Summer is in full swing and that means a few summertime traditions are in order: Grotesque heat, baseball and weddings.

And given that this time of year is the slowest of the sports calendar, I’m going to share with you a little trip I made to Tiger Town, aka Columbia, Mo., this past weekend to participate in a wedding, which had both the intensity and aura of a championship tilt.

For starters, my connection to the wedding was my cousin, Dan Davis, the groom — the opening day starter if you will. Dan played football at Mizzou for three years and four of the eight groomsmen were former Mizzou footballers as well.

Yeah, eight groomsmen, needless to say, the average height and weight of this wedding party compared favorably to any other wedding party in America that day.

So where was I in the pecking order? The best man. My job? Well, considering this was the first time I’d ever been in a wedding, save for my stellar performance as a ring bearer 20 years ago, I didn’t really know.

This is what I was told: take care of the groom, hand a ring to the priest and give a toast at the reception. I could do that.

But while that all sounds so simple, there’s a lot to consider. This is the biggest day of the bride and groom’s lives in most cases. As the best man, you have to make sure that nothing goes wrong, i.e. no drunken escapades the night before the wedding, no losing the rings before the wedding and without question, you’ve got to nail the toast.

The toast is like the bottom of the ninth. There’s two outs and you’ve got one more guy to get out and then it’s celebration time. Tears, champagne and people are singing your praises.

Screw it up? Then you’re remembered as the guy who was the lone bad spot in what was an otherwise perfect day. And for as long as that wedding is remembered, or anniversaries as they tend to be called, it’s always brought up.

“That sure was a great wedding until Fred gave that awful speech about the goat-tipping at the reception... What the hell was that?”

So that was it for me. Don’t ruin the wedding. Months of preparation by people who have a much deeper interest in the day than me are leaving it up to one guy to seal the deal. Wow.

Saturday. Wedding day. Game time.

The wedding went off without a hitch. The ‘I do’s’ were flawlessly executed, tears were shed and the rings were handed to the priest as smoothly as a Trent Green to Larry Johnson exchange.

Then came the pictures. Uhh, those were more like two-a-day practices. You have to participate, you’re not really happy about it but you know it was worth the effort after it’s over.

After the pictures came the trip to the reception. While we had some transportation issues – arriving to the reception late – it was okay because all the while I’m getting into closer mode... My time to shine is coming.

We arrive at the reception. The place is packed. The lights are dimmed and we’re welcomed in with the opening music from the Chicago Bulls introductions... The atmosphere was electric.

People took their seats, some food was eaten and then the moment of truth came.

Toast time.

The bride’s closer by committee – maid and matron of honor – went first, putting more pressure on me. 1-2-3 inning. Sat ‘em down in order! The ladies did a fabulous job with a poem that they both recited and told stories that melted the coldest of hearts.

Now it was my turn. I grabbed the mic confidently and delved into a quick two or three tales of Dan and my’s hardships growing up, softening the crowd before I hit ‘em with the 100 mph heater – a 14-line sonnet – rhyme scheme intact – that I penned that morning.

Their bats didn’t even make it off their shoulders. Frozen.

Hands clapped, more tears were shed and champagne was toasted. A celebration followed and I retired to the showers... well, I retired somewhere.

— Davis is a Topeka senior in journalism and english.