Peter Lalich is a man among men. A mountain bear of a man with a football as a chew toy and a neolithic stone arm from outer space. But no, Lalich wasn't just born into greatness. He had to hit the baptismal fire of life head on in a crazy windmill fashion that only he could pull off with awkward smoothness. Perhaps you have already seen his AMAZING WIKIPEDIA ENTRY. If you haven't seen it, this is unacceptable. Fortunately, I'm here to not only provide you with a link to the article but to also to fill in the gaps that were left out. This is the amazing (semi) true story of one Master Peter Lalich navigated by yours truly with the assistance of a few facebook pictures (thank you public domain laws!)...
Young Peter was born on May 18th, 1988 to... uh... Peter Lalich who then subsequently... uh, named his son... Peter... after "Pistol" Pete Maravich. Ipso facto, Peter Lalich is a reincarnation of Pete Maravich but with a penchant for football, not basketball. He then grew up and did some rather insignificant stuff until the day he picked up his first football and threw it into the next neighborhood. Unfortunately for Peter, athleticism can't buy you friends at such an early age and he remained in a secluded sect of youngsters that is usually dominated by tall, goofy kids that nervously interact as little as possible with peers. Life was hard for Peter in Pop Warner, little did he know that life was only about the get much harder.
The mental toughness that would later show in his UVA years was constructed in searing heat as well as hurricane type storms under thundering skies while practicing and learning from Coach van Gouda at Springfield Middle School. Most of his toughness, as one might assume occurred on the field, actually came from what happened between bells during school. Teenage years can be harsh on a youth, but due to Peter being the "tall, ugly, goofy kid," puberty took it's toll twice as hard on him. At lunch he was relegated to sitting by himself or sitting with the kids that were a hodgepodgery of cracking voices, pimples, and dorkishness. Lalich decided to walk the lonely road... furthering his journey down a war beaten path.
Next came high school. Still no friends. Still no girls. Still a big ug. Peter experimented with Puka shell necklaces, neon green hat/pink shirt combos, feuax burberry sweaters pulled low, and taking pictures with his arms crossed and his greasy bangs pulled into his face. It can't really be explained in mere words. Thus, the photo journal:
It kinda makes me miss high school myself. Things changed however. Peter got a letter telling him he's got a full ride to UVA. Given natural high school social dictation, within minutes he's got everything he could ever want. Parties, chicks, etc. It doesn't matter that he's one ugly mother now. All of that goes away when ya sign with the Wahoos. Especially when you're buried on the depth chart. That's where the real action is. Simply put, Peter Lalich is the fucking man. He's the Bomb.com. Seriously.
In fact, you should friend him on facebook, immediately. The reasoning behind this is the fact that he gives almost daily inspiration in his status updates ranging from statements like "Peter... snow so white, only thing missin is 7 dwarfs" and "Peter... str8 like arm hair." I teared up when I read " Peter... I just do my pete and everytime i speak my sentences are complete LOLOLOLOL."
More so, Peter Lalich knows people. Want tickets to that Skid Row concert minutes before the show? No worries, Peter already has someone stuffing your tickets AND backstage passes in Will Call as we speak. He's got you front and back. You wanna roll with Peter to lunch? Sure thing.
What's that? You want some beer? Oh he's got you covered man. He's got a fake that can get him in anywhere in town. No problem. Most of the times he just skips the line and goes right in without waiting or getting carded! You know why? Cause he's on the fucking football team... that's why. Just let him go in this seedy gas station and get it for you... He'll be back in two seconds with a case of warm Natty Ice that we can shotgun. *fast forward* See dude, here you go. I told you. Peter is the man. He can... dude, you've got a cop behind you and he's pulling you over. Shit. Dude, our parents are gonna be so pissed. Turns out Peter isn't the man. He's just some strange looking dude who gets drunk, shows up to your party uninvited, gropes the girls at your party, drinks your beer and eats all of your food in the fridge, passes out in a puddle of his own vomit in your front yard, and hopefully... maybe one day he might be lucky enough to have a bad acid trip and go nuts in the middle of your neighborhood street. Ah, the life of a struggling back up quarterback. This is where it begins, Peter. Please stay the course because personally, I enjoy a long drawn out downfall.