So I’m sitting here in Room 242 of a Ramada Inn in Boston. I’ve never been a hotel snob—not when I stayed in the Motel 6 with moldy ceilings outside of Nashville; not when I stayed in $350-per-night swankies for SI.
But this Ramada, well, it sorta grosses me out. Smells like one endless cigarette, and the furniture here in room 242 seems to be sweating. Really, sweating.
Anyhow, today’s task is to go the Fenway before the 7:05 Twins-Red Sox game and speak with Mike Lamb, Minny’s third baseman. Now one who doesn’t do this for a living might think, “How easy must that be.” And, indeed, it’s hardly collecting trash or rebuilding an engine or performing heart surgery. But there is nothing—absolutely nothing—I loathe more about being a sports writer than waiting for athletes inside a clubhouse. I’ve no doubt devoted, oh, three years of my life to waiting. Waiting for Tim Worrell to finish reading his elk magazine. Waiting for Jason Giambi to poop. Waiting for Dewon Brazelton to finish lunch, waiting for Tony Womack to get off his cell phone. If you love waiting, I’ve got a job for you!
Now, some of my peers say, “I can’t believe Mike Lamb would make you wait X minutes”—meaning that, because he’s Mike Lamb, he doesn’t have the right. Personally, I don’t buy that. Mike Lamb has no less of a right to make me wait aimlessly than does Derek Jeter or Eli Mannining or Evander Holyfield. And it’s not the waiting for a good reason (medical treatment; dinner; etc) that actually bothers me. It’s when someone like Worrell makes you wait and wait and wait for his own seeming enjoyment. Barry Bonds was actually a pro at this art.
Anyhow, feel free to comment on this. Or not—I’ll wait.
