The Boston Red Sox: Defenders of the 2004 World Championship!! "Whoever plunges into his experiences with the momentum of hope, will remember so that he cannot forget." - Soren Kierkegaard.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

This is what this team is doing to me.
Mike had tonight off and promised to text message me with details of the game, so I went to work a happy camper, even though I had to go in early today. We're having a menu change on Thursday which means tons of extra work on top of your regular prep, plus I had to make family meal for the entire staff as well as needing to do a little butchery, so my work was cut out for me. I whipped through prep with no problem and also managed to make a bomb-ass batch of chicken curry for family meal which was hot enough to offend some of our scumbag servers, much to my delight. As Dave, Jonathan and I sat out at table 75 eating dinner I got my first message from Mike. "BK activated today." I groaned out loud. "Oh god," I text back. Byung Hyun Kim is officially my Least Favorite Red Sox Player. It's only 5:30 - an hour and a half until game time. I have to set up my station, cook my quail eggs, make my beurre blanc and have all my pans together by the time service starts at 6:00. Then I stand around and talk with Dave about the various and sordid things that line cooks talk about - bowel movements, how bad our hats smell, what kind of diarrhea we expect to be having after tonight's family meal, anal sex - you know, that sort of thing.
I had gotten my first few orders and had just started chopping up herbs for ravioli which we'll need to make tomorrow when I got another text message.
"nothing on offense schill is raping them"
Excellent, I think to myself. A little more business starts to come in and I'm temporarily bust with a few sea bass and an order of scallops. Then, having finished the ravioli filling, I get out a box of fingerling potatoes and start shaving them into coin-shapes on the mandoline. Another text message.
"pedro is on the new wheaties cereal box"
I laugh. Then I wonder if he's the first jerri curl to appear on a box of cereal.
"curt 4k thru 2" comes in.
I turn around and proudly tell Bob the dishwasher that Curt Schilling is mowing 'em down tonight. "I figured there must be a game on," he chuckles, "I seen you with your phone out!" He watches me work 5 nights out of the week and knows me a little too well.
Fingerlings are done and I move on to my next project, tourneing baby carrots.
"curt 6k thru 3"
"curt 8k thru 4"
And then silence. A long, long silence. Service ends. I send out my last orders and start tearing down my station. I'm putting away my parsnip puree when all of the sudden my phone goes crazy.
"lopez is falling apart"
"curt 14k so far"
"bases loaded forkevin one out"
"1 0 kevin sac fly"
"finally" I text back. I get all of my food put away and send my fish downstairs to the walk-in with an intern. Mike calls and, since the sous chefs are all gone, I answer.
"It's the ninth inning. They pulled Schilling, Foulke is in now, one out," he tells me as I walk outside and sit on a crate in the alley out back.
"Who's up to bat now?" I ask.
"BJ Sirhoff," Mike answers, and we make a few jokes about the initials "B.J." and how many people on that team have them and how this reflects upon the team's perceived sexuality.
"Oooh-oooh-double play-double-play-shit," Mike interjects.
"What happened? Fielder's choice? Who got out, the guy on first or the guy on second?" I rush.
"Guy on first. Ummm...Javy Lopez is up now......He's never gotten a hit off of Foulke."
"Ya, as soon as Don Orsillo says some shit like that, he goes and gets a fucking hit," I say.
"He hasn't mentioned it yet," Mike tells me.
I go back into the kitchen because there's a bum going through the garbage cans out back that we've already had several conflicts with.
"Fuck. Two-run homer."
"Are you serious?"
"For real, you're serious, it really happened?"
"Well, I gotta go ice the fish down, I'll see you in a little bit."
I trudge downstairs. The fish walk-in is a mess, as usual, and I am more pissed than usual about it. In fact, I'm furious. "I'm done," I'm ranting in my head. "I'm done. I have no more energy to invest in this fucking team, I've been ripped off, I hate them, I hate them." My phone buzzes.
"youk bb"
That's something. I take all the empty lexans over to the dishwashers, dripping cloudy fish water all over my shoes. "Sarah, go home already!" Gary, the head dishwasher, teases me. "I'm going, I'm going," I say on my way back to the walk-in. Check my phone.
"mueller 2b no outs"
Now I'm getting interested again. I ice down the fish, cryo-vac the ravioli filling, grab my knife bag and step into the elevator to go upstairs to the locker rooms. The phone rings.
"Guess what just happened?" Mike asks. "Bellhorn with a 2-out, 2-run double."
"So they won??" I ask.
"Fuck yeah!"
And as I'm hobbling my way home with my sore-feet limp that kind of makes me look like a pimp I'm floating on cloud nine again. "I love that team," I'm thinking. "What a great bunch of guys."
It's ridiculous.