Worst National Flight Ever

Every time I see a Sandy Koufax rookie card it reminds me of a story from a Cleveland National:

It was a raucous week at the show and as I went to the airport Sunday afternoon, I was under slept, overfed (apparently, French Fries are a vegetable in Cleveland; that’s what I was told when I asked to substitute a veggie for fries), and very tired, just looking forward to a nice flight home in first class.

Nope.

You know how there’s always that one guy in the airport who you just want to kick in the nuts before the flight even boards? Yeah, that guy, card show version, was on my flight. Picture the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons come to life, but louder, cruder and uglier, just a grotesque parody of a card dealer, complete with Rolex and pinkie ring, an aloha shirt so loud that it would have made Don Ho wince, pot belly and gold chains, and with a voice like a foghorn. In fact, let’s call him Foghorn.

I clocked Foghorn the minute he entered the waiting area. Everyone did since he was glued to his phone and braying into it like an overstimulated donkey. Now, among us mere mortals waiting for a flight was one of the greatest living ballplayers. He was heading home to Los Angeles after his signing. While he was a cordial signer at the show, he had a reputation for being cold and nasty at the hotel, so no one approached him in the boarding area. Except Foghorn. Ol’ Foggsy just had to go up to him and share some idiotic anecdote about meeting him at a show 10 years earlier. Worst of all, he kept calling this baseball god by his first name. Clearly, Foggsy was raised in a barn: if you don't know someone and you approach him, you call him "Mr." rather than by his first name. That’s just basic good manners. The ballplayer looked at Foggsy like a particularly loathsome form of insect and said nothing, then turned away and put on his earphones.

We finally boarded and I thought, “OK, at least we are done with that.” As the cabin filled up and the seat next to me in row 2 was empty, my heart began to sink. I had not seen Foghorn board and I knew, I just knew, that the seat next to me was gonna be him. He finally boarded, climbed over me (without waiting to see if I wanted to get up to let him in), and got settled for the flight.

Sitting next to Foghorn on a flight was like sitting through a dinner party with your sister-in-law's new meathead boyfriend. You don't know him well enough to tell him to shut up, so you just sit there silently with pursed lips and a grin-grimace on your face as waves of obnoxiousness wash over you.

Foghorn definitely lived up to his look; the son of a bitch never shut up about his baseball card wheeling and dealing at the show, not even during the movie. Among the choice morsels he offered between the f-bombs and invitations to various hobby folks he doesn't like to "suck my cock" were his ownership of multiple T206 Wagners and a full recap of all the great deals he made at the show, every one of which involved browbeating smalltime dealers until they gave into his lowball offers.

"I got 8 Sandy's in 8," he said.

After verifying he meant Koufax, I asked: "Which ones?"

He looked at me like I was from Mars and said: "When I use a player's name, I only mean his rookie card."

Oh. OK. Sorry I asked. So, so sorry I asked.

Now I did not think it was possible to piss off an entire cabin of passengers before we were wheels up, but if anyone could do it, Foggsy was the one, and he did not disappoint. Before we even made it down the runway the entire right side of the first-class cabin from row 3 back wanted to kill him. Foggsy, you see, came on the plane with a giant bag of food. Never mind that in first class they feed you all the way in virtually from the moment you leave, this obnoxious jagoff had to bring a picnic with him. He had a bucket of soup of some sort (yellowish and gooey) and a Snapple. Watching him wolf his soup and bread with copious amounts of butter while he blabbered on between mouthfuls was nauseating, but he also got a can of tomato juice from the stewardess (to chase the Snapple). Picture vomitous bloody flecks flying out of his mouth with each new curse word and you have the idea. When he decided to pause the scarfing for take-off, he put the whole mess on the floor. As we started to taxi, of course the bucket of soup and tomato juice tipped over and spilled, and the whole slimy, fetid mess ran backwards all over the feet of the guy behind him and down the rows to the rear bulkhead. Think about five hours sitting in puke and you get the idea how those passengers felt. Smelled like the drunk tank on a Saturday night. The whole cabin hated him instantly and intensely.

Foghorn kept up with his rant even as the entertainment started. He didn't even care that I had the earphones on and was trying to listen to the movie, he just kept up the banter. I think he finally shut his cakehole somewhere over Nebraska.

By the time we got to Los Angeles, I was ready to either kill him or kill myself. Fortunately, he spent the taxiing time glued to his phone shouting instructions at whatever unfortunate soul had the chore of picking him up. The moment we could go, I bolted from my seat and out the door of the plane like a French soldier fleeing a German army.

Worst. Flight. Ever.

Everyone enjoy the show and safe travels. Post the highlights on social media so us non-attendees can experience it vicariously.