You're only going up to 9, but somewhere around 7 somebody lets one go.
And it's awful.
It was you, wasn't it Willie Harris?
I heard on sports talk radio that you couldn't start as a pinch runner on most teams.
And yet you grand slam one out and stink up the place.
Actually, I could have and should have drawn Neil Cotts here, who didn't cut one enough and grooved it right where Willie could muster up all his strength and get it out.
But I like Neil, it's just that every time I think I can trust him the air gets fouled with a walk or a long ball.
So it was a bad day, Cubs lose to the terrible Washington Nationals 5 to THIRTEEN.
The Cubs were up 4 nothin', the wind blowing out, Marquis looks great thru 5, Derrek Lee and smoking hot Mark DeRosa homer.
Then a completely different Marquis in the 6th, then the bullpen went to hell.
To brighten your day, I'm gonna tell a true cheese cut in the elevator story, only I'll change the name of the cheese-ee.
I get to work early, I always have.
It's 6:15 am, and there is NOBODY around.
I push the elevator button.
To my surprise, dowdy "Yvette Nagurski" is here early too, must be going for a cup of coffee.
She gets off while I get on.
The door closes and now I'm trapped with it.
The absolute worst smell EVER all over me like spoiled milk humidity.
Yvette Nagurski has cut the cheese worse than any room-mate I ever had, and you know - we used to compete.
The agency was on floors 16 thru 19 in a medium sized building on Wacker across from the Hyatt.
Back then, the agency was split so all the creatives were on 16 and 17, while the account guys and management were up higher.
I was going to 17.
WHAT IF THE ELEVATOR STOPS BEFORE 17?
"Oh please PLEASE God. Let NOBODY else be here this early. It's IMPOSSIBLE that anybody else can be here this early."
That, plus how bad it stunk, were the only things I could think as the elevator crawled upwards.
I cruise up past 12, 13, 14.
"Hurry God. Please get me to 17."
And suddenly, "Thank you God" I'm there.
DING, the doors open and there stands the president of the agency.
I'd forgotten that he was FAMOUS for working insane hours, arriving around 4 or 5 and consequently nodding off in meetings in the afternoon.
Back then (this was mid eighties), it was unusual to find upper-level guys anywhere but the top floor.
So not only was this unfortunate, it was kind of shocking.
He's standing just outside the invisibly hideous elevator, like me surprised to see anybody else at this hour, and politely waiting for me to get off.
(I'm also pretty sure he doesn't know my name, so I have that working for me.)
What should I do?
I could say, uh...
"Sir, this elevator is not safe! It almost got stuck between 11 and 12 so... "
Or: "Sir, I think it's... a fire drill and... you must take... stairs."
Or: "SIR! So glad you're here! Can you walk with me to my office and look at... a... thing I'm working on!"
I don't say any of that.
I don't even say "good morning."
Instead I step out into the lobby directly in front of him, look him in the eye and say simply, "I swear to God it was Yvette Nagurski."
Then I continued on to my office without looking back.