t know, something monumental, something that carries weight and importance-something more than the truth.Īnd the truth is, us Levis are notoriously notable for only one thing: football. You know, something inspiring, like curing a rare disease or establishing a school for god-knows-what or proving, once and for all, that aliens exist and Earth isn’t the sole survivable planet. Growing up, I always pretended the honor was bestowed upon us because someone in my family did the world a good deed.

But here I am, playing with the decades-old football that the Golden Fleece keeps around for whenever a Levi enters the pub.

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