Oh, you are in for it now, buddy.  You see, what you didn’t know when you decided to pull your little “stunt” at the Raptors/Bobcats game this past Friday was that, not more than five sections to your right, sat a blogger with a readership of dozens and an almost bewildering ability to harbour lasting animosity towards complete strangers.

Allow me to set the stage.


My friend (let’s call him “Tuna Can”, because he insists) and I were at the Air Canada Centre this past Friday to watch the Raptors give away a crucial late season game to Charlotte (bring on the Pistons!).  Speaking of give aways, the Raps always have this promotion during the third quarter that involves releasing seven beach balls into the crowd, as a promotion for the regressive-provincial-tax-disguised-as-a-lottery known as “Super 7”.  Friday was no exception.

The beach balls, numbered 1 through 7, get tossed around for about a minute or so, until a clock finishes counting down.  At that point, the person closest to the ball grabs it and hopes like hell that the announcer will announce (as announcers do) his or her number.  If he does, that person wins a cool couple thousand dollars.

Now the viability of this promotion rests on a fundamental tenet of human nature: namely, our inability to withstand being singled out and screamed at by thousands and thousands of people.  Otherwise, what is to stop the first seven people who touch a ball from simply holding on to it until the clock runs out, right? 

Three guesses where this is going.

That’s right, the mystery son of a bitch decided he didn’t care to abide by societal norms, so he snatched ball number four almost immediately and refused to let it go.  This was followed by a very brief period of shock from those around him, who weren’t exactly sure why a beach ball primed for whacking wasn’t heading their way.  The shock quickly turned into booing as people started processing what was happening, and eventually culminated in a full-on tidal wave of screaming where about half the stadium turned and witnessed this ass sheepishly shrug his shoulders and lower his head while waiting for time to expire.  A few people took a swipe at the ball, but this guy was not letting go.

You may be asking yourself, “what kind of man possesses the combination of determined greed and complete lack of shame to attempt such a stunt?”  Well, I never got to meet numbnuts, but here is what I can tell you:

  1. He looked to be in his early-to-mid 40s.
  2. He was wearing a new Raptors home jersey (I believe it was a Bosh).
  4. HE WAS WITH HIS SON, WHO COULDN’T BE MORE THAN NINE YEARS OLD (and to whom he had to explain why a number of strangers were referring to Daddy as “the biggest piece of shit they had ever seen”).
  5. He had a short, greasy, dark beard, not unlike this guy:


We should also point out he was nowhere near as funny.

Here’s the good news: announcer man didn’t call number four, which dickface should be thankful for, as otherwise he would not have made it out of that arena without getting the “visible minority at a Philadelphia Eagles game” treatment.  But the bad news is that, despite the fact that Tuna Can has one of those fancy new Blackberries that takes pictures, we were unable to capture the bearded ballhog in all his digital glory.

So here is the deal: Anonymous Asshole, if you or someone you love is reading this, I urge you to do the honourable thing and email your picture and home address to foodcourtlunch@foodcourtlunch.com.  We will then post them, exposing you to the world as the selfish pariah you shall rightfully become.  This will help teach your young son an important lesson in accountability, and will give those of us with obsessive-anger issues a brief outlet for our crippling personality disorder. 

Come on, buddy.  It’s either you or the cashier at Lettuce Eatery in the foodcourt who has recently adopted a faux-British accent.