Trimmed

In Junior High, I was kind of a fat kid.  I ate a lot.  And I'm pretty sure that had something to do with all the, you know, chubbiness.  All my friends, and even some family members, made fun of me for being fat.  Girls blew me off and football coaches salivated over my future as an overweight blocking-wall even though my mom wouldn't let me play.  It was tough being fat without the "I play football" excuse.  If you're fat and you don't play football, you're just fat.  And no one likes fat people who can't hit people hard.   

But I kept eating a shit-ton anyway.  Why?  Because I was hungry. 

At first, I was worried that it wasn't right to be eating so much food because I was already too big, but my mother, that ever faithful beacon of understanding and good cheer, always said, "Honey, if you're hungry, then you have to eat.  You're growing and your body is trying to tell you something."

So I ate.  Sometimes as much as six meals a day (one night, I ate two full porterhouse steaks, three baked potatoes, a salad and a milkshake just for dinner -- which made my father equal parts pissed and proud).

The summer before ninth grade I grew seven inches.  Have you ever grown seven inches in three months?  Your body basically rips itself to pieces.  It's like there's a war going on in there. 

Anyway, I started high school (at about five foot nine and a hundred and twenty pounds) and I made it my life mission to screw and dump every chick who blew me off when I was fat.  High school was a fun four years.  

(I'm going somewhere with this.  I promise.)

Last night, before one of the most boring meetings I've ever attended (and that is saying a lot, party people), I watched the first five innings of the Rays/Red Sox game (game three) in a bar called Gilligan's in downtown Tampa.  The Rays were up 5-0 when I had to bail on the fun and get the job done (advice that rhymes works some of the times).  And it was fun watching the game, but even more fun was listening to all the new Rays fans take interest in this sexy new team.  A lot of them didn't know who these Rays were because they'd never cared before.  But now they wanted to know.  They were asking questions and learning about the game and cheering and clapping hands and everything, just like they gave a damn.  Thanks to the Rays' success, people in Tampa now want to care about the team. 

And the atmosphere in that bar reminded me of my first week of high school, walking by girls I knew had blew me off the year before, watching them eye me up and down and turn to their friends and ask, "Who is that?  Is he new?"

No, he's not new.  He's the same guy you made jokes about in science class last year.  And in four weeks, he's gonna bang you in your mom's basement, piss in your washing machine and never call you again. 

For ten years, the Rays were the proverbial fat kid.  They were the lard-butt of too many jokes.  No one wanted to see them or be near them.  They looked like crap. 

But they kept eating because a select few people who they trusted told them that they could win without all that much money, that they could develop a great system without wasting millions on management, that they'd get it all together one day.  And that they would shove it in everyone's faces once they got there. 

Well, the Rays just started ninth grade.  And they never liked all those jokes Boston and New York fans made about them.  The Rays just walked in for the first day of class and holy shit do they look different!  They're laughing and smiling and relaxed and enjoying themselves because they are confident. 

Confident they're about to fuck Boston fans over and never call them again.

Don't take it personally, AL East powerhouses.  After all, it's hard being the fat kid.