God Loves A Good Food Fight
It has often been said that God works in mysterious ways. In my case God works in culinary ways. Yesterday at The Pilot Pen Tennis Tourney I was walking into the players lounge from the kitchen with a bowl of hot marinara sauce. When I approached the door I carefully took my time to reach for the handle. While I was doing this someone on the other side was apparently in a bit of a hurry and attempted to run out. You all pretty much know where this is heading.... Adam gets run into and drenched with marinara sauce.
Fast forward to today. This morning I was again working in the kitchen, this time I was asked to pour olive oil from a large plastic container into a small glass one. Now a normal kitchen, I assume, would have this funky thing called a funnel, but no, not this one. This kitchen gave me the great advice of squeezing a bit so it would pour straighter. I guess most people they speak with aren’t as strong as I am. One squeeze, no more container. The plastic cracked in my hand leaving me covered in olive oil. Now I know things usually come in threes, but at this point I decided not wait for the third sign, I simply looked up and said "you know what, I’m out" and walked out.
I should be upset at the people running the event since I was told at the start that my job would be keeping the players happy in the lounge and it turned out to be running back and forth from the kitchen to the lounge, not even interacting with the majority of the players. I’m not upset, though. I don’t know why, but I’m not upset.
Another example of my extremely laid back demeanor was when the plastic cracked today I could have flung the remaining part of the tub across the room, but I didn’t, I simply said I’m out. I kinda like the emotional balance I have right now and I have to say, although it sounds corny, I give the folks at Date Patrol a lot of credit for it.
In other news, on Sunday I saw a baseball game end in a new way. It was at the New Britain Rock Cats (or NebTwins as we call them) double header, game one, bottom of the seventh (which is the final inning for each game of a minor league double header) NebTwins down by one with the bases loaded. The opposing team (New Hampshire) brings in a relief pitcher. He hits the first batter. Tie game. I turn to my Dad at this point and say "do you think a game has ever ended on back to back hit batsmen?" Next batter up. Another HBP. Game over, NebTwins win. All the pitcher came in for was to hit two batters, now THAT'S a situational reliever.
To add even more oddness to this game, in the first inning I turned to my left and saw a man with a camera. I thought, nah, it couldn't be, it's been a whole year and this is New Hampshire we're playing, not New Haven. Within two minutes he said "Yahtzee" at a random time letting me know it WAS the same douschebag from the game I went to last year and New Hampshire is where New Haven's team moved to. I had to sit next to this moron spouting his 10 year old Sportscenter catchphrases all game... AGAIN!
As tradition states, I must get in one good dig at a player or coach during every game, especially in New Britain, where the seats are so close the players can actually hear you. This time around I made a great joke at NH's first base coach's expense when he came back to the dugout. I yelled "hey 33, nice gold chain, you know when you hit the majors you can get that in platinum." My section laughed. The camera toting douschebag next to me, however, quickly pointed out "he was in the majors..... as a batting coach... but he was in the majors." Unreal. People like him are put on earth simply to test my how long I can go before committing murder.
Final Thought: I got my third sign that quitting the Pilot Pen gig was a good idea. When I logged on after getting home I had an email from a magazine that wants to publish one of my articles. YEA ME!
Fast forward to today. This morning I was again working in the kitchen, this time I was asked to pour olive oil from a large plastic container into a small glass one. Now a normal kitchen, I assume, would have this funky thing called a funnel, but no, not this one. This kitchen gave me the great advice of squeezing a bit so it would pour straighter. I guess most people they speak with aren’t as strong as I am. One squeeze, no more container. The plastic cracked in my hand leaving me covered in olive oil. Now I know things usually come in threes, but at this point I decided not wait for the third sign, I simply looked up and said "you know what, I’m out" and walked out.
I should be upset at the people running the event since I was told at the start that my job would be keeping the players happy in the lounge and it turned out to be running back and forth from the kitchen to the lounge, not even interacting with the majority of the players. I’m not upset, though. I don’t know why, but I’m not upset.
Another example of my extremely laid back demeanor was when the plastic cracked today I could have flung the remaining part of the tub across the room, but I didn’t, I simply said I’m out. I kinda like the emotional balance I have right now and I have to say, although it sounds corny, I give the folks at Date Patrol a lot of credit for it.
In other news, on Sunday I saw a baseball game end in a new way. It was at the New Britain Rock Cats (or NebTwins as we call them) double header, game one, bottom of the seventh (which is the final inning for each game of a minor league double header) NebTwins down by one with the bases loaded. The opposing team (New Hampshire) brings in a relief pitcher. He hits the first batter. Tie game. I turn to my Dad at this point and say "do you think a game has ever ended on back to back hit batsmen?" Next batter up. Another HBP. Game over, NebTwins win. All the pitcher came in for was to hit two batters, now THAT'S a situational reliever.
To add even more oddness to this game, in the first inning I turned to my left and saw a man with a camera. I thought, nah, it couldn't be, it's been a whole year and this is New Hampshire we're playing, not New Haven. Within two minutes he said "Yahtzee" at a random time letting me know it WAS the same douschebag from the game I went to last year and New Hampshire is where New Haven's team moved to. I had to sit next to this moron spouting his 10 year old Sportscenter catchphrases all game... AGAIN!
As tradition states, I must get in one good dig at a player or coach during every game, especially in New Britain, where the seats are so close the players can actually hear you. This time around I made a great joke at NH's first base coach's expense when he came back to the dugout. I yelled "hey 33, nice gold chain, you know when you hit the majors you can get that in platinum." My section laughed. The camera toting douschebag next to me, however, quickly pointed out "he was in the majors..... as a batting coach... but he was in the majors." Unreal. People like him are put on earth simply to test my how long I can go before committing murder.
Final Thought: I got my third sign that quitting the Pilot Pen gig was a good idea. When I logged on after getting home I had an email from a magazine that wants to publish one of my articles. YEA ME!
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