Trains Suck
As I leave Baltimore, the City of Shining Lights, I have decided I would give you a post that is a rambling mess of uninteresting personal bullshit. Also known as my life story.
I know, I know, I promised in the first post not to waste your time with this. Then I realized how much of my life you people are all really missing, and that it would be a shame not to fill you in. I’m gonna do this in snapshot style; a whole linear plot seems unnecessary.
February 1, 1990: It’s a cold dreary night in Wirral, England, which is to say, it is a night in England. Despite not being due until March 1st, I decided I’ve had enough of the amniotic sac, and I bust out of there right quick. This catches everyone off guard, including my dad, who had scheduled an impossibly important meeting under the seemingly safe assumption that it wouldn’t run a month long and interfere with my birth. When he heard I was on my way, he had to walk right out of that meeting, which I assume was with the CEO of Unilever and potentially the Prime Minister. Needless to say, if I had waited like a normal baby, my family would probably be worth a couple million dollars more right now. These are the sacrifices people make for me.
My birth was also marked by several great and powerful omens. As my father drove to the hospital after ruining his professional career by walking out of a meeting with George HW Bush and the UN Secretary General, the back window of his car shattered for apparently no reason. He had hit no bump and there wasn’t any evidence of a projectile being hurtled through it. My brother, who was in the back seat, swears it was aliens that shot it out. Clearly someone was trying to warn the world. Finally, as I was born, the doctor, who I assume was some sort of bubbling British slapstick doc, “slipped” and cut me with a knife, right on my ass. I still have the scar. Clearly people were worried about this crazy baby that just couldn’t wait to get out and wreak havoc on the world.
August, 1994: In what is one of my earliest and most clearly fabricated memories, I caused quite an uproar while on a family vacation to Spain. Don’t ask me how, but for some reason my shorts got stuck up in a tree about 50 feet in the air. This would be the start of the trend of me taking my pants off in the wrong places, but at the time it was a serious and unprecedented incident. While everyone panicked, I stayed calm, determined to get my shorts down by throwing my superball at it, which I obviously did not actually do because I was four and four year olds can’t really throw things very well. After this failed, my family and I logically decided to call up a crane, which came and retrieved the shorts, to everyone’s relief. This also obviously did not happen, because it’s just plain ridiculous. But that’s seriously how I remember it, and I definitely don’t really understand how the brain works.
Spring, 1999: My television debut, and a kind of strange story. In third grade, for some as of yet unexplained reason, the curriculum revolved almost entirely around birds. We learned about birds, we read books about birds, we gave presentations, wrote stories, and drew pictures almost exclusively about birds. Sounds essential for nine year olds, right? Anyways, one of those trips was to Wild Birds Unlimited, a store that sold bird stuff, like baths and feeders and shit like that. Again, it was a strange curriculum. Anyways, that store also happened to be the favorite store of Rosie O’Donnell, who had a talk show and wanted to a segment on birding. Like, seriously, what the fuck was going on in 1999? Anyways, she wanted a couple of cute kids to be on the show (obviously) so she asked the store owner for recommendations. He remembered our field trip, probably because we were the only class to ever take a trip there, and asked my teacher to send the two smartest, cutest, most well spoken kids. Obviously, I was one of them. All of this led to me uttering the now infamous line, “I like squirrels” on the Rosie O’Donnell show, which I swear to god would have gone viral if it happened in 2007. It also led me to get thoroughly rejected by angry bitch Rosie at Ramsey Day the next year. You know what? Fuck her and her show.
August, 1999: The first of my two crowning athletic achievements. I won the Ramsey Golf and Country Club’s 9 year old six hole championship, taking down some pretty impressive golfers with a score of 28. I did this all using essentially a five iron and a putter, because I was nine, and nine year olds don’t really know how to play golf. Anyways, this was the only time I’ve ever been the best at anything sports related, which sucks, because I really don’t like golf. Despite the promise in such an impressive young golfer, I actually turned out to be pretty shitty. When you look at what I did in 1999, it was a pretty baller year. Factor in the Mets having an awesome season, the Jets making it to the AFC championship at the beginning of the year and the Devils starting a Stanley Cup season, and it was spectacular. I was really popular back then, too. Its kinda sad to think I peaked when I was nine.
June 30, 2000: The best day ever. First off, I was ten years old and it was summer, which means life is awesome. Then, me and my family all got to go to a Mets game, which means its already one of my top days ever. After a the Mets went down 7-1 in the eighth inning, the day was looking in jeopardy. When the Mets scored 10 in the eighth, capped by an Edgardo Alfonzo two run single and a Mike Piazza laser beam three run home run, which I may still consider the single greatest moment of my life, the day was full on number one. To top even that off, it was fireworks night, and I got to see the single greatest pyrotechnics show I’ve ever seen, highlighted by when they set the show to Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” which is my mom’s favorite song. Throw in the ride home, when we listened to Steve Somer’s wonderful epilogue to the game and heard the guy next to us, who was sitting with three braves fans, call in and lament that he left in the seventh inning and missed one of the greatest games ever, and you have a full day that will be seriously hard to beat. To all people who know me: if I’m ever sad, or angry, or down in any way and you want to cheer me up, mention this day to me. BEST DAY EVER.
June, 2003: My second greatest sports achievement. In the championship game for my last year of rec baseball, which was my favorite but far from my best sport growing up, I sat on the bench well into the game, even after we were winning in a rampant blowout. Since there were no mercy rules in the final, the game was still going in the last inning as we had a 15 plus run lead. Coach had actually forgotten about me, which sucks, because there was no guarantee I would get to bat now. Luckily, I was able to get up fifth in that inning. Unluckily, I was promptly plunked straight in the elbow. I don’t know if any of you readers out there have elbows or play baseball, but straight to the elbow joint is one of the five or six most painful places to get hit. Painful enough that I was at first worried that I broke or fractured it. I came out of the game to ice it down, and I definitely DID NOT shed a tear or two. Now my coach, who was actually a great guy, was pretty upset that he had forgotten about me all game and now that I got in, I had gotten injured. Luckily, our team batted around that inning, and my elbow turned out to be fine, albeit fairly sore. So I went back up to bat again (This was little league so it definitely doesn’t matter that I already came out of the game). This time I turned on an inside pitch and laced (read: blooped) it into left field for a 2-run single. I was fucking ecstatic. I also may be the only person in America whose favorite sports memory involves crying.
Summer, 2005: The peak of The Sac. You must be wondering, Hey Brendan? What the hell is The Sac? Are you talking about testicles? While you would normally be right, I am actually talking about an organization, nay, an idea, that my friends and I created while whiling away our summers in the heat of suburban New Jersey. The Sac is short for the cul-de-sac, which is where we would gather during the middle months. Here, we would assemble to do nothing but play wiffleball, drink sodas, eat candy, and manage our MVP 2005 baseball team, the Brew-Crew. I swear to God, we were innocent teens. Anyways, the sac represented the Tom Sawyer mythos of careless and endless summers where kids would simply hang around and do shit. Even without really any alcohol, girls, crime, or excitement of any sort, these were the best summers I ever had. As we got older, The Sac changed, but the idea remained the same: let’s chill out and talk about sports. It’s where I learned to be a man. You know, except for the women part.
Homecoming, 2006: This exchange:
Brendan: Hey mom, I just remembered my suit doesn’t fit anymore.
Mom: Oh that’s OK. I borrowed Matty’s suit from next door, it should fit you.
Brendan: Oh cool thanks.
Mom: Just one thing. It’s a really nice suit, so you know, make sure you take care of it.
Brendan: Don’t worry about it.
Mom: You know, just stay out of situations where you might ruin it.
Brendan: It’s a dance, Mom. What would those situations be?
Mom: Oh , you know. Eating, drinking . . . getting in knife fights . . .
Brendan: . . . ? First off, where the hell would I get in a knife fight. Secondly, why the hell would you be worried about the suit?!?!?
December, 2008
Me and my friends are in the Bahamas, and it is the first time I’ve really gotten to drink a lot and have uninhibited fun. On New Year’s Eve, we are sitting in Maggiano’s, having drinks with dinner, in a sem-private back room that accommodates our whole group including my friend Mike, his family, me, and two of my other friends. We notice shortly into the meal that Ray Liotta, of Goodfellas fame, is sitting at the table next to us. We don’t want to disturb his meal, so we don’t say anything. Later on, when we are finishing up our entrees, Ray and his family get up to leave. My friend’s stepdad notices and asks very politely if Ray would like to get a picture with the kids. Much to all of our shock, this only kind of famous actor replies, “Excuse me. This is my vacation as well. I’m here with my family, and I’d like to be left alone.”
Well, shit. Who would have thought Ray Liotta was such an asshole. I mean, he may have been a strung out gangster in Goodfellas, but he was at least the nice strung out gangster. Maybe he was pissed, we thought, because the best movie he’d done since Goodfellas was fucking Operation Dumbo Drop. Whatever it was, we were convinced he was a dickhole.
Twenty minutes later, we were leaving the restaurant, joking around as seventeen year olds are wont to do, when we hear a voice shout at us.
“Hey, you. Kids!”
Oh shit, we thought, what did we do this time?
We turn, and Ray Liotta was sitting on a bench staring us down. We all thought he was about to stab us to death in the eye with a pen, Scorsese style. He must have really been pissed about us interrupting his family time.
“You guys want that picture now? I didn’t want to do it in the restaurant, because there would have been a huge crowd and everyone would have wanted one. Sorry about that.”
In an instant, our opinion of Ray Liotta reversed completely. He sat outside alone for twenty minutes just to get a picture with a bunch of asshole kids. Moral of the story: Ray Liotta is a great guy.
When I’m famous, I’m going to be nothing like him.
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