Cedar Chips 2042.5 - A Lunch Meeting

[ca13]

Did you know there is a Golden Corral in Beirut? I did not. I know now because there's where I'm meeting our coaches for lunch. Apparently, the coaches and GM's vote on where to have lunch meetings. The Golden Corral. I know we aren't BBA franchise rich, but the Cedars operate with a 45 million dollar budget and this just seems an odd choice.

As I weave my way through tables that are astonishingly full, it occurs to me that perhaps a couple of our coaches just miss home. Five of the six of us are Americans, surprising these days in what has become a global sport. It shouldn't be to hard to find a table full of Americans (and a Dutchman) in a Golden Corral in Beirut, Lebanon. Maybe slightly more difficult than most restaurants in Beirut, but our little club should still stick out.

I've made my way through most of the cavernous room now. Why do American buffets always have to be so ostentatiously huge? It just make us look like pigs lined up at the trough. I start to wonder if my guys have played a joke on me. No table for six seating relatively pale westerners. Of course it's a joke. I'm both annoyed and somewhat relieved that I may not have to lie about eating an early lunch. I wouldn't be guaranteed to get food poisoning, but thinking about the sheer volume of dead flies and rodent droppings I would consume in a typical meal here kind of stunts my appetite. I try to keep the excrement portion of my intake roughly around zero.

"HEY CHUCK!" I hear bellowed from somewhere near the front of the restaurant. At a table for four, near a south facing window, sits a very large man, twisted around to face the back of the restaurant, waving a chicken leg in my direction. The drumstick looks small. There is no one else at the table. Seeing that he's caught my eye, the man turns back to face the table and resumes his meal.

So I work my way back through the hall of professional food consumers, pull a chair opposite the giant who hailed me, and have a seat. "Good afternoon, Bob."

"Sorry t' start without ya Chuck, but if'n you order the buffet 'fore 1030 it's half off."

I'm not sure Bob Dodson has an inside voice. I'm not even sure he has the anatomy to produce one. It's entirely possible that were he to truly engage his speaking apparatus, he could be heard over an oncoming freight train. I stare at the man. Then look at my watch. It says 11:53. I look back at the man. He has another drumstick. It's not small. His hands are just enormous. The chicken vanishes into his mouth. He pulls out a bone. Nearly picked clean. It couldn't have been more than a couple seconds. You know how in children's cartoons they suck the meat right of the bone? I think I just witnessed the closest thing to that real life can offer.

He puts the bone down on a plate piled with them. And selects another drumstick.

"I guess we'll wait for the others to arrive," I propose.

"Oh, it''s just you 'n me, Chuckster."

"What happened with the other coaches?"

"Well Chuck, sumtimes when we're votin' on where t' eat, sum of the boys have difficulty with the consensus choice. T' stop the bickerin' I decided on a closed ballot system years ago. Fer grown men, they can git real picky about the whole restaurant seelection PRO-cess." The man just grins at me. I try not to roll my eyes. It's obvious who decides what the "consensus choice" is.

"Bob, how are we supposed to have a team meeting without two thirds of our staff?"

"Heck, Chuckaroo, we don't need those nitwits. You put the team together, I run it. I tell you when we hit a snag. You fix it. It's that simple."

He's serious. He's also making serious quantities of food disappear. I could swear before this last exchange there was an entire plate of mash potatoes to his right. It's empty now. I saw him with a spoonful, but now it's all gone. Impossibly. He's not talking with his mouth full of food. He's not greedily shoveling food into a gaping maw in any sort of obvious way. He's just .. eating. Steadily. Nonstop. He talks, hand moves towards plate. He finishes a sentence, food disappears. He talks again, clearly, cleanly. There's nothing slovenly or grotesque about the man. He's just eating. And talking. Then eating.

I'm marveling at the process because if I were to try to make that plate of mash potatoes disappear during our brief exchange, I would have chucks of smashed spuds falling out of my mouth and gravy running down my neck and chest. Not Bob Fucking Dodson. There's something demonically methodical about the way he eats. It's simply relentless. Efficient in a way I didn't know eating could be.

"I'm gonna fill back up, Chuck," the man says, standing up and heading to the buffet. "You coming?"

I stammer, "I ... ah .. ate before I came ...." receiving a bewildered look from B.F.D. I lie, "I never mix food and work. Have trouble keeping my mind of the task at hand."

"Huh. 'magine that." The giant makes his way to the buffet. I truly doubt he CAN "imagine that." I'm still reeling when a weary busboy comes over to the table and picks up the ... SIX? Six plates. He's going back for more. He's been here since 10:30. How much more rapidly does this man devour food when not interrupted? I wonder if the busboy appreciates the break I gave him by not seeing Bob on my way in, causing him to waste precious seconds waving a chicken leg at me.

"So Chuck..." The man is back. He's holding six more plates. Similar contents to the last feast. "I'm real pleased with our new kids. Snagging Jorge Rodriguez like that was G. E. E.-nyus. Pitchers over here ain't never seen nuthin' like him. An' Miggy 'n Saucy are workin; out just fine. This could end up being a top notch group of hitters. Good sight better 'n before. Gettin' results too. One of the better offenses in the league last couple weeks."

"Thanks Bob ..."

"But the pitchin' Chuck. Gone south on us. Think there's sum bad luck there, but well, I'm gonna need some help."

"Bob. I'll have to be honest. I don't know where that help would come from. No ones willing to trade any arms. The last few drafts seem to have been thin, so there aren't too many kids. Half the problem is that the damned BBA is so pitching then that they're using the AAA types we typically pick from them."

Bob looking at me intently, "Bob, look at what just happened. Their draft is over and they've cut a bunch of bats who are aging out of prospect range. The type we usually jump all over. Not one starting pitcher. Not a single one. There's no help coming Bob. Not that type anyway. We'll have to make do with what we have."

"Chuck, certainly there's something ..."

I risk cutting him off, "I might be able to snag us another BBA vet reliever or two, and we could shorten up starts. We could also go with more bullpen games and opener ..." I trail off as I see the disapproval speaking across my counterparts face.

"Well, Chuck, it is what it is. We'll make do. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna head over for some dessert." He pauses while unfolding from his chair, "You sure you don't want anything?" "Suit yerself," he says when I decline. All six plates are empty. Again. Somehow. The downtrodden busboy makes his way by and must see the astonishment on my face. He simply says, "It's Bob Fucking Dodson."

[jleddy]

I know we aren't BBA franchise rich, but the Cedars operate with a 45 million dollar budget and this just seems an odd choice.

You'd be surprised.

Sending thoughts and prayers Bob (and his stomach lining.)

[shoeless.db]

You nabbed Jorge Rodriguez the sim before I planned to grab him. Thief.

Nice write up. Loved this:

There's something demonically methodical about the way he eats. It's simply relentless. Efficient in a way I didn't know eating could be.

[johnd2442]

Chuckaroo, this is another fantastic one! I love reading about B.F.D!