The Greasebox of Dreams

Despite the extra shitty manner in which the Mets decided to distribute Subway Series tickets this year (I maintain that there were more Yankees fans at Shea this year than ever before) I still managed to finagle a ticket to the game Sunday night. Despite the fact that the Mets lost, I actually felt pretty good about the whole night. David Wright seems to have slugged his way out of his slump. Damion Easley, he of the "Should Have Retired 4 Years Ago" variety infielders, homered off of Mariano Rivera, thus confirming that he really truly is done as the untouchable closer he once was. Plus, being at Shea meant not having to listen to Joe Morgan. (Side note: During the portion of the game where they interview Willie in the dugout, Joe asked Willie if he sent Paul Lo Duca with Damion Easley at the plate. The catch? It was a 3-2 count, two men out. I think it took everything in Willie's power to not embarrass him on the air. Joe Morgan needs to be euthanized.)

Even with all of these silver linings on the dump that the Mets left on the field Sunday, the best of all did not come until the game was long over. What occurred on my way to the subway has forever changed my view of food service at Shea Stadium.

After the game ended, my three friends and I decided to walk around the stadium in the upper deck as opposed to outside of Shea. After we got near the homeplate area, the crowd opened up and we were able to move more quickly. As we made our way to the right field sections, we were stopped by an Aramark employee who at the time was manning a gigantic push cart full of shit. Piled atop his cart were crushed beer boxes, hot dog bun wrappers and other assorted refuse. When we got to his cart however, our new friend, who looked a lot like Chris Rock if he had a learning disability, offered us perhaps the finest bounty bestowed upon a group of individuals since the days of Plymouth Rock: The Greasebox of Dreams. He had taken two of the cardboard trays that they give you to carry your food and soda at the concession stands and filled them to capacity with food. The best part? It was like a fucking treasure hunt that only got more exciting the deeper you dug. At first, we thought it was just a box of soggy fries. This theory was fueled in part by the fact that grease had already eaten through approximately 30% of the box. After pulling away a couple handfuls of krinkle cut fries, we realized that there were also Nathans chicken tenders! Holy shit! Anyone who has eaten at Shea knows that the Nathans chicken tender and fry baskets are without a doubt the most delicious item in the stadium. And here we were, walking out of the stadium, with a fucking treasure trove of Nathans. I swear, there were sixteen tenders if there was one. And not only that, but there were two pre-wrapped hot dogs at the bottom of the whole thing. A quick tally put the value of this box at an estimated $60.00. It's been almost 24 hours and I still have not shit out all this food.

Now usually, I am not one to eat food that a strange man gives me from his pile of garbage, but this was an exception. We immediately suspected that something must be wrong with the food if this guy was willing to give us his whole tender stash. But then I thought about it. I have long lamented the shitty food service at Shea. The food itself is actually pretty tasty, but the people serving it almost take pride in how slowly and inefficiently they conduct their business. I figured that it was because they hate their life and resent the fact that they have to wait on drunken baseball fans. But this is only partly true. I am now of the opinion that Shea's Aramark employees don't really hate me or the other fans, they just hate Aramark. From reports I have read* Aramark treats its employees like shit, so in order to get back at Aramark, these guys just bear down and do the worst fucking job any person could possibly do. It's not a bad idea, considering their job security rivals that of City employees. Really, what fan is going to spend the time to hunt down a supervisor and make a formal complaint if they get shitty service? None, that's who. These people would basically have to get caught keeping hot dogs warm underneath their nut sac in order to get fired.

At the end of the day, Aramark employees don't hate you or me, they just hate Aramark. And you know what? That's fine with me. Stick it to the man, that's what I say. The next time I'm in line at the concession stand by Section 3 in the upper deck, and the woman waiting on me is taking her sweet ass time trying to track down the lid to my soda, I'll just smile and remember the Greasebox of Dreams.



*Reports I have read = rumors I saw on a blog