So I’m at the 8th annual Good Sports “Legends of the Ball” fundraiser at Royale on Thursday night because Crash Midnight was supposedly shooting a live video. I’m minding my own business, mindfully caressing my third complimentary Patron Perfect Cosmo (because I’m all class), listening to hosts Tom Caron of NESN and WEEI’s Glenn Ordway auction off a string of expensive sports-related prizes to a room full of khaki blazers and polo shirts (legitimately cool shit like Mike Cameron coming to your backyard for a game of whiffle ball, being allowed to operate the Green Monster scoreboard at Fenway, being able to watch the Rays beat the Sox in Theo’s suite, etc…) and then it happened.
I look to my left, and there she is — black blouse, black dress pants, black clutch in her right hand, and a plate of god-dam Upper Crust gourmet pizza in the other.
Heidi Watney is standing next to me, and she is eating. Go back and read that sentence again, because I can’t believe I just wrote it.
She mentions how good the pizza is, how all the food tables here look delish. I try not to act stunned. I try to play it cool, act like we’ve been BFFs forever and that she’s not my biggest crush ever. But I’m nervous as shit, and my lady friend on my right (entirely cool with my fawning) shoots me the biggest WTF/OMG/NOWAY look ever. Seriously WHAT ARE THE ODDS that the dude she randomly approaches with a plate of pizza at some $150-ticket fund raiser thing just so happens to have created a slightly creepy website detailing all the nasty-ass ballpark grub she stuffs into her beautiful, lovely mouth. My life is not real.
So yeah, this is happening, we make small talk. I race through my head that yes, sweet lord, she is really the most beautiful woman in the world. And I realize quickly what MUST be done: I mention What Will Heidi Watney Eat Today. She said someone showed it to her or told her about it or tweeted her the link I don’t even know – really everything from this point on is a blur – but I mention that it’s all in good fun, and amazingly she doesn’t slug me in the face. (Not that I wouldn’t have loved that).
Anyway, now we’re a trio lodged in discussion. We fixed her lipstick after she asked if there were red smudges on her chin (good fucking god), talked about other random shit, mostly food and how she loves to eat, and discussed her insane schedule and how she was told to hit up the fund raiser only a few hours earlier so she threw an outfit together in haste and that’s why her hair was pulled backl (seriously, she looked amazing, obvs).
I think we mentioned body spray in lieu of showering but I don’t know, in my 1,000-mph mind I’m skillfully juggling the Tuscan meatballs from the La Morra table and every single one that falls from my willing and able hands drops gently into Heidi’s perfect mouth. Anyway.
She leaves us, off to say a few unscripted words on the mic to rev up the bidding, off hit up the other food tables, especially the red velvet mini cupcakes from Cakeology, but not the Sausage Guy stand over near the men’s room because they have those at Fenway and she can get one any time (shush). Whew. I survived. That actually happened. LIVE TO TELL. Quick, post the photo of the two of us on Facebook!
Fifteen minutes later she comes back over to us. Tha hell? My friend and I are definitely the only two in the room with piercings and tattoos, so maybe she feels at ease around us (who aren’t blending in at all). I’m probably drooling at this point, probably shaking like a schoolgirl in detention, probably sweaty and freakish and gooberly, and Heidi starts raving about the plantain chips from Merengue Restaurant, or it might have been the sundried tomatoes from Healthy Habits Kitchen, I don’t even know anymore, but she did mention she wasn’t able to hit the Maine crab, avocado, and mango salsa tacos from Lineage. I joked probably because “I ate them all ahahahahah” ooohhhhh boyyyyyyyyyy. Look at meee everybody I’m an every-man with jokez and no game whatsoever. FML.
Eventually she ran off to the Basho sushi table – who can blame the lady? – and she was gone, lost in a sea of aging hair gel, fake tans and hard stares from the crowd that screamed “Why is Heidi Watney talking to this two freaks in the corner?” I’m pretty sure there was a NESN analyst who works Bruins games eagerly looking to kick my ass, but at the moment I can’t place the face and bald head to a name.
After a half hour passes we agree to leave the corner of Royale and go mingle; we look for her later on, stuck around for the Crash Midnight performance, and when it was evident she was no longer in the building – or at least milling about – we ghosted. I tweeted @HeidiWatney later that night, writing lame-ass great meeting you blah blah blah thanks for having sense of humor about WWHWET, and she hits me back: @vMichaelv It was nice meeting you as well… you have to be able to laugh at yourself :)
Be. Still. My. Heart.
Yes, OK, fine, whatever, I know, this story was as fascinating as watching John Lackey throw baseballs at David DeJesus’ cleats. But after this night, how can I even continue this blog? What Will Heidi Watney Eat Today is DEAD. We ate together. I know, very personally, what Heidi Watney ate on that day.
There is no point in continuing this… hell, even my effing photo with Heidi has pizza in it!! (On a side note, I now see that I am fat and disgusting and decided to start hitting the gym again; good thing I have this photo tucked into my wallet on top of my MA driver’s license, because looking at it every day will no doubt force my gross ass off to Bally’s Total Fitness and end this double chin business faster than Drew Sutton’s stint with the Olde Town Team.)
Unless, of course, Heidi wanted to go grab dinner somewhere. Boston Phoenix offices are right next to Fenway, love.