Why I Hate the Ravens: Part 2.5

My last post about fans was a little weak, I’ll admit it.  Because I could have been talking about any good, successful team.  So at this point, I’d like to continue and I think I owe you another bedtime story:

Once upon a time, there was a short blonde girl, cocktail waitressing at her college sports bar.  She had to work there to pay her bills, feed her family and put a roof over her head (ok, just kidding about those, it was only about the free booze and social status, but whatever).  The short blonde girl loved working there, even when she hated it, because she thought that perhaps it would be one of those experiences that create memories and stories to tell her children.  It certainly created memories and stories, but since there are no children in the picture any time soon, this story will be told to you.  

Whenever her college would play a big game against a rival or during a big event like Homecoming or Alumni Day, she would have to work tirelessly at the bar from early in the morning until…well, early in the morning.  The owner of the bar was a very important man.  He was extremely influential in the community and was friends with many athletes and people in the sports world.  The short blonde girl got to meet some of her favorite athletes and coaches like Gary Williams, Johnny Unitas and BJ Surhoff.  During one big game day, the short blonde girl reported to work.  The bar manager growled some orders for the staff to gather round.  He then hand selected servers for all of the VIP guests that night.  One of the attractive male servers was selected for a prominent gay VIP that was a friend of the owner.  A brunette girl was selected for Gary Williams (well-done hamburger, bud light), and the short blonde girl was hand-selected for Steve Bisciotti, the then minority owner of the Ravens.  

Now there were strict orders when it came to Mr. Bisciotti, who would arrive with his friends and wife after the game.  He was to sit in the B Room, a room that remained smoke filled and crowded, right in the middle of the dancefloor, just as he liked it.  His server was to be no more than an arm’s length away from him at any time.  Period.  Seriously.  He needed to be able to grab you for more beers, etc… at any time.  You must always do as he says and do it with a smile.  It doesn’t matter if he asks you to light his cigar or sit on his lap and tell you a story, you do it.  There was also a rumor that if you did, he would tip you very generously.  If his wife was around, half of what he would give you if she wasn’t though, so the trick was to keep him drunk and happy well into the night, so his wife would go home and he would stay out.  The short blonde girl was given a runner, a lower-ranking girl to fetch the beer and food from the bar so that the short blonde girl would never leave Mr. Bisciotti’s side.  

And the night progressed and the short blonde girl was surprised at how very friendly he was.  He had this jovial smile, tan skin, slicked back black hair.  He was wearing a polo and sandals.  By the end of the night, he was wasted.  The short blonde girl was sure that he had wiped out the entire supply of beer and liquor.  So naturally, he had to use the bathroom.  The short blonde girl accompanied him downstairs to the sunken second level of the bar.  She waited for him outside the bathroom, holding his beer in one hand and his cigar in the other.  As he came out of the bathroom, he was laughing to himself and ran into the owner as he grabbed his cigar from the short blonde girl.  The owner said, “Steve!  What happened to your shoes?!”  Steve Bisciotti was barefoot.  The owner quickly motioned to the short blonde girl to fetch his sandals from the disgusting mens room entryway.  She did.  And as she placed them on the floor next to Steve Bisciotti’s feet, he took both of his cigar-smelling hands, placed them on either side of her face and put his greasy, liquor covered lips all over hers and said, “MWAH!” as he kissed her.  

She did not want to be kissed by anyone, especially not anyone associated with the Ravens.  His wife was just upstairs, the short blonde girl’s boyfriend was just a few feet over changing a keg behind the bar.  Everyone saw.  She was mortified that she had to allow herself to be kissed by this man, pretend to like it, THANK him, and then continue to serve him beers for a few more hours.  The good news is, his wife left early and the short blonde girl’s payday was very generous—but she’ll never shake that feeling of disgust, like some prostitute, pimped out to her boss’ friend.  Sure all the women bartenders came up to her later and told her how lucky she was.  But she didn’t feel lucky, and she would never forget that this was the moment that she started to really hate the Ravens.

Steve Bisciotti is now the majority owner of the Ravens, so before, I only hated them 49%, but now, it’s well over half 🙂

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