Scooter On The Spot

by Scooter Holt

Well, it’s football season again, and you know what that means.  Time for every Neanderthal with a purple jersey to make his way upstream towards the stadium, not unlike spawning salmon.  Only this time, the goal is not to procreate (although that probably happens on occasion given the amount of hooch consumed), but rather to express one’s love for the NFL’s most incarcerated team, the Baltimore Ravens.  Now, I’m not one to do anything half-assed.  So, to my delight, my boss, Celeste Corsaro, brought me along to the Sky Box belonging to Classic Catering and, I’ve got to tell you, that’s really the ONLY way to “do” the game. 

After a quick meet-and-greet with Eddie Dopkins, I shoved a paw into the ice and brought up a Diet Coke, much to the chagrin of the folks around me.  The company I was keeping gave me strange glances.

Anne Boone-Simanski of Rob Long Show Fox Sports, did a double-take.  “Diet Coke?  Scooter, that’s not like you.”

I would’ve never dreamed I’d be the guy apologizing for not drinking, yet here I was, doing just that, making up lame excuses for my lack of bad behavior that’s now become expected of me.  “Oh, no,” I said to Anne defiantly, “After last night, I need some caffeine and a belly full of food!  Don’t worry girl, I’ll be slammin’ ‘em before you know it.”  She seemed relieved.  That’s a new level of “messed up” in my opinion.

So, after raping the buffet for all its wares, I pulled the trigger on the first Amstel and made my way to the patio.  All I can say is, thank GOD for Anne.  Here I was, piled up in the sky box with this-one-and-that-one, and I had nary a damn clue as to what was going on.  At one point, as I watched the TV out on the patio, Anne grabbed my head and thrust it down towards the field.  “Sweetheart,” she started, with all the patience of a saint, “It’s bad etiquette to watch the TV when you’re right here at the game.  Watch the field.”   She then proceeded to tell me all about the NY Jets new rookie QB, who, apparently, the Ravens were bound-and-determined to put in a stretcher before game’s end.  Not only did she spew stats, she even knew which players had been out “being naughty” only a few nights before, and just where it was they had been.  How?  Clearly, she had been there too!

Now…

I noticed that Northrop Grumman leased the box next to us, and that made me a little nervous.  I'll explain why…

So I texted my good friend Terri Marconi, a Northrop big-wig, hoping she was in the box next to us.  I got no response.  Turned out, she was at the beach this week.  As I smoked a cigarette in the stairwell, I heard yelling and commotion, saw bright flashes, heard thunderous booms.  Good lord, I thought, this is it.  Al Qaeda is bombing the Northrop Grumman sky box in retaliation for all those missiles and F-16’s we sold to Israel and, here I am, right it the middle of it, Amstel in one hand and a Parliament plugged in my cakehole, about to bite the big one.  And all I wanted to do was enjoy the game, stuff my gullet, and tie on a perfectly innocent drunk.   Death was not on the agenda.  My imagination was concocting multiple death scenarios.  Thanks a damn lot, Terri.

Turns out it was just fireworks.  Moral?  That glossy program they hand you on your way into the stadium?  Read it.  If I had, I wouldn’t have been calling in the Four Horses of the Apocalypse.

Really, it’s just football.   



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