Our guys were team #58- The Hamroids. My dad came up with that lovely name many years ago when he and his friends were still young and crazy enough to partake in such an activity. After this year, I think our bunch of men may be getting a little old to be chasing a huge hog around in the mud. The Gardener thinks he may have broken a rib, or at least bruised it and the guy in the black, cut-off suit jacket sustained a fairly minor bite on his forearm, and of course they all had a little hog burn on their arms, yet they come back every year for more. Must be a man thing.
There are usually a few women and co-ed teams which are given smaller hogs but still a mighty task. Every year after a few drinks, the girls and I talk about wrestling next year, but we never do. My reasoning is much better when I'm sober. Although, I managed to miss being sprayed with the garden hose this year, but Barb and C were soaked.
This is what the Gardener looked like the day after