All day Saturday I had worked the mule carriage (my day job if you haven't heard by now) showing off my city to Super Bowl guests. Then Rock (the mule I'm driving these days) and I headed back toward the stable, threading through the throngs of football fans who were choking the narrow French Quarter streets, moving as quickly as we could without trampling anyone. Back at the barn I unharnessed Rock and put him in his stall; dropped the day's earning in the safe; hopped on my bike and pedaled furiously back through the crowded streets to the Bike Taxi Unlimited shop where I quickly changed into my uniform and set out on the big yellow tricycle just in time for the beginning of the 6 PM shift.
The money was flowing, which was nice because the last couple of months have been brutal. I worked through the night allowing myself just enough time to bike home for a quick shower and a 30-minute nap before biking back to the stable to work the carriage again on Sunday morning. That was the plan. As it turned out, I was about 15 minutes into what was supposed to have been that 30-minute nap when I got a phone call from an old friend in Kosovo. How was he to know? And what difference does 15 minutes make anyway?
All that to say that I was sleep deprived. It's important to mention that before I start to tell my story. I don't know exactly how things might have turned out if I had had a good night's sleep and all my wits about me, but I'm pretty sure that it would have been different.
Anyway, it was late in the afternoon on Super Sunday. I had done a few tours, but by this time the crowds were streaming up Decatur toward the Superdome, a counter current to the Mighty Mississippi just across the levee. Under different circumstances I might have been looking forward to watching the big game that evening, but on this occasion the thought didn't even enter my mind. All I wanted was sleep.
I was standing there by my buggy waiting for the word from my supervisor to head back to the barn, when a man walked up and asked, "How much to take my friends and me down to Canal? We just don't feel like walking."
I looked up at him. He was a couple inches taller than me, attractive, fit, about my age or maybe a few years older. I knew this guy from somewhere, I was pretty certain of that. But in my sleep-deprived state, I couldn't quite place who he was. We must have met before, but he wasn't showing any sign of recognizing me. Maybe it was an old friend testing me to see if I would remember him.
I hesitated, almost ready to say: "I'm really sorry. I know that we've met somewhere, but I can't quite place you. I'm Mark..."
But at the last second I aborted that plan and decided to simply address his question. Which raised another issue. I wasn't at all sure know how to address his question.
"Uh, we don't usually do drop-offs," I said. "I mean, I could take you if you want, but I would probably have to charge you for a full tour." This is company policy under normal circumstances, but we had been given a little bit more discretion over the last few days. I could have consulted with my supervisor, and he probably would have allowed me to offer this guy some kind of deal. The truth was that I wasn't sure I really wanted to.
He stood there waiting for my answer, and I began giving mumbled voice to the debate inside my head. "Traffic's really bad now. I don't even know how long it might take me to get down to Canal and back. And with everything so crowded it might be a little bit dangerous..." I trailed off, still unsure of myself. All the while in the back of my mind I was still thinking: Where do I know this guy from?
"How many of you are there?" I asked. If I was going to quote a price, I needed to know.
"Nine," he answered.
"Oh, well that settles it then," I said, relieved that the decision was made. "I can take a maximum of eight passengers. It's the law. It's for the protection of the mules."
"OK, thank you anyway," the man said as he turned to walk away.
I looked back and realized that the buggy driver behind me was grinning and pointing excitedly at his carriage. "Oh!" I said quickly. "It looks like my colleague would be willing to give you a ride if you'd like to go with him."
"Thanks, but that's OK," the man said. "We'll just walk."
Just as he and his friends passed out of earshot, I heard a stranger in the crowd comment, "Damn! If Joe Montana had asked me for a ride, I would have figured out a way to make it happen!"
Joe Montana?
JOE MONTANA!
I considered running after him, chasing him down, pleading with him to get on my carriage. But that impulse vanished as quickly as it had flared up. It was better to let him go, to preserve what was left of my dignity, to face the fact that I had blown my big chance.
Looking back on the incident, I've been consoling myself with the thought that even though I missed the chance to be the guy that gave Joe Montana a buggy ride, I ended up placing myself in another elite category: I'm the guy who told Joe Montana no. I'll bet it had been a long time since anybody did that.
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Mea Culpa
I was brought up to believe that we must all own up to our mistakes, so I'm writing this to shoulder my share of the blame for the Saints' defeat in last night's preseason game against the Jaguars. Their defensive end Jeremy Mincey made things pretty miserable for us out there. I had the man on my pedicab the night before, and I delivered him to his destination uninjured. And for a measly $20! I promise not to let it happen again.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Doing the Dome part I: The Bayou Classic
I worked my first Superdome events this past weekend: the Bayou Classic and a Monday night Saints vs. Giants game.
For the uninitiated, the Bayou Classic is a football game between two HCBUs, Grambling State University and Southern University. The game, which is held in the Dome every year the Saturday after Thanksgiving, is sometimes referred to as The Black Superbowl.
According to some estimates the event draws 200,000 visitors to downtown New Orleans. The seating capacity of the Superdome is only 75,000 or so, if the 200,000 figure is accurate it would mean that well over half of the crowd is in town more for the party more than for the actual game. (This may or may not be true of other big sporting events in New Orleans. I really have no idea.)
I'm going to to tread very carefully here... In the week leading up to the event, I learned that most of those who work in New Orleans's tourism trade look upon Bayou Classic with deep dread. Is there an element of racism in this? Perhaps. But of all the complaints I heard, the most strident by far came from a hotel employee who was himself African American. "I've been doing this 20 years, and I don't think I can take it one more year," he said. "I'm going to call in sick."
Having heard that kind of talk all week, I was prepared for the worst. In the end, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had been led to believe. Looking back I can't remember a single passenger who was drunk, disrespectful or disorderly, which is an exceptionally good weekend's work in my profession!
There was one aspect in which the naysayers were right. It was a pretty poor weekend from a financial standpoint. For many of us in the tourist trade, tips are our bread and butter, and the Bayou Classic crowd aren't extravagant tippers by any stretch. Several of them even complained about paying what is generally considered a bare minimum price for a ride. Ahem... I'm thinking I better change the subject here before I get in over my head. There's something a bit unseemly about a white guy whining about black folk not being willing to pay him a fair wage.
All in all, I sincerely enjoyed transporting the Bayou Classic guests. A real highlight for me was the chance to share the story of my personal Grambling connection with so many of the university's students, alumni and fans. For those of you who don't know, here's the synopsis of that story: My wife and I met for the first time 24 years ago at Grambling. She was a junior at the University of Southwestern Louisiana (now U. La. Lafayette), and I was a senior at the University of Southern Mississippi. (I like to say that USL stands for the University of Super Women and USM for the University of Super Men!) We met at a conference of Chi Alpha, a Christian student organization with which we were both involved.
The Bayou Classic actually featured two separate Superdome events: an epic Battle of the Bands on Friday night and the football game on Saturday night. Most of the partying and carrying on actually happened on the first night. Game night was a bit anti-climactic with a soaking rain that probably sent a lot of would-be partiers straight from the Superdome to their hotel rooms.
At one point during the game, I ducked into a Starbucks adjacent to a hotel lobby to escape the heavy rain. The hotel concierge saw me standing there at the Starbucks counter and rushed to me with me a towel to dry myself off. "Stay in here in the lobby as long as you want," she urged. "Our doorman will keep an eye on your bike." God bless her!
The New Orleans police department unveiled a new security plan for the event -- partly in response to the Bayou Classic's reputation/history and partly in response to an infamous series of shootings this past Halloween. I read news reports that spoke of 700 plus cops on the street. Honestly, I would have guessed a much higher number. I had never seen so many police in one place before.
As the crowds spilled out of the Dome, the police kept blocking more and more streets to deal with the traffic flow and to stay on top of the security situation. I ended up feeling like a rat in ever-changing maze. After the Battle of the Bands on Friday night, I got stuck in traffic on the Superdome side of Canal St. for more than an hour -- and this just at the time when all of the pedicab action had shifted across to the French Quarter side of the street. It was frustrating of course, but I comforted myself with the thought that the lessons I was learning during this, my first Superdome event, would enable me to position myself in the thick of the action next time.
For the uninitiated, the Bayou Classic is a football game between two HCBUs, Grambling State University and Southern University. The game, which is held in the Dome every year the Saturday after Thanksgiving, is sometimes referred to as The Black Superbowl.
According to some estimates the event draws 200,000 visitors to downtown New Orleans. The seating capacity of the Superdome is only 75,000 or so, if the 200,000 figure is accurate it would mean that well over half of the crowd is in town more for the party more than for the actual game. (This may or may not be true of other big sporting events in New Orleans. I really have no idea.)
I'm going to to tread very carefully here... In the week leading up to the event, I learned that most of those who work in New Orleans's tourism trade look upon Bayou Classic with deep dread. Is there an element of racism in this? Perhaps. But of all the complaints I heard, the most strident by far came from a hotel employee who was himself African American. "I've been doing this 20 years, and I don't think I can take it one more year," he said. "I'm going to call in sick."
Having heard that kind of talk all week, I was prepared for the worst. In the end, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had been led to believe. Looking back I can't remember a single passenger who was drunk, disrespectful or disorderly, which is an exceptionally good weekend's work in my profession!
There was one aspect in which the naysayers were right. It was a pretty poor weekend from a financial standpoint. For many of us in the tourist trade, tips are our bread and butter, and the Bayou Classic crowd aren't extravagant tippers by any stretch. Several of them even complained about paying what is generally considered a bare minimum price for a ride. Ahem... I'm thinking I better change the subject here before I get in over my head. There's something a bit unseemly about a white guy whining about black folk not being willing to pay him a fair wage.
All in all, I sincerely enjoyed transporting the Bayou Classic guests. A real highlight for me was the chance to share the story of my personal Grambling connection with so many of the university's students, alumni and fans. For those of you who don't know, here's the synopsis of that story: My wife and I met for the first time 24 years ago at Grambling. She was a junior at the University of Southwestern Louisiana (now U. La. Lafayette), and I was a senior at the University of Southern Mississippi. (I like to say that USL stands for the University of Super Women and USM for the University of Super Men!) We met at a conference of Chi Alpha, a Christian student organization with which we were both involved.
The Bayou Classic actually featured two separate Superdome events: an epic Battle of the Bands on Friday night and the football game on Saturday night. Most of the partying and carrying on actually happened on the first night. Game night was a bit anti-climactic with a soaking rain that probably sent a lot of would-be partiers straight from the Superdome to their hotel rooms.
At one point during the game, I ducked into a Starbucks adjacent to a hotel lobby to escape the heavy rain. The hotel concierge saw me standing there at the Starbucks counter and rushed to me with me a towel to dry myself off. "Stay in here in the lobby as long as you want," she urged. "Our doorman will keep an eye on your bike." God bless her!
The New Orleans police department unveiled a new security plan for the event -- partly in response to the Bayou Classic's reputation/history and partly in response to an infamous series of shootings this past Halloween. I read news reports that spoke of 700 plus cops on the street. Honestly, I would have guessed a much higher number. I had never seen so many police in one place before.
As the crowds spilled out of the Dome, the police kept blocking more and more streets to deal with the traffic flow and to stay on top of the security situation. I ended up feeling like a rat in ever-changing maze. After the Battle of the Bands on Friday night, I got stuck in traffic on the Superdome side of Canal St. for more than an hour -- and this just at the time when all of the pedicab action had shifted across to the French Quarter side of the street. It was frustrating of course, but I comforted myself with the thought that the lessons I was learning during this, my first Superdome event, would enable me to position myself in the thick of the action next time.
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