The Apple Cobbler Celtics Disaster

Two nights ago, Ashley and I went out for dinner at Lombardi’s pizza—supposedly one of, if not the best pizzas in all of New York City.

The decision to go out was difficult to make. I knew that Boston vs. Miami, Game 5, a likely elimination game, a potential end of an era, possibly one of the career defining moments of LeBron James' career, was on TV at 7 p.m., but I also knew there was a growing fight brewing between Ashley and me about my dedication to the NBA Playoffs and the lack of non-watching-sports-on-TV events I had to offer her.

She had brought up our lack of non-sports related events a week earlier when I had presented her my ideas for the week; which consisted of watching the Bulls games, going to a bar to watch the Celtics vs. Heat games and buying cheap seats to a Yankees or Mets game.

My best argument was as follows:

Chris: But babe, the Chicago Bulls are on! You’re kind of from Chicago, let’s stay in tonight and watch it.

Compromises were reached. I went to a dance performance, I paid for a dinner out—for both our meals believe it or not!—and I even endured a trip to the BRGR which is basically a glorified Wendy’s that justifies their ridiculous prices by saying, “Well come on, our cows are grass fed, it’s all organic, our shipping truck is a Prius, our fries fight global warming, etc.”

I was, well, at least temporarily, in the clear.

But then came Game 4 of the Oklahoma City Thunder vs. Memphis Grizzlies series.

Our story picks up with about a minute left to go in the game.

Ashley: Chris, I’m going to bed.

Chris: Ok, I’ll be done watching soon.

End of regulation.

Chris: Ashley, we got another overtime game!

(silence)

End of 1st OT.

Ashley: Chris?

Chris: Sweetie you gotta see this game, come out and watch with me!

(silence)

End of 2nd OT

Chris: Babe, it’s triple overtime!

End of 3rd OT

Chris: (checks cell phone time) Uh oh…

Ashley didn’t bring it up the following day, but I wasn’t for a second going to interpret this silence as me being in any sort of clear. The overtime basketball watch was simply a minor offense. She was storing this relationship equivalent of a parking ticket away to be used at a later time when I commit a bigger violation.

Ashley (at some point in the future): You forgot my birthday/our anniversary/Valentine’s Day?! I can’t believe you, this is just like the time you wouldn’t come say good night to me because of that stupid basketball game!

So that brings us to Wednesday night. Of course I wanted to see Game 5 of the Celtics vs. Heat, but I couldn’t risk adding on another misdemeanor offense to my record. Also, I figured this would be like the Lakers vs. Mavericks Game 4, a blowout Heat win that would only piss me off. If the Celtics did happen to win, great, I’d find a way to watch Game 6 with the good graces I earned from skipping Game 5 for dinner. It was a flawless plan.

When she suggested Lombardi’s pizza, I gladly obliged. Little did I know, I was about to personally find out the secret to the Celtics 2011 playoff collapse within the next three hours.

It started at Lombardi’s. We ordered a large, 8 slices, sausage pizza (I would have preferred pepperoni, but Ashley suggested sausage and I needed every easy basket I could get).

The pizza came out, it looked delicious and I began putting the shredded red peppers onto my first steaming slice. As I was doing so, I saw Ashley look over my way at the pepper shaker.

Chris: Did you want any of these?

Ashley: Oh, no, I was just hoping they had some oregano.

What I did next was the equivalent of a 10-0 run in basketball. When the waitress came by to give us some extra napkins, I spoke up, as smoothly as possible, and said “By any chance could you bring over some oregano?” The waitress nodded and I took a victory sip of my free glass of water.

I didn’t look over Ashley’s way, but I felt her mesmerized expression. I knew her heart had just melted and I had all but locked up this evening’s performance. It may not have been a flashly play, but 7 months into a relationship, asking a waitress for the oregano—before  your girlfriend asks you to ask the waitress for the oregano—is the equivalent of a LeBron James breakaway dunk.

I was now in the zone. Well, maybe not “the” zone. Like Kevin Garnett said after Game 3, "I won’t call it a zone. I’ve been in a zone and that wasn’t it. Man, I’ve been in a zone and that wasn’t it, but I had a nice rhythm going.”

My momentum carried over into the eating of the pizza. I devoured the first two slices—which were as good as advertised—and didn’t feel a thing. Third slice, easy, fourth slice, psssh, I was back to my middle-school-growth-spurt eating prime.

Ashley had finished her second slice and was beginning to take down the smallest piece left on the tray for her third and final slice. This left me with the biggest slice of the night for my triumphant finish.

For those of you who have not been to New York City, think about Sbarro from the Midland Mall and their normally large slices of pizza. That’s what sat in front of me on the silver tray. But like the four slices before it, I devoured it as if it were the size of a pizza flavored Combo.

I paid the bill and was, at the time, ready for more. We decided to go out for drinks, well, a drink, because each of us had $10 to spend and in NYC that is enough for maybe a beer.

But my age was beginning to catch up to me as we began walking over to the bar.

At first, I couldn’t accept it. Three years ago I could have eaten five slices of pizza, let it sit for an hour and gone out to play open gym basketball. Now, I might have been able to sprint down the court one time before vomiting in the drinking fountain.

My age showed up again with my “drink” order. Two years ago, I would have found a way to turn $10 into six Natty Lites and downed them all with pride. At age 21—the age I waited for years to get to for the very reason that I could now order drinks at a bar—here I was looking over the drinks and settling my eyes on the dessert menu. Even worse, I didn’t order something young and hip like a brownie/lava-cake/sundae-delight or something metrosexual like a New York cheesecake, but instead, like a 55-year-old white man, I went with the apple cobbler.

In the minutes that passed between my order and the time the waiter came back with our desserts in hand, I will never be able to remember what Ashley was saying.

The ten minutes were, and still are, a complete blur to me. As I sat there, the five slices of pizza finally checked into my stomach. I do not know where they had been for the last hour and a half, but now that my dessert order had been placed, the slices of pizza had occupied nearly all the space in my stomach, sprawling out across my gastric canal as if it were there living room, leaving just enough space for maybe the cherry-on-top of a milkshake that would be instantly transferred to a to-go styrofoam cup.

Bite one of the apple cobbler; incredible. Problem, I was two big bites away from being one of those guys in an Alka-Seltzer commercial and three bites away from ending the night keeled over the toilet.

I tried to regain my composure, took another bite, but felt even more stuffed than before. Bite three, completely full. Bite four, I loosened my belt, bite five, admitted defeat.

Less than two hours after a “back-in-my-prime” pizza eating performance, there I was, with a 30% eaten apple cobbler, at a bar filled with energetic NYU college kids, feeling like I was about to pass out on the table. Any youthful exuberance or ultimate manly moments I had felt at Lombardi’s were officially gone.

I couldn’t look over at Ashley. This time, it wasn’t because I knew she was looking over with pride at a sentimental oregano gesture, but instead, I was too afraid I would break down into tears when I saw the look of shame in her eyes.

The waiter came over and I think there was a mutual understanding that a to-go box would not be necessary. I left the check, which Ashley paid for, along with my dignity at the table and sulked my way home.

Sadly enough, the next morning an extra inch of fat had been added to my lower gut. As I looked down at a belly that was once not referred to as a belly, but instead “abs-ish”, I realized the exact reason the Boston Celtics lost against the Miami Heat:

In your prime of 18 years old, you can devour five slices of pizza, take down a monster dessert, go play a basketball game and wake up the next morning two pounds lighter. At 21, you may be able to have that one great dinner performance, but you slow down at dessert and wake up heavier than you were the night before.

If this is true for me at age 21, how much more can it be true of the Celtics, who are all above 30 (besides Rondo) and instead of being able to finish two monster meals and walk home are being asked to sprint up and down the court with LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, who are both athletic freaks AND are both in their primes.

An old team will still have flashes of brilliance—like the Celtics did in Game 3—but for every five slices of devoured pizza accomplishment is a matching 30 percent completed apple cobbler, that declares the first feat as more of a fluke than a foretelling performance.