Page 82 of Bombshells
I’ve still got that reputation—the guy who can make you laugh after a rough night. The guy who shows up for the birthday celebration.
I guess there’s worse things to be famous for. So I get off the bus and head upstairs to get my guitar.
* * *
“Our little man is all grown up!” Castro crows as he passes out bottles of Corona with lime—Jimbo’s favorite.
I take one even though it’s not technically a light beer. But it’s close enough.
“To another year of keeping us in line!” O’Doul says, and we all raise a bottle, while our twenty-two-year-old equipment manager shoves his hands in his pockets and ducks his head. The kid can’t take a compliment, but we don’t care. We’re going to razz him anyway and buy him a bunch of drinks.
Jimbo is a Brooklyn local who started working for the team right after high school graduation. He’d never been on a plane until he started traveling with us, but now we couldn’t manage without him.
Of course we tease him about his hair gel and his personal life and every other damn thing. He’s used to it. And now I’m going to sing about it. Once a party boy, always a party boy. Even if I’m changing my stripes this year, I can’t let Jimbo down.
After a swig of beer, I set the bottle down and pick up my travel guitar. “All right, boys. I’ve got a new one just for Jimbo.”
“I hope it’s Fall Out Boy again,” Trevi says.
“Lady Gaga?” someone else suggests.
“Nah, I went old school this time,” I say. “Barry Manilow.”
There are a few chuckles. And when I strum the opening, everybody shuts up right away to hear what kind of spectacle I’m willing to make of myself tonight.
Jimbo’s special birthday tribute is sung to the tune of that “Copacabana” song. I’m proud of it, honestly. Not bad for an hour’s notice.
His name is Jimbo… He keeps us moving
And when the bus is running late, he always gets us to the gate
The laughing starts up immediately.
He knows our skate blades…and our cup sizes
Just don’t mess with his hair—he’ll lose your luggage at O’Hare
The room erupts with laughter, and even as I sing the second verse, Jimbo is blushing behind his dark scruff.
Then I hit the bridge, and the laughter only gets louder.
He works from eight to four
He’s the last guy out the door
He’s a man of style and class
Our schedule’s tattooed on his ass
And so on. I’m a man of many talents. By the third verse, beer has already come out of Drake’s nose, so I know I’ve done well.
There’s only one man who isn’t smiling by the time I play the last chord. That man is Bryce Campeau. He’s watching me with a steely gaze, a Corona clutched in one hand, and an ice pack held to his face with the other.
It looks like he has a split lip as well as a shiner. Just ouch. And if a guy can’t laugh at a Barry Manilow remake, there is something seriously wrong. So after wishing Jimbo a happy birthday, I take my beer and head over toward my beat-up friend.
Unfortunately, Bess Beringer gets there first. It’s just Campeau’s luck that his agent witnessed the whole thing, and is ready to yell at him, too.
Ouch. Bad night for my teammate. Maybe I can head Bess off at the pass. “Hey guys. Everything okay?”
