Exit Sandman

Years ago I managed a small lunch-time hotspot in downtown Minneapolis. On Monday through Friday, from 11 to 1:30, it seemed the entire office-workforce of the city was lined up at our door and it didn't matter if somebody was a cook, cashier, dishwasher, manager, we all had to work together at our positions, become one as a team and made sure we got everyone out. One could say I was a legend there, great at almost all the positions, but I was undeniably the fastest sandwich maker there. I could slice the bread, arrange the fixings, give it all the proper cut and hurl it home like it was a 95 mile-per-hour cut fastball.

Saturdays were a different story. Everyone had to pay their dues and we all took turns working the slowest day of the week. I'm not sure why we were open; we barely pulled in enough tourists and workaholics to turn much of a profit, but as a manager, this was fine. I could trust my staff with the tiny trickle of traffic and used my Saturdays to write fancy computer programs that would calculate labor costs or streamline my line-ups and mise-en-place designs.

It was on one of these Saturday afternoons when I was catching up on some Stevie Wonder in the office, that one of my employees popped her head inside and asked, “You're a guy right?”

I discretely patted my pants then nodded my head.

“So, you know a lot about sports?”

“I guess I know a fair bit about baseball.”

“Then you gotta come out here.”

I locked my door, strode through the kitchen and popped out into an empty restaurant. Shannon, this hardly seems important enough to pry my from my work.”

“Aaron, you were just jamming out to old school R&B. Singing with your eyes closed. Don't pretend you were busy. It's Saturday.”

“So, what's the deal.”

“I think we got some famous sports guy or something in here.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“He was athletic, muscular and stuff and was talking about the game with girlfriend.”

My heartbeat sped up. It was July; the only professional sport going at that time was baseball. My brain flashed as who it could be. Was it Joe Mauer, Justin Mourneau, Joe Nathan perhaps? “Who was it?”

“I don't know! That's why I got you. You're the manager. I figured this is the type of thing you'd want to know.”

“It is.” I said. “Please don't mess up his order.”

“We won't! We know how to take care of VIP's”

If there was one problem our restaurant had, it was the complete inability to take care of VIP's. Our block was surrounded on all sides by prestigious hotels. Our skyscraper, the IDS Center, was the highest in the city, home to businesses that had their own skyscrapers named after them in other cities, headquarters of law firms that had commercials during soap operas. Our regulars included the mayor and members of the perennial WNBA champion Lynx. No matter how much I tried to hide the status of our celebrity guests from the employees, they always figured it out, got starstruck with wide eyes upon seeing faces from the TV or election ballots, and could never remember that R.T. Rybak doesn't want mustard on his roast beef.

I grabbed a damp towel from a bucket and started wiping down all the clean tables in the restaurant, trying to catch a glimpse of David Ortiz or maybe Albert Puljos. I was really hoping for Albert Puljos.

I went round to the area in back and there, drinking soda from a lidless cup, sitting back, straddling the corner of a booth was not the all-star I wished to see. He wasn't wearing his slimming pinstripes or iconic black hat, but his face needed no context for a baseball fan.

Before me sat the regular Twins Killer, the man who'd broken my baseball-loving heart more than any other. Mo. Mr. Lights-out. The Sandman. Mariano Rivera.

I looked up to him, he noticed and I went back to my feigned working. I eventually reached his table, gave him and his supermodel girlfriend a quick smile and asked him if he was doing all right.

He nodded and I moved on.

I have this disease when confronted with celebrities. Now, I'm possessed of no shyness; my friend typically appoint me to be the one who says hello, but I often say dopey things. Like when I met Stanton Moore, one of my favorite drummers, all I could mutter out before he quickly found a reason to depart was, “Wow, I'm so honored to shake your amazing hands!” I wanted no such occurrence here. To be a drunk dude confronted with an idol was not the same as a restaurant manager meeting the face of his most hated team in the world. This required tact and composure. I could have easily gone back to my office, tucked his quick interaction away next to the time I walked up to Dale Earnhardt Jr. at Valley Fair, asked him if he was Dale Earnhardt Jr., then walked away, smugly satisfied when he chirped with his throat, “Uh-huh.” But I didn't.

I took three steps back, looked into his Latino eyes and said, “You look really familiar.”

His face lit up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, you look a lot like somebody famous.”

“Really?” he spit out excitedly. “Who?”

His girlfriend suppressed a laugh.

“Well, I could be wrong, but you are a splitting image of a famous baseball player.”

“Which one?”

“What?” I asked. “You've never gotten this before.”

“No, who do I look like?”

“Mariano Rivera.”

“Who's that?” he asked.

I questioned my identification for a second, until I thought I heard his girlfriend kick him from under the table. “He's the closer for the New York Yankees.”

“What's that?” asked the man who probably knew more about the duties of the position than any other.

“It's a pitcher that usually gets the last three out of a baseball game.”

“Huh, sounds exciting. This guy any good?”

I scratched the side of my nose. “Well, some regard him as the greatest closer of all time.”

“Wow, that sounds like a good person to look like! And what do you think of this Mariano Rivera.”

I knew I couldn't tell him the truth. Tell him that my second-favorite baseball moment of all time was probably the worst moment of his entire life: watching him blow his first ever post-season save in the bottom of the 9^th inning in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series. His errant throw put the tying run on the bases and Derek Jeter got injured in all the same play. The Yankees team that had won four of the last five championships was left in tears. The unbeatable Sandman showed the world he was human. No, I couldn't tell him the truth, but I was incapable of telling a lie.

“Well, he's good, but he's no Dennis Eckersley.”

This was in 2008, when Rivera was only in the discussion for the best closer ever. Of course, he would add five more seasons of dominance to his resume and put the cap on his Hall of Fame career. He would eclipse Hoffman and Goose Gossage and eventually even Eckersley and stand alone on a pedestal as the undisputed king of the 9^th inning.

I was afraid to get a cup of coke in the face or even a lightning-speed cut-fastball to the groin for my insolence, but instead he gave me a beaming smile from ear to ear. And I had to do the same.

“But I will say this,” I added. “When the Twins go into the 9^th without a lead, there is no face that I dread seeing more, than that one on TV that looks like yours.”

He looked at me for moment, but said not a word, his smile fixed. He then offered me a big wink, which I accepted like it was “Mean” Joe Greene's jersey, then I took his cup to refill his coke.

I went back to the kitchen where a pizza was waiting. I was possessed with no desires to sabotage his lunch, sneak some ex-lax peperoni onto his plate to give the Twins a little leg up for that evening's game. My face just shone bright as I escaped a moment with one of the true legends of the game without making a fool of myself.

I proudly marched the pizza to him, presented his lunch that I hoped might give him heartburn. He looked down and said politely, “That's not what I ordered.”

I took it back to the kitchen to an ensemble of laughs.

“Aaron, that's not his food!”

I only gave him an apology; I didn't wish him luck, I still wanted him to fail. He didn't need my blessing. That night Mo struck out the side in the 9^th and the Twins lost.  They missed the playoff that season by a single game. Mariano went on to collect his accolades, finally retiring this year after 18 seasons. As a Twins fan, I won't be missing him. His always-composed face stands as a symbol of fear, the picture of dominance, sign of impending disappointment for his opponents. But on that afternoon, carried by the flash of a wink, I learned that it is possible to hate the legend, but still like the man.

Farewell Mo.

Hyttetur

 My father-in-law has an encyclopedic knowledge of things to do in the outdoors, but then again, so does my own father. Maybe this is something that happens around age 50; one finally accumulates all the ways to cut up your hands or skin your knees. At 30, I'm aware of a few, but I must be missing slightly less than half.

When Michael has had a few beers, he gets nostalgic, starts telling about all the things that he used to do. It is never clear as to when he's ceased these activities or even if he'd ever stopped, but he always says, “we used to...” then whets my appetite for adventure, but usually fish; his stories usually involve them.

It was on one of these nights, when he began waxing upon his adventures at Onkel Stein's cabin, fishing and crabbing. He will never admit it, but I believe he enjoys having a man in the house that isn't the dog. Not that my wife is dainty or adventure-negative—she may even be more masculine than myself—but it's just not the same. In addition, I'm a foreigner and have a great lack of essential Norwegian experiences. So whenever Michael says, “we used to...” I can be expected to get wet at some point in the near future.

The next day, he called up Stein, booked us a night at his cabin and purchased some special crabbing apparatus. He described it as if it were the pinnacle of crab engineering, but in reality, it wasn't much more than a metal triangle on a stick with some chicken wire strung across the bottom. I wasn't expecting to eat many crabs when I saw it.

We loaded up the truck with sleeping bags and fishing rods, wellington boots and rain gear, and a couple pairs of wool socks. Of course we also needed two cases of beer. At the last minute, we decided some food would be good as well. When all was packed, we ventured off on our hyttetur.

Most families in Norway own a cabin (or hytte in Norwegian) and many own two, one in the mountains and one by the sea. The Troye's didn't but knew people who did. And thankfully Onkel Stein was usually willing to allow guests at his family's cabin. He technically wasn't anybody in the family's uncle; he's Michelle's mother's ex-brother-in-law, but close enough to keep the name. I had been to the cabin before, earlier that summer for some drunken merriment, but there were no crabs involved in that trip. It was located about 45 minutes out of town, on one of the barrier islands of Bergen's fjord. If you need a pop culture reference, you could say it was located in the heart of the Iron Islands. The area is lovely, with rocky cliffs jutting out of the sea next to gentle bumps above the water, as if some god-child left all his stone toys in the bath. The cabin was also nice, both cosy and warm with a giant, unnecessary color television; it was pushing the line from cabin to second home, but we still had to crap in a hole.

Beer were popped open almost before the car was unloaded and after the second, we donned our rain gear and hit the fjord for some fishing. In Minnesota, fishing usually involves rods and fancy spinning contraptions and slidy thingabobs and often some slimy living thing. Michael had most of these things, but Michelle and I were assigned 200 yard of fishing line on a wood spool, with five hooks connected to tiny plastic red dots they called tyttebær, or lingonberries. I skeptically dropped the line in, let it fall to the bottom and within minutes, I felt some tension. I pulled it up and there were three tiny mackerel. The next dip yielded five more. This was hardly fishing, but I couldn't argue with the results. We caught about 30 small fish, slightly bigger than perch, then gutted them all when we returned to shore.

We warmed up at the hytte and Michael called his wife. He was missing his dog and we had a marked lack of whiskey. She was enjoying a relaxing evening in an empty house, but decided in the end to join us on our escape from the city.

The five of us finished dinner and a flat of beer, then around midnight, we put on a heavier set of rain clothes, threw our crabbin' stick into the boat with some flashlights and headed out into the fjord again.

It was a still, dark night, not much wind and mild currents, perfect conditions for snagging clawed creatures. In the Autumn in Norway, the crabs begin to fatten up from their diets of barnacles and whatever else they can find. The best time to go is at the peak of high tide, when the water levels remain constant for a short one-hour window. We brought our boats to the edge of a steep mountain wall, killed the engine, then inched along by fingertips while Michael hung out the front with a headlamp and his crabrake. The crabs usually relax about 3 feet below the surface, but quickly dive once spot-lighted. So one has to quickly dip the rake below it and coral the crab up to the surface. Once out of water, they grasp onto anything they can find—to our advantage, chicken wire suffices—then you throw them into the boat, making sure you don't hit anyone on the head or tempt their claws with your wife's nose. Michelle and I then took our turns, slowly filling up the bucket. By the end, we all had sore fingers, a couple bruises on our chests, and about 50 fat crabs. The current picked up around 1:30, as did the rain, so we called it a night, headed back to the “crabin” (hehe) and tossed the crabs into some wood traps filled with seaweed so they didn't eat each other. We then crawled into our sleeping bags and drifted to sleep to the sound of the ocean breeze shaking the house.

The next evening, we had a feast, or rather Michael and I did—Michelle and her mother aren't big on crabs. I spent nearly two hours cracking shells, stuffing my face with pieces of meat the size of a q-tip head. It was a lot of trouble; I cut up my hand quite a bit, but few things are as delicious as your own hard work. The leftovers were mixed with lemon juice and mayonnaise to be spread on bread over the next few days.

Later that night Michael told us that he used to set out nets in the lake behind the house and catch hundreds of tiny fish that are divine when smoked and so the next day he started patching the holes in the leaky boat that lives in the front yard. My rain gear and taste buds are already prepared.