All Employees Must Wash Bear Paws Before Returning To Work (and May I Offer You a Hershey's Kiss...of Death.)

It’s up and coming!

You’ve probably heard that phrase a hundred times, with people using it to refer to anything they want you to think has potential.

This neighborhood is really up and coming.

I’ll tell you, that Real Housewives of Hershey, Pennsylvania is an up and coming show.

Wearing a Hello Kitty wrist-watch through your belt-loop? Totally up and coming!

But when I hear those three words my very first thought is “this thing that you’re trying to convince me is on the rise, pretty much sucks right now but, hey, with a little luck it probably won’t get worse”.

If Real Estate agents have a National Anthem, the words “up and coming” are their broad stripes and bright stars.

So with that I say: Ladies and Gentlemen—Detroit is officially up and coming!

Now, to be clear, I have a true soft spot in my heart for Town of Mo as I lived there many years ago.

So I take no pleasure in saying that the city of Detroit—one of the very largest in America--is truly in shambles. If you’ve visited there recently, you probably noticed a very strange thing about the downtown area: there are more abandoned buildings then there are, uh…bandoned?...buildings.

[Editors Note: The word “bandoned” is totally up and coming.]

Mayoral scandal, bankruptcy, population decay…downtown Detroit is the only place I’ve ever actually seen a McDonald’s close down. There’s probably a Golden Arches in my hall closet, yet Ronald and Grimace couldn’t wait to rev the hell out of the Motor City.

And, by the way, Detroit has more nicknames than any other place in the solar system: Red City, Rock City, Motor City, Motown, Hockeytown, The D, The Big D, D-Lish, The 313, 8 Mile, Big Windsor, the Arsenal of Democracy, Day-Twah and my personal favorite, Murder Town.

Hey Detroit: you’re $18 billion in debt! Couldn’t you just sell a couple of those nicknames to raise some funds?!? Because I definitely think Hershey, Pennsylvania would be all-in on acquiring "Murder Town".

Death By Chocolate. No, Dude…REAL Death.      (Photo: imgur.com)

But we’re not here today to discuss municipal emergencies or urban blight. We’re here to share my favorite memory of The Town That Ford Built (another nickname!), a story I call The Ballad of Fat Stewart.

Many years ago, there was a hamburger joint in downtown Detroit called Fat Stewart’s. One fine day, I wandered in to eat a burger and fries (back when I used to eat such things).

The place resembled a middle-school cafeteria with its obnoxiously bright fluorescent lighting, dirt-streaked linoleum tile floors, cheap plastic chairs and long, communal tables. Fat Stewart’s might not be under consideration for any Michelin Stars, but it would definitely win several Michelin Tires.

I placed my order and was told my food would be brought out. I noticed the perimeter of the room was covered in old football pictures, pennants and posters and there was a large glass case filled with footballs and related memorabilia.

As I looked at a large framed picture, a deep voice from behind said “That was when I played for the Bears.”

I turned to see a mountain of a man in a grease-stained white apron, holding a red tray with my order, which he placed down on a table near me.

He introduced himself as Fat Stewart (and yes, he included the hefty adjective). He put out his hand to greet me. His fist was the size of an Easter ham. The dude could have crushed my skull like a cranberry with those meaty bear paws. But he seemed genuinely nice so I shook his hand, confident he was not foraging for any tart fruit that afternoon.

At this point, I was far more interested in hearing about Fat Stewart’s football career than I was in eating his shoestring fries (which, he advised, were tastiest when covered in sugar, salt and ketchup). Football player, restauranteur and now budding dietician, Fat Stewart proved to be a true Renaissance Man.

I returned to the table to eat and my gracious host sat several feet away across the aisle, regaling me with stories of his playing days. At one point, he casually mentioned that he played for the Baltimore Colts in 1970 and I put up my hand, stopped him in mid-sentence and said, “Wait…1970? Didn’t the Colts win the Super Bowl that year?”

Fat Stewart nodded his head up and down and grinned so hard you’d think someone had just salted and sugared his tongue.

Now, I’m practically leaping out of my 5th grade plastic seat at this point.

I was so excited to meet a Super Bowl champion that I stuttered out my next question. “So, so, you’ve got a, a,… Super Bowl Ring?!?”. And a vision popped in my head of square-jawed, crew-cut men in sunglasses standing outside a bank vault communicating with walkie-talkies, guarding Fat Stewart's precious championship prize from industrial espionage.

What transpired next is the only moment in my life I can recall that seemed to happen in slow motion.  

Fat Stewart stuck one of his Easter ham bear paws into the pocket of his greasy apron, cupped a shiny object and (cue slow motion video) proceeded to throw it four or five feet over to my table. Bounce, bounce, b-bounce.

There it was. Mere inches from my eyes. What fuels the dreams of athletes. What grown men sacrifice their bodies to obtain. The most prized possession in all of sports, and maybe all the earth.

And Fat Stewart tossed that ring at me like a pickle chip at a prison BBQ.

We are just so TIRED of Being the Butt of Super-Bowl-Ring-Prison-BBQ Jokes.        (Photo: kleinspickle.com)

The ring felt not so much heavy as substantial. Since it was a Colts championship, the ring had a horseshoe design, with sapphires and a large diamond in the center, primitive by today’s standards but still impressive.

But wait. Upon closer inspection, the ring was very worn, with precious stones missing from around the horseshoe.

THIS DIDN’T COMPUTE!! How on earth could this precious cargo be chipped, scratched, dented? How could the ring that Fat Stewart so carelessly tossed to a complete stranger’s table five feet away look as though it served in the Crimean War? Surely this was the FIRST time he showed the ring to anyone in such a roughshod manner, right? It certainly had to be my kind face which inspired him to throw the jewelry equivalent of a Hail Mary pass, no?

And then the doors of realization swung wide open and hit me like a middle linebacker charging unabated to the quarterback:

This was NOT Fat Stewart’s first time at a prison BBQ.

Detroit. Tough on Jewelry, Gentle on Apron Stains.                    

(Photo: FoxNews.com)

What do you value?

More importantly, what should you value? Your significant other? Your children? Your friends? Your body, your reputation, your business, your clients… your happiness?

Whatever it is, you should be treating it with the respect and reverence it deserves. Don’t be so quick to table-toss what is valuable, because it gets easier each time you do. Don’t be careless with precious cargo.  

Don’t Be A Fat Stewart.

The next time I saw a Super Bowl ring was several years after the Fat Stewart encounter. This player was a member of the New York Giants 1986 team and I saw his ring over a decade after he had won it. And it looked like it just came out of the box.

As I told that player of my earlier encounter with a Super Bowl ring, he was so horrified that he actually covered his ring with the other hand, as if he didn’t want it to hear of the tragedy that befell its older cousin.

Don’t despair, Damian Johnson’s ring…you will never have to attend a prison BBQ.

Thankfully, I Know Precious Little About the Seamy Underbelly of the Burgers and Pickles Trade.  

(Photo: itsalwaysfootballseason.com)