God I love this team. Even when they lose.
I trudged to work slightly disgruntled yesterday after Mike and I realized right before I had to leave that the game started at 1:20 instead of the customary 7:05. But Mike had something extremely rare and special in the world of second-shift linecooks - a Saturday off - and promised to text message me updates as the game was going on.
As I'm standing in the back of the kitchen blanching parsley in a steam kettle I get this message: "Sox losing 3 0." I dutifully roll my left pants leg up two times and carry on. I get back on my station and put away all the mustard greens, sugar snap peas and parsley that I've just blanched and go to work dicing some tomato concassee. I check my phone. "3-1" The Rally Cuff is working. I slice six cloves of garlic into paper-thin slivers. I bust out the blender and get to work on my parsley coulis, and just as I'm about to run it through the tamis I get this message: "wakefield is crushing now" Good, I think, Wakey's going to turn it around...now if the offense could just get going. But by the time I've put the blender back in pantry where it belongs and tucked my container of parsley coulis carefully back in our reach-in my phone vibrates and the screen says: "i lied, 5-1 now" Well shit.
Kevin and I go downstairs to the LaNormandie kitchen and break down a case of sole together, ripping their skins off, cutting off their heads and pulling out their guts. I check my phone. "Wake is a mess. 8-1." I'm starting to wonder how long Tito is going to leave him in there to fuck things up. I risk a text back. "How is the offense? Dead?" A minute later, Mike answers. "Yep. Ponson raping yanks" Well that's good news, at least.
Kevin and I go back upstairs. I puree a batch of tomato sauce that we cooked yesterday and which needed to cool overnight. Kevin runs it through the tamis while I sear off some pieces of foie gras. When the foie gras has cooled, I put a piece of foie on top of each piece of the hamachi tuna that Jonathan butchered earlier and wrap them individually in phyllo dough, a time consuming project (but with tasty results.) After I've finished the last little phyllo packet and brushed it lovingly with clarified butter I check my phone. It's been awhile. This is what I read: "yanks lose yanks lose" "bellhorn grandslam 8-5" "ortiz hr 8-6"
"Holy shit!!" I whoop. I run to find John Frakes. "Guess who just hit a fucking GRAND SLAM??" I ask. He looks at me non-plussed. "Mark Bellhorn! Woooohooooo!! Dude, I want to take this whole fucking team out and buy 'em a fucking beer! I love this team! Love them!!!" I rave as I return to my station.
Family meal is up. Rice and fish stir fry with lots of broccoli, yum. All the cooks retire out to the back alley to eat perched on milk crates. When it's over we sit around for a minute and bullshit. Those who smoke light up. I check my phone. The game is over. The Sox have lost. The streak has ended. But I still fucking love this team. Instead of being bummed out about the loss I'm just excited all through service about going home to watch Bellhorn's grandslam. When I finally get to watch it - well past eleven at night - it is everything I imagined it to be. Majestic. Brilliant. Glorious. The Red Sox weren't going to roll over and die, not on Mark's watch.
Did I mention yet that I love this team?