Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
We enjoyed a nice evening of room service and “intelligent” discussions, involving female celebrities, disgusting or strangely weird online videos, and our favorite fast food chain.
The next morning we woke up almost simultaneously, and took one look at each other before racing to the shower.
I won, thankfully, because Brandon has a tendency to shave himself in places not every guy does, and never cleans up the mess.
Don't ask me how I found that out—I went to take a crap the last minute and saw a pile of dark, curly hairs littered across the shower floor.
Anyways, we get in the car, after some yelling at him, and we load our gear in.
“Ready, man?” He asks me.
“**** yeah!” I say, trying to sound more confident than I really am.
“Nervous?”
“Psshtt,” I say, slapping my hand on the dashboard, pretending to laugh. “Me, nervous? Yougottabekiddinme.”
“Well,” Brandon says, taking a sip of coffee, and then a sip of water to make sure the coffee doesn't dry out his throat. The last thing he needs is to be dying of thirst 5 minutes on the ice.
“Well?” I ask, trying to get him to continue his unfinished sentence.
“I'm nervous.”
This sobers me up, as I feel as if a heavyweight boxer has just punched me right in the stomach.
“Oh,” is all I manage to squeak out.
“Come on,” He says finally, putting his coffee in the cup holder. “Drive!”
This gets me back to my senses, and I put my foot to the gas, and we drive away into the sunrise, towards the arena in which the Lowell Devils play their home games.
We drive in silence, there will be no blasting Metallica. It's simply too early in the morning, and we're both far too nervous.
By the time we get there the sun's already halfway up.
We hit the trunk and get our stuff out, and once we've got it all lugged over our shoulders, elbows, and arms, we shut the trunk door, lock the car, and head out to the arena.
One problem, though. There's a good 2,000 people lined up in front of the arena, trying to get on the first tryout ice-slot. I suddenly feel a twinge of pity for the Devils' coaching staff. They probably have to stay here for multiple days watching tons of sub-mediocre hockey players desperately try and crawl their way onto the team.
“Well,” Brandon says, sighing and taking out another cigarette. “Looks like we're going to have to wait.” He lights the cigarette, and I give him a glance that I thought was pretty clearly asking him to put it down. Of course, being Brandon, he doesn't get the message, puffing away on it more and more and more.
The line moves much more quickly than we expect it to, and a few hours later, we're about 5 or 6 people away from the front.
We're giddy with excitement yet somber with nervousness, and we can't do anything much than keep on peeking over people's heads to try and catch a glimpse of what the registration desk looks like.
“And you can come in right here, Mr. Ferguson,” says a woman's voice from behind us.
We see a female security guard come to our right and opens up the fence that was guarding off the sides of the lines so nobody could cut.
And guess who we see?
That old kook from the hotel, hockey bag and all.
“You guys don't mind if this man comes in front of you?” She asks kindly.
“Uh..why?” Brandon responds, clearly frustrated.
“Well, his daughter is apparently in labor with his first grandchild, and he wants to get through the tryouts as quickly as possible so he can be with his family.”
“Oh,” Brandon says.
“I'm terribly sorry to bother you, kind sirs,” the old man says, much more sweetly, and with a faint hint of a faux Irish accent.
The woman says, “Howabout this. If you don't let this man in, I'm going to make it a personal mission of mine to make sure you two don't get in the rink. And seeing as I'm the head of security, that shouldn't be too difficult for me.”
Brandon and I stand at full attention now, caught off guard by the statement.
“Sure thing!” We exclaim, making room in the line for the old man to cut us.
“Thanks guys, it's really heartwarming to see how kind people are nowadays.”
And with that, she walked away.
The old man smelled like sweaty socks and rotten cheese, and was wheezing somewhat heavily. Brandon covered his nose and began silently laughing, while I was almost knocked off my own socks by the sharp smell.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say, tapping the man on the shoulder.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” He yells, turning around halfway, and yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, while pointing two angry fists in our direction.
The woman comes running back, and he immediately fakes falling down on his bag.
“What happened?” She asks kindly, kneeling down to help the old man up again.
“These...these HOOLIGANS attacked me for cutting them!” He said innocently, pointing dramatically at us.
“Come on, you two,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“What?” We complain. “We didn't attack him, honestly!”
“I'll give you two options,” she says, obviously very disturbed.
“One, you can go to the back of the line.”
Brandon groans, and I put on a face of pure shock and rage.
“Or two, I can report you to the local authorities for assaulting an elderly man. It's up to you.”
“We'll be at the back of the line,” Brandon and I grumble simultaneously.
Before picking up our stuff, we take a glance down the opposite end of the line.
“Ugh,” Brandon groans. “It's like, twice as long as it was before.”
“Well,” I say. “Maybe God doesn't want us to play for the Lowell Devils.”
“Don't worry,” Brandon says confidently. “He does. He's just making it difficult for us...you know, like how he always makes it as difficult as possible for his prophets.”
“Brandon,” I say, “that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Are you trying to say you or me, or both of us, are God's prophets?”
“No,” Brandon says now, changing his mind. “It's just....forget it, I'm being stupid.”
“Yeah, I'll say,” I laugh, and he frowns at me, and punches me in the chest. This catches me off guard, but I get him back, punching him in the stomach.
“Ow!” He moans, keeled over with loss of breath. “Overdose, Phil!” He exclaims.
“Sorry,” I manage to spit out, also keeled over, but with extreme laughter instead of severe stomach pain.
We finally recover, and make our way to the back of the line.
“This is going to take forever,” Brandon says, taking out another cigarette.
“Another?” I exclaim. “Brandon, keep it up, and you won't be able to skate due to lack of breath!”
“Oh ****!” he says, almost spitting out the smoke, and stamping it on the ground until it's flame has died. “I should have thought about that!”
He starts to freak out, now, mumbling nonsense about his mother and his heart problems and all that jazz, and I'm just silently laughing, because even though we've got a long ways until the tryouts, I'm suddenly filled with this happiness.
Where else in the world would I rather be, anyways?
We enjoyed a nice evening of room service and “intelligent” discussions, involving female celebrities, disgusting or strangely weird online videos, and our favorite fast food chain.
The next morning we woke up almost simultaneously, and took one look at each other before racing to the shower.
I won, thankfully, because Brandon has a tendency to shave himself in places not every guy does, and never cleans up the mess.
Don't ask me how I found that out—I went to take a crap the last minute and saw a pile of dark, curly hairs littered across the shower floor.
Anyways, we get in the car, after some yelling at him, and we load our gear in.
“Ready, man?” He asks me.
“**** yeah!” I say, trying to sound more confident than I really am.
“Nervous?”
“Psshtt,” I say, slapping my hand on the dashboard, pretending to laugh. “Me, nervous? Yougottabekiddinme.”
“Well,” Brandon says, taking a sip of coffee, and then a sip of water to make sure the coffee doesn't dry out his throat. The last thing he needs is to be dying of thirst 5 minutes on the ice.
“Well?” I ask, trying to get him to continue his unfinished sentence.
“I'm nervous.”
This sobers me up, as I feel as if a heavyweight boxer has just punched me right in the stomach.
“Oh,” is all I manage to squeak out.
“Come on,” He says finally, putting his coffee in the cup holder. “Drive!”
This gets me back to my senses, and I put my foot to the gas, and we drive away into the sunrise, towards the arena in which the Lowell Devils play their home games.
We drive in silence, there will be no blasting Metallica. It's simply too early in the morning, and we're both far too nervous.
By the time we get there the sun's already halfway up.
We hit the trunk and get our stuff out, and once we've got it all lugged over our shoulders, elbows, and arms, we shut the trunk door, lock the car, and head out to the arena.
One problem, though. There's a good 2,000 people lined up in front of the arena, trying to get on the first tryout ice-slot. I suddenly feel a twinge of pity for the Devils' coaching staff. They probably have to stay here for multiple days watching tons of sub-mediocre hockey players desperately try and crawl their way onto the team.
“Well,” Brandon says, sighing and taking out another cigarette. “Looks like we're going to have to wait.” He lights the cigarette, and I give him a glance that I thought was pretty clearly asking him to put it down. Of course, being Brandon, he doesn't get the message, puffing away on it more and more and more.
The line moves much more quickly than we expect it to, and a few hours later, we're about 5 or 6 people away from the front.
We're giddy with excitement yet somber with nervousness, and we can't do anything much than keep on peeking over people's heads to try and catch a glimpse of what the registration desk looks like.
“And you can come in right here, Mr. Ferguson,” says a woman's voice from behind us.
We see a female security guard come to our right and opens up the fence that was guarding off the sides of the lines so nobody could cut.
And guess who we see?
That old kook from the hotel, hockey bag and all.
“You guys don't mind if this man comes in front of you?” She asks kindly.
“Uh..why?” Brandon responds, clearly frustrated.
“Well, his daughter is apparently in labor with his first grandchild, and he wants to get through the tryouts as quickly as possible so he can be with his family.”
“Oh,” Brandon says.
“I'm terribly sorry to bother you, kind sirs,” the old man says, much more sweetly, and with a faint hint of a faux Irish accent.
The woman says, “Howabout this. If you don't let this man in, I'm going to make it a personal mission of mine to make sure you two don't get in the rink. And seeing as I'm the head of security, that shouldn't be too difficult for me.”
Brandon and I stand at full attention now, caught off guard by the statement.
“Sure thing!” We exclaim, making room in the line for the old man to cut us.
“Thanks guys, it's really heartwarming to see how kind people are nowadays.”
And with that, she walked away.
The old man smelled like sweaty socks and rotten cheese, and was wheezing somewhat heavily. Brandon covered his nose and began silently laughing, while I was almost knocked off my own socks by the sharp smell.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say, tapping the man on the shoulder.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” He yells, turning around halfway, and yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, while pointing two angry fists in our direction.
The woman comes running back, and he immediately fakes falling down on his bag.
“What happened?” She asks kindly, kneeling down to help the old man up again.
“These...these HOOLIGANS attacked me for cutting them!” He said innocently, pointing dramatically at us.
“Come on, you two,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“What?” We complain. “We didn't attack him, honestly!”
“I'll give you two options,” she says, obviously very disturbed.
“One, you can go to the back of the line.”
Brandon groans, and I put on a face of pure shock and rage.
“Or two, I can report you to the local authorities for assaulting an elderly man. It's up to you.”
“We'll be at the back of the line,” Brandon and I grumble simultaneously.
Before picking up our stuff, we take a glance down the opposite end of the line.
“Ugh,” Brandon groans. “It's like, twice as long as it was before.”
“Well,” I say. “Maybe God doesn't want us to play for the Lowell Devils.”
“Don't worry,” Brandon says confidently. “He does. He's just making it difficult for us...you know, like how he always makes it as difficult as possible for his prophets.”
“Brandon,” I say, “that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Are you trying to say you or me, or both of us, are God's prophets?”
“No,” Brandon says now, changing his mind. “It's just....forget it, I'm being stupid.”
“Yeah, I'll say,” I laugh, and he frowns at me, and punches me in the chest. This catches me off guard, but I get him back, punching him in the stomach.
“Ow!” He moans, keeled over with loss of breath. “Overdose, Phil!” He exclaims.
“Sorry,” I manage to spit out, also keeled over, but with extreme laughter instead of severe stomach pain.
We finally recover, and make our way to the back of the line.
“This is going to take forever,” Brandon says, taking out another cigarette.
“Another?” I exclaim. “Brandon, keep it up, and you won't be able to skate due to lack of breath!”
“Oh ****!” he says, almost spitting out the smoke, and stamping it on the ground until it's flame has died. “I should have thought about that!”
He starts to freak out, now, mumbling nonsense about his mother and his heart problems and all that jazz, and I'm just silently laughing, because even though we've got a long ways until the tryouts, I'm suddenly filled with this happiness.
Where else in the world would I rather be, anyways?
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