It’s Friday night. For most it’s beer pong or Donkey Kong. For me, it’s the most dreaded date of the week ‘- the day I realize my fate as my schedule for work is released. I have told my boss countless times, sports comes before work. It has been an initiative he has had a hard time accepting in my four plus years on the job.
I take sports and writing about it seriously because of the customers who shop here and their sport’s IQ scores (Yes I’m talking to you, Raiders fan).
But football is not the game in question. I already have that taken care of with Sunday restrictions. As the Dodgers made the playoffs this season, like most, I ran to my paycheck stubs to see how many sick days remained for the year. After realizing I had abused my privileges more than Tommy Lasorda at Bucca Di Beppo, I looked over to my bench.
To avoid a sudden case of bronchitis, I went and found my best friend in times like these. Her name is the Casio Ti-STN, a 3.2-inch beauty that has been with me through triumphs and letdowns. She’s not full-sized nor petite, but big enough to keep me looking. And unlike most, all she needs is batteries to turn on.
Now I’m in the field of customer service for a Fortune Magazine-ranked grocery chain. This means I have to give you undivided attention and 100 percent satisfaction throughout your entire transaction (Only on days the Dodgers don’t play).
Like a base runner in a rundown, I’m caught in a pickle. Who comes first? Who’s on second?
These are the exact circumstances I’ve been dealing with since the Los Angeles Dodgers and Philadelphia Phillies playoff series switched to Fox. Casio and I got back together and I no longer had to refresh my co-workers cell phone every eight seconds for an updated box score.
It was just me, the tube and the annoying customer handing me their coupons. Coupons are more irritating than Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. In fact, they’re ‘despicable.’ I wanted Vin Scully, a bag of peanuts and a Hefe, but then again, I also wanted a day off.
It’s out of my control. If you’re not shopping, I’m not working. It’s that simple ‘- like holding a two-run lead in the eighth inning when you’re trying to tie a series at two apiece.
It’s Game 4 and I have already mastered the art of timing my lunch and breaks to the second.
As a gorgeous lady hotter than Manny Ramirez approaches for help, I have a sudden urge to use the bathroom. No control problems here; this has just been my regular routine every time the supper-slugger steps to the plate. He averages four-to five at bats per game and in the last week, my manager has raised questions about my bladder and even No. 2 as I waited for a 24-minute inning to unfold.
Depending on the score, you’ll either get Ramirez-like customer service or I’ll mail it in like Andruw Jones (I’m hoping you were in no need of assistance after 9 p.m. on Tuesday).
But remember, I’m watching because you can’t join umpteen millions of others at home. It’s my duty to regurgitate the pitch-by-pitch sequence that led to the five run inning.
When I finally return after checking our inventory, I hope you’re not upset. I don’t want to start a verbal, employee-clearing brawl. Hard feelings? Yes? Fair enough, you can drench me with a jug of Gatorade when the Dodgers win the World Series.
Too bad you won’t find me though. I think I’m catching a cold.