By: Marshall J. Marsh
You have got to be kidding me. I am done, completely, with this entire franchise, I have been working my fricken ass off to get into that building, and they just throw me out like I am week old milk.
Let me preface.
I have lived in Chicago my entire life. I love everything about this city, people say New York this, New York that, but they are wrong.
I mean let’s start with sports. We’ve got better teams. The Jets? The Knicks? Come on. My entire childhood sports were always on. Dad would sit me in front of the set and break down every game with me. Cubs AND Whitesox (I know that’s crazy, but Dad just loved the game), Blackhawks, but above everything else was THE BULLS!
Now, to me, the NBA doesn’t really start till the playoffs, I always say it’s its own season, but for Dad, I have always watched the Bulls. Through the highs annnnnnd the lows.
Every day while preparing to open the shop I listen to sports radio. I have to hear about every little tiny problem a fan has with Hoiberg or the hosts say if they just add one piece they will be competitive in the East, when we all know it’s a lost cause. But that’s not why I’m done. That’s not why I vow never to watch another Bulls game.
I run a mildly successful sandwich shop that my dad helped me open. I don’t make a lot of money, but hey, I love sandwiches. You’ll be walking around a neighborhood you’re normally never in, pop in because your starving, and walk out saying that’s the best pastrami on rye you ever had. Next thing you know you’ll be sitting in your apartment with your friends trying to convince them to come to my place again, saying “oh it’s only a 10-minute train ride then a mile walk” when it turns into a two-hour adventure because you forgot where I was located, but you never forgot how good the pastrami was.
That is a verbatim from the only 5-star review I’ve ever received on Yelp.
I’m a reasonably ambitious guy. I want to expand my presence in Chicago. Eventually open up franchises, I don’t know. And so I had heard that the United center was looking for a new sandwich kiosk in the arena and figured this could be my big break. Why would some fan get a luke-warm hot dog when they could have “The Fridge” (Roast beef, turkey, ham, topped with coleslaw and served on sourdough).
Or how about the “Marble Staircase” (just piles of pastrami and corned beef on marble rye).
And let’s not short-change the “John Stamos” (a full-house of meats and banana peppers on wheat toast). I did receive a cease and desist, I’m not sure if I’ll fight this in court or just change it to “The Jay.”
It was time for my United Center audition. I prepped two six-foot subs with different sections every foot, to showcase that I have variety. But I quickly realized, how the hell am I going to transport these? So I cut them up into 3-inch segments and headed to the arena.
Upon arrival, I was greeted by the catering manager and escorted to the kitchen. I found myself in front of a large table and proceeded to lay out my sandwich segments. Everything, at least to me, seemed to be perfect.
One by one people tried each sandwich, seemingly loving each one (or at least I THOUGHT they were enjoying it), but I started hearing the same thing under people’s breath “man, I wish these were full six foot subs” “it would be so much more impressive if these weren’t cut up” and more of the same.
WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO!?!? I wasn’t going to carry two six-foot subs over my shoulders like bazookas!
After a few more minutes I was told that they weren’t interested and if I would kindly leave. THE NERVE! You sit there enjoying my food, but kick me out because of presentation! If it’s not messy it’s not a good sandwich!!!
So, I’m done. Done with the Bulls.
Do you hear me up there dad?!? IM DONE!!!
Basement of a Bull is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional. New posts go up Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you’re wondering where this is all going, hey, so are the writers. The goal here is to essentially create a Chicago improv show, just written out.