The Greatest 12th Man Ever!

(all photos at the end)

I was sitting in a restaurant in the Charlotte airport, working on a short story and sipping on a coffee when it hit me.  I had to take an emergency dump!  NOW!  The combination of that morning’s salty diner eggs, last night’s Crown Royal, two cups of airport coffee, and sleep deprivation, sent my stomach to a place it didn’t want to go.  My colon was about to pay the price.

I threw my laptop in its case, the coffee into a garbage can, and then did the Oh-My-God-I’m-Going-To-Crap-My-Pants shuffle to the nearest men’s room.  Just as I rounded the circular entrance to the can, I saw another guy doing the same I-Got-To-Poop saunter coming in the other doors.  Too bad for him I am mad fast!  I clenched the cheeks, sprinted to the handicap stall, locked the door, and let loose.  Why the handicap stall?  Because it’s so spacious and always clean.  It is like my own loft apartment.  If you’re mad I’m taking up the only handicap stall and don’t think I belong there: fuck you, I wear hearing aids.

While I was in the process of taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, I heard the bathroom attendant walking around, whistling and cleaning the counter tops.  I instantly felt bad for him.  I know we are going through a depression and jobs are scarce, but bathroom attendant is just a crappy profession.

I couldn’t imagine a job where I had to stand in a small room and listen to people grunt and fart all day.  We all hate public restrooms.  Working in one would be a total mess.  Standing there with a hand towel silently praying that self-important businessmen throw you a single after you dry their dainty hands is not my idea of a dream job or on my bucket list.

Then something wonderful and life changing happened.  While I had my feet up on the handicap stall stabilization bars, struggling to drop the kids off at the pool, the restroom attendant that I had so much sympathy for just burst into song!  Yes, the poor man who had to smell poo-butter for a living was sweetly serenading me while I pinched a gigantic loaf.

Bathroom Attendant:  And I’m proud to be an American! Where at least I know I’m free!

You could just feel the contentment and joy in his perfectly tuned voice as he kept belting it out, while wiping down the sinks and stalls and smelling my stank.

Bathroom Attendant:  And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me!

Was I amazed that a 60ish African American man was singing to me while I took a crap?  Nope.  I was amazed that a restroom attendant’s outlook on life was so bright that he decided to bust into song.  And not just some old country song about how his life sucks or his dog died; he sang about how proud he was just to have the opportunity to clean that bathroom.  He was content to live in the land of the free where he truly could be anything he put his mind to.  Instead of throwing a pity party about having one of the most undesirable jobs you could think of, he was just happy to be getting paid.  Realizing this instantly changed my outlook on life. 

So I just joined in the song.

Eric Prae:  And I gladly stand up, next to you, and defend her still today!

Then we just finished it strong together, in perfect harmony.

Bathroom Attendant & Eric Prae:  Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land!  GOD BLESS THE USA!

I finished up in the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands.  The Bathroom Attendant came over with a fresh towel.

Bathroom Attendant:  Damn boy!  Thanks for singing, no one ever sings with me.

Eric Prae:  Thanks for making my day.

Then I put a few dollars in his tip bucket and walked to my connecting flight, head held a little higher.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

Lately LeBron James has come under a lot of scrutiny for “quitting” on the fans of Cleveland.  He has been marked a traitor and a bum by “credible” sports writers and television personalities everywhere because he left the Cavaliers.  People in Cleveland are burning his jersey in the streets.  The fans are mad, the media is mad, former NBA greats are mad.  EVERYONE IS SOOOO MAD!  And they are ALL a bunch of losers.

For seven long years LeBron James was working as the attendant in a public bathroom called the Cleveland Cavaliers.  He was serenading the good people of Cleveland and smelling their poo-butter, while under the unrealistic expectations of single handedly winning championships for a organization that hasn’t been relevant since… Ummm… Ever.  He was supposed to do all of this in a city that hasn’t been relevant in sports since…  Ummm…  Jim Brown?  (Yes, the same Jim Brown who faced equivalent ridiculous expectations, and then left Cleveland to bang movie stars during his prime.)

But, what about LeBron’s legacy?  He will never be Jordan!  Superstars win it by themselves!  Bird and Magic would have never played together!

SHUT UP!!!

Why did LeBron really go to Miami?  Because he is a talented 25 year old professional with options; who would rather get paid to play a game for children on the beach with his buddies and win, then deal with one more Cleveland winter.  That’s it.  It isn’t about legacy, or about being Jordan, or about Charles Barkley’s opinion. It is about living by the beach with his homies.  It is about the chance to leave his life as a bathroom attendant behind, and head for palm trees.

LeBron can either live near South Beach in the city of bikini models, celebrities, and porn stars, or stay in the land of Cleve.  If you are the dude in Cleveland who is still mad at LeBron for leaving, maybe this winter you can shovel a few extra driveways, save up a bit of extra cash and take a quick vacation down to Miami.  After 5 days of sun-bathing, Mojito drinking, and hittin’ it with some dark skinned hottie who doesn’t speak much English, you will understand why leaving Ohio wasn’t the hardest decision of a talented 25 year old’s life.

If you are the d-bag in Cleveland who is standing in the street crying over a smoldering #23 jersey, screw you.  LeBron gave you seven good years of NBA relevance on a team that you didn’t go to watch even once until LeBron got there.  Burn the jersey of your owner who spent seven years raking in all the LeBron-Made-Us-Relevant income.  He didn’t spend any of it getting better players to surround LeBron.  Burn the jersey of your General Manager who held expiring contracts he could have swapped for better players at the trading deadline.  Burn the jersey of every coach who sat back and collected paycheck after paycheck to do nothing more than watch one of the NBA’s all time greats earn him a Coach of the Year trophy.  Oh, wait…  You can’t burn their jerseys because they don’t wear them!  Just blaming the player who busted his ass for you for seven hard years is easier.  Chalk up another loss for the mindless meatball sport’s fan.

But, the bathroom attendant in the Charlotte airport got me thinking: LeBron went after his dream job (getting paid to play basketball near the beach with two other gold medal Olympic players while getting to score with Miami’s finest ladies).  Maybe I should do the same!  So I drafted this proposal to Pat Riley (the General Manager of the Miami Heat) to employ me as his team’s 12th man.  I know he needs to fill out the roster with some minimum wage players. I think I should be one of them.

 

To:  Pat Riley

From:  Eric Prae

Subject:  The Greatest 12th Man Ever

 

Dear Mr. Riley

My name is Eric Prae, I am a writer/comedian/local town idiot in Tampa Bay, Florida.  After singing a duet with a bathroom attendant in Charlotte, North Carolina, I have been inspired to chase a dream position as the 12th man on your Miami Heat roster.  I think I can be the greatest 12th man ever to play professional basketball.  Here is why:

My first qualification to play for your Miami Heat team is that I am a great hype-man and I give very solid chest bumps.  I would actually go as far to say that I give just about the best chest bump around.  While your team is overflowing with talent, it definitely lacks in the charisma department (LeBron is now an immortal villain, Bosh has the personality of a pencil eraser, and Big Z has never smiled).  I think I can fill this charisma void for you.  I promise to get up for every game no matter how irrelevant the opponent.  Every time LeBron, D-Wade or Bosh dunks, I will be that guy at the end of the bench who just absolutely loses his mind.  I can run into the crowd, I can scream at the top of my lungs, and I will give a solid chest bump to anyone and everyone within my chest bumping range.  I promise to establish a magnetism with the fans.

Every great NBA team needs a white guy that sucks at basketball.  I can be all of that for you and more!   I am basically a much better looking version of Brian Scalabrine.

I will volunteer to be roommates with Zydrunas Ilgauskas on all road trips.  All of your young black players don’t want to share a room with a 7-foot tall Lithuanian dude who can’t speak very good English?  I’ll take that spot, no problem.  I’ve had weirder roommates in college, so I have adequate experience.

Whenever a fight breaks out, I will be the crazy person who comes running off the bench and throws a punch at the dude that crossed LeBron.  Through the course of an 82 game season, some idiot is going to get flustered with routinely being blown out by 40 points and take a shot at one of your superstars.  Just have “Coach Spo” give me the nod and a crazy ginger will come flying into the fight with a chair, Triple H style!  Then I can take the suspension while LeBron and company keeps dunking on cats.  You don’t need me to play anyway.  I am your new enforcer!

I will never hold out or ask for more money like every player in the history of the NBA.  The league minimum is a lot more than I have ever made in my life.  It will be plenty.

I will wear a crazy number and take on a cool nickname that will sell a lot of t-shirts.  #88 is my favorite number, but I am willing to wear the number that will sell the most jerseys.  Also, I won’t use a stupid nickname like “Superman”, “The King”, “The Truth”, or “The Answer”.  We can come up with something much, much better.  You don’t think a cool number and nickname matters?  Just look at what it has done for Denver’s Birdman!  Boston has Kryptonate, New York had Black Jesus, and Utah has the two greatest basketball nicknames of all time: Dr. Dunkenstein and the AK-47.  Miami needs to step up its creative genius, and that will start with me.

I promise to throw one “Allen Iverson” type press conference a year where I berate a few reporters and then kick some lyrical genius that will live on in You Tube infamy!  “Practice?  We talkin’ about practice?  Practice?  How the hell and I supposed to make my teammates better at practice?”  Your fans will love it.

I am good for one home game white boy dunk per season.  I know deep down you are worried about your season ticket holders getting bored and angry at every home game vs. a crappy team like New Jersey, where your three stars will be out of the game and resting by the start of the third quarter.  I know it’s not your fault that the Heat will be so good that they will be up 35 points at half time most games.  What better than the anticipation of a 12th man white boy dunk to keep your fans in the seats?  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  Watching a white person dunk is like seeing a unicorn hop over a rainbow.  You’re not sure it actually happened and even if it did, you will probably never see it again.

In closing, Mr. Riley, your team will love having me, as it’s 12th man.   I promise not to let you down.  I will be so happy to have the job, that even if you made me the bathroom attendant, I would laugh and sing songs.
 

Photos for this Story

 


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