Ross Warner’s ‘Drunk On Sunday’ Candidly Traverses Youth To Adult San Diego Chargers & Grateful Dead Obsessions (BOOK REVIEW)

Two of my favorite reads in recent years were time-capsule coming-of-age stories that close friends of mine, sensing kindred authors, strongly recommended: J.R. Moehringer’s “The Tender Bar” and Steve Rushin’s “Sting-Ray Afternoons.” 

These memoirs oozed with all of the nostalgia and wistfulness you would expect from still-kids-at-heart writers reexamining their childhood-into-adolescence years with awe, gratitude and time-earned wisdom. Now, another such story, this one a novel rooted in the author’s obsessions – the Grateful Dead and the San Diego Chargers – has come along, fitting nicely on the shelf next to those two.

Ross Warner’s “Drunk On Sunday,” just published by No Frills Buffalo, is done in the same vein as those. (The novel’s title is a tweak of the title of Ray Nitschke’s memoir “Mean on Sunday”). Its narrator, a character named Robert Gross, is on a quest to keep a youthful candle burning at both ends: “I spent my whole life searching for a girl with whom to enter adulthood (while simultaneously running from her),” he reveals early, setting the tone. 

I liked how the narrative delivers a deluge of ’80s cultural touchstones, some not easily forgotten (Dan Fouts’ passing magic, the movie “Cocktail”) some utterly forgotten (calling Sports Phone for scores, the short-lived show “Delta House”) and there’s an ethos, call it a unique zeal for the drinking life, that’s reminiscent of another favorite of mine, Frederick Exley’s “A Fan’s Notes.” Like that book, “Drunk on Sunday” is heavy on fanaticism and inebriation, as well as humor, and humanity.

I’d like to think there’s a touch of my own first book, a moment-in-time true tale, “Talking Proud,” which delves into the never-talked-about story of the ’80 Buffalo Bills and explores the origins of a diehard.  “I’ll always be a Chargers fan,” young Robert vows aloud to himself as a youth growing up in the Westchester Country suburbs, surprised by his own earnestness. Later in the story, as a young adult, Robert celebrates an unlikely Chargers’ playoff run in the season of ’94, seizing upon a line (“Justice is coming”) from that year’s blockbuster, “Tombstone.” He’s high on spirits and the euphoria of an AFC Championship within reach, blissfully guilty of a scary brand of blind faith, the kind that makes someone capable of pinning their hopes to quarterback Stan Humphries. 

The story follows a deeply familiar path. Boy falls in love with sports team. Boy goes all in. And eventually off to college where “Animal House” memories become dreams come true. Then he fritters about in a long refusing-to-grow-up phase and frequents NYC haunts like McSwiggan’s – now that’s familiar terrain. Following the Grateful Dead and navigating fraternity life were not familiar to me, which in its way made the romp-along a little more interesting. 

The real gems are unearthed when Warner conjures wickedly funny mental images such as a paper mache Fouts centerpiece he kept from his bar mitzvah and had taken on “evil Claymation” properties. There’s a nice romance in here. Warner’s “Robert” is a boy who needs to get his shit together or lose the love of his life; and strangely I found myself rooting against the forces pulling him away from the sports bars in which he hangs on Sundays. You can hang with Warner’s book. Maybe even have drinks while reading it. The writing is comical, crisp, the dialogue rings natural (no easy feat) and, perhaps overindulgently, there’s an onslaught of music references that I am glad he didn’t shy from; a quick side note to self: make a Spotify playlist tied to “Drunk on Sunday.” I know some may read this story, get a third through, and maybe start to think why do I need to care about this guy, and the answer is keep going, because he cares about the music, movies, sports, experiences that shape us, worth chronicling. A lot of toil and some torment go into producing a work germinating for many years. No doubt, this was a tale behind the scenes of blind faith, three yards and a cloud of dust, up the field. Touchdown – Warner has brought the goods. His character never would do anything halfway, which is also very familiar, unless we’re talking about an 18-pack meant to last the weekend. Cheers, Ross Warner.

Ross Warner is regular contributor to Glide Magazine and often covers Springsteen, The Dead and the occasional op ed..