Sunday was a classic case of it simply not being the right time. Multiple things in my life and beyond went off the rails after seeming like a sure thing. Let me break it down from the beginning. I woke up Saturday morning at around 10AM and immediately sat up straight in bed and stared at the clock. My heart was thumping out of my chest… I thought it was Sunday and that I was an hour late for brunch already. But it wasn’t the right day.
The next morning I woke up before seven, at the first “ding” of the first of seven alarms that I set. I would not go back to sleep after the trauma I’d experienced the day before. For a brunch captain, the sudden realization that you are late for brunch is the worst waking sensation possible. Quite often, it leads to a massive captain heart attack, and is fatal. I wasn’t taking any chances… I showered, dressed, and quickly drove to Dunkin Donuts to inhale my coffee and bagel. Plain bagel with plain cream cheese; that’s good enough for me.
At the Dunkin Donuts every Sunday is a high school age chap who sells the Sunday papers; just the Globe and Herald. He never talks to me, except when I am really tired or hungover. Only when I am weak does he speak to me, and he does so brusquely, stepping in my path and demanding that I buy a paper. Today I was strong, and he ignored me, but not I him. After forcing the plain bagel down my maw, I strode over to him and said, “Young man, if you carry the Sunday New York Times I will buy it from you each and every Sunday, plus one dollar gratuity, guarenteed.” It was a good deal, but the paperboy balked. It wasn’t the day.
“Impossible,” he sniveled. “My distributor won’t distribute the Sunday Times to me.” These distributors, I muttered under my breath, and left in a huff. It wasn’t the day. Later, at the restaurant, my section was prime real estate. It should have been mucho dinero, all large parties. Yet wasn’t able to capitalize on it financially because of campers. Campers are customers who camp out at a table, preventing it from turning over. They stifled my mojo, trampled my real estate. What should have been a dynamite brunch fizzled. It wasn’t the day.
At the end of the shift, on the way out the door, I made a $20. bet with chef Jason on the day’s biggest NBA game. He took the Dallas Mavericks, and I took the Phoenix Suns, and all the statistics on the game were in my favor. The first three quarters were pretty much a blowout. The Suns with Shaq and Nash and Stoudemire were sick nasty, easily maintaining a double digits lead over the weak Mavs. At the end of the third quarter I left my house and drove back to work, just to give Jason some shit and collect my twenty dollars. Out on the street I saw him and yelled, “Gimme my money!”
Chef Jason was crazy-eyed and jolly… and he started to get out his wallet but I knew it was a trick. “What’s happened in the game since I left my house?!” I exclaimed. What happened was the Suns went ICE COLD and only scored 5 points in the 4th quarter. The Mavs went on a 16-0 run for much of the quarter and won the game. I lost the bet, and my treasured Suns lost to my least favorite team in the West. (The only thing I like about the Mavericks is the owner Mark Cuban’s dedication and style. Sometimes I grudgingly respect Nowitzki, like when playing on a gimp German ankle Sunday he stumbled for like eighteen steps yet was able to swish a crucial shot.)
It wasn’t my day, wasn’t the day. Later Sunday night, my favorites women’s team, the Uconn Huskies, were routed by Stanford in the women’s Final Four. Their rivals, coached by the vinyl pants-suit clad Pat Summitt, won their Final Four game in the last second and advanced to the National Championship. I try to be a positive person. The Huskies are a team of superstar freshmen. Maya Moore is the first freshman to ever receive all around MVP as a FRESHMAN. The Final Four is a huge accomplishment for a group of FRESHMEN. The future is golden… but I still wish they could have won this year for seniors Mel Thomas and Charde Houston…
I ate a grand dinner of fried catfish with black eyed peas and collard greens at the B-Side, electrically jumped my friend Brian’s car, then went home to nurse my psychic wounds and read the news… Filed this under “NOT THE DAY”; in France protesters continuously attacked the Olympic torch bearer, extinguishing the flame over and over again. They were protesting China’s actions against the monks in Tibet. The French government, in a scene out of Rollerball, ended up with rollerblade police escorting the flame out of Paris…
“In the not-too-distant future, wars will no longer exist… But there will be Rollerball.”