AJ Brown and Bryce Harper Got Nothin' On Me

“That was a great 18 holes,” Angus Mooney proclaimed as he, Thomas Battaglia, and a third man walked together into the Aronimink Country Club and Golf Course bar. “A new personal best. Wish I could say the same for my son-in-law.”

Tom chuckled. “Hey, I forgot that you’re not supposed to have the highest score. I don’t play that often, you know.”

Angus patted his son-in-law on the back.

“Well, I’m glad to see yer sense of humor is back, sonny. Almost as glad as I am that Ricky here volunteered to be the DD.”

“It’s not a problem, Mr. M,” Ricky replied. “Besides, I’m probably the only guy I know who actually likes to golf and not use it as an excuse to day-drink.”

“You did need the least amount of mulligans among us,” Tom said with a smile. “But if we had a DD, why drink here? There are a ton of great bars up closer to West Chester.”

“Aye, we still need someone to get us home, sonny,” Angus replied. “Besides, 18 holes work up a mean thirst. I need me my drink as soon as possible.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Tom said as the three took their place at the sparsely populated bar. The weather for golfing was gorgeous, but the links weren’t particularly busy that day. Easy pickings for seating at least, he thought.

The positive vibes shifted as soon as he looked at the beer list. Shitty macrobrew light beers. Over-hopped IPAs. Fuckin’ skunk-ass Heineken.

“I guess I’m drinkin’ bread tonight,” he thought to himself as his eyes found one palatable brew, Guinness, in a sea of choices bereft of any Mexican lager that would’ve quenched his thirst otherwise.

-

The televisions in the bar were wall-to-wall college football as if anything else on a Saturday at a country club would do. Volumes on all the TVs were muted, as the games were just visual aids and fodder for the gadflies and, most importantly, the bartender to give their commentaries on the goings on and such. Their recreation of First Take dominated the stuffy air of the country club watering hole, so much so that not even the boisterous Angus Mooney felt comfortable trying to carry on conversations with his son-in-law and his junior associate.

“Not thirsty, my lad?” he said to Tom, still on his first pint of ubiquitous Irish stout with three bottles of Bud Light empty in front of himself.

“Not for liquid bread at least,” he said with feigned pointedness. Philly men are good for three things: bitching about the sports teams, wearing shorts outside until the temperature dips below freezing, and busting the chops of the men in their lives whom they love most.

“Ey, you better watch how you talk about the national drink of Ireland, my boy,” he replied with a smile. Tom and Ricky both chuckled, the most they were able to get in before the regulars started again.

“Eyyy what do you think about the birds tomorrow, Lou?” said a guy at the end of the bar in his thickest Delco hoagiemouth.

“Pfft, they stink,” replied the bartender. “AJ Brown’s out again, and that offense wasn’t good wit’ him in there. The Giants are gonna be mad as hell from last week.”

“Yeah, they need that bye week. Hell, WE need the bye week from watchin’ this Pop Warner bullshit offense.”

“We’re never gonna win like this again,” the bartender exclaimed. Tom rolled his eyes, thinking to himself that we just won the fuckin’ Super Bowl. Have a little self-awareness. What are you, a Boston fan?

“It was nice while it lasted,” the bartender continued. “It’s just the same over again. You hear Bryce Harper is mad cuz Dombrowski called him out? Maybe he shoulda got mad at the baseball tryna hit it against the Dodgers! Everyone’s lettin’ us down anymore.”

Tom rolled his eyes as he tried to take another sip of the Guinness. Nope. Not happening. He was not in the mood for liquid bread or Homeless Man’s Skip Bayless.

“I mean, even them wrestlers ain’t doin’ shit! Lookit Philly’s representation in PRIME. Fuckin’ Crumbo Jiles can’t win the big one. Fuckin’ winnin’ that stupid-ass Manhunt bullshit and then shittin’ the bed. You put all them assholes in a big fuckin’ scramble and of course his roach-ass can win, but one-on-one? CHOKE.”

Even though he had to know what was coming next, Tom couldn’t help but chuckle a little at how much venom the bartender had for Jiles.

“And don’t get me started on that fuckin’ fag-ass Luchador.”

“Ey Tommy, you got a secret yer hidin’ from me and my daughter?” Angus whispered into his ear as he jabbed his elbow playfully into his son-in-law’s side.

Tom gave a muted chuckle again.

“I mean, at least Jiles has the decency to embrace sucking shit as a wrestler. That Luchador? One minute, he’s Mr. Serious, ooh, I’m gonna protect the sanctity of the sport, and the next? He’s wrestling with twenty bucks on the line? Fuck him.”

The bartender made the jerk-off motion while the five or so other patrons dressed in their golf shirts and pleated khakis all laughed.

“Twenty bucks. That’s about all he ever drew in his life as a main guy anyway. Fuckin’ lowlife.”

The smiles on the faces of Tom, Angus, and Ricky all were gone.

“It’s a mockery! You got people wrestlin’ for belts or in grudge matches. That Tsonda asshole, he was in a ditch for how long, and he comes back and wins a tournament that this loser can’t even get outta the first round of? This after he couldn’t beat that girly-ass Brit either?”

Now it had gotten downright uncomfortable.

“He makes Philly a whole part of his fuckin’ personality, along with that fuckin’ bullshit lucha libre shit. I hope ICE deports his ass.”

Angus looked as if he was going to say something, but Tom turned to him and did the “cut it out” motion with his hand across his throat.

“It’s all the same anyway. These fuckin’ primadonna fucks. The Luchador probably gets paid bank to get into arguments with the Red Army F-team one week and be nowhere the next. Bryce Harper, how much they payin’ him to drink raw milk and strike out in the playoffs? And AJ Brown, fuck that guy. Oh my hamstring! You still get paid to read books on the sideline, a lot of money too. Fuckin’ losers, all of them. They get paid money to suck.”

Angus tugged on the sleeve of Tom’s golf shirt and motioned his head to the door.

-

“Why didn’t you say anything, lad?” Angus asked after all of them were outside, clear of the bar entrance.

“Who cares, Dad? He’s just some jitbag bartender who has the ear of a bunch of bougie Republicans and tells them the same racist, classist shit they want to hear. Why am I going to risk anything to teach them a lesson they’re not going to absorb?”

Angus shook his head and put his hands on his hips.

“Uh oh, Tom, you stepped in it,” said Ricky, misreading the situation even if he was drawing from real life situations with his boss.

“Tom, my lad, what’s yer job?”

“Are you fuckin’ with me right now, Dad?”

Angus looked at him dead in the eye and shook his head. Tom sighed.

“I’m a wrestler.”

“An’ what does bein’ a wrestler entail?”

Tom rolled his eyes, annoyed at the line of 20 questions but also unsure of where he was headed with them.

“Legally causing bodily harm to other wrestlers for federally-taxed income.”

“An’ what else?”

“What do you mean what else? I do the moves, I try win the matches, and if I do, I get more money. What else is there?”

Angus shook his head.

“What about when yer at the arena and yer not fightin’? You gotta do the talky-talk! What do you meatheads call it? Cuttin’ a promo?”

“Not bad for someone who is about a tenth as big a fan of the biz as his wife is.”

“You son of a bitch,” Angus said with a chuckle. “But I’m bein’ serious, lad. Half yer job is sellin’ yerself.”

Tom made the Alonzo Mourning gif facial expression. You know the one, where he wasn’t sure at first but then nodded as if he had a point.

“So you should go back and sell yourself to those lowlives!”

“Dad, I think you really hit the nail on the head as to why I shouldn’t go back in there with the last word of your statement.”

Now it was Angus’ turn to see the validity of what someone else had to say.

“I guess that’s true. But we still have to pay our tab.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“I guess leavin’ there after only four beers and however many sodas Ricky drank…”

“Sodas are free refills, Mr. M.”

Angus and Tom shook their heads. Ricky, read the goddamn room, okay?

“I guess leavin’ is payback enough,” Angus continued, brushing off his junior’s lack of awareness. “You know, it’s a shame you wrestle with a mask on, son. Maybe you’d have not been subjected to that if he knew you were there. Bullies back down too easily.”

Just then, a figurative lightbulb went off over Tom’s head. Not a literal one. This isn’t a Chick Grillbreast RP, you know.

The three turned and walked back inside the bar.

-

The bartender didn’t even acknowledge that the three had reentered the room, as they were sure he probably didn’t even notice they left as he was too rapt in holding his sports court. Angus raised his hand up to get his attention, then both hands, then both hands waving. Finally, the bartender moseyed on over, finally noticing him.

“Whattaya want?” he barked in his surliest tone.

“This Guinness isn’t doing it for me,” Tom snapped in before Angus could ask to close the tab. “Can you make me a Long Island iced tea?”

The bartender sighed as he walked off to mix the drink. Angus looked at his son-in-law quizzically, but Tom just nodded as if he was in control of the situation. After a few minutes, the barkeep walked back with the drink. Tom nodded to him, and then he put the straw to his mouth and took his first sip.

He turned his head and spit the drink right out of his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, this is the worst Long Island iced tea I’ve ever had. Did you put any fuckin’ alcohol in it?”

“What? Do you have to be dramatic about it? I’ll just make it again…”

“What, so you can fuck it up again? Holy shit, I’ve been to some dive bars, but I’ve never had anything as bad as this. How much do you get paid?”

“That ain’t none of your business.”

It was at that moment Angus and Ricky knew what Tom was doing. They smiled and tried hard to muffle their laughter so they didn’t give the game away completely.

“Well, it should be. You sit there and bitch about AJ Brown and Cancer Jiles stealing money, but it looks like anything you serve that isn’t a beer is garbage. Shit, my Guinness was mostly head when you served it to me anyway.”

The bartender started sweating as his regulars looked on in horror enough at what was being said to him but not in horror enough to actually jump to his defense.

“I mean, how did you get this job anyway,” Tom continued. “Does your dad own the country club?”

“Jesus, just pipe down or I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Tell me, do you think you should get paid for this? Don’t answer that. I know the answer. You bitch and moan about the money Cancer Jiles gets thinking he shouldn’t make it because he doesn’t win the big ones or whatever, but the moment someone stiffs you, you’re bitching to your stuffed shirt dickheads on the other end of the bar about how no one appreciates the job you do.”

The bartender gulped.

“But I guess that’s the rub. You’re jealous that the people you bitch and moan about get their money no matter what.”

Tom reached into his wallet, grabbed some bills, and slammed the money down on the bar.

“You have to sing for your supper. You don’t have to ask us to leave. We’re gone anyway.”

Tom left the bar first, with his party following out shortly after.

-

“How much did you leave him? You didn’t even see the bill,” said Ricky.

“It was more than enough,” Tom replied. “I figure four beers and a soda, even at a place like that, couldn’t be more than 40 bucks.”

“You didn’t answer young Richard’s question, my boy.”

Tom laughed.

“I left him $200.”

“What? Why?” said Ricky. Angus smirked because he knew what Tom was going to say.

“It’s all about the lesson. You can’t totally humiliate someone. If I dress him down and then stiff him, what lesson does he learn? He’s just gonna feel justified, like everything he just said was true, and I was just some woke moron or whatever.”

Ricky furrowed his brow.

“Then I’m no better than the guys he’s railing against. No better than the bald dickhead I’m wrestling this week either. But, if I give him the tip, now he doesn’t know what to think. Does he deserve it? I mean, Angus here knows what my politics are.”

Angus smiled and nodded. “Feckin’ commie.”

Tom laughed to himself.

“If I had the choice between suffering in silence and stiffing him or fuckin’ his day up and giving him the compensation he said I didn’t deserve, I’m taking the latter every time.”

Tom looked at his father-in-law and smiled.

“Because at the end of the day, it’s about selling yourself, right?”

“Haha, I’ll teach you a thing or two yet, Tommy Boy,” Angus said with a big gregarious laugh. “Alright, where to now?”

Tom sighed.

“Doesn’t matter to me, as long as they have Mexican lager.”

Ricky and Angus laughed as they all walked towards the parking area.