It’s a sunny summer morning somewhere in the central part of Michigan. I walk into a coffee shop in preparation for a productive, long day of Call of Duty and NBA 2K13.
My intentions are to order a caramel frappuccino without the cool whip and simply continue on with my day. I am wearing my customized black Kevin Durant jersey with stripes down the sides consisting of patterns of orange and Thunder blue. I am the only person in the shop other than a heavyset employee at the cash register.
Admittedly, the man is much bigger than me. He is thick, and looks like he should be working at the Gold’s gym just down the street. He is wearing typical coffee shot apparel: Apron, korny hat, khakis and an undershirt that is supposed to be white but is more of a yellowish-brown from sweat and lack of hygiene.
I notice him staring at me for an extended amount of time, but I don’t think much of it.
I look at the menu above him even though I know exactly what I am about to order.
“You an OKC fan?” he asks.
I get a little excited because I think he is admiring my $80 jersey.
“Yea,” I say. “I’m a big fan.”
He gives a sarcastic chuckle and continues looking into my eyes, perhaps my soul.
“You shouldn’t wear that jersey around here,” he says. “Oklahoma City will never be the basketball city Detroit is.”
At this point I am a little taken back by the Coffee Shop employee’s strong remarks. At first I am shocked, then ticked off, then confused. I try to play it cool since I am not certain of the man’s intentions with the strong words.
I give a pity laugh.
“Well, I am from Oklahoma City,” I say. “You must be a Detroit Pistons fan.”
“Yep,” he replies. “It was a mockery of the NBA when the Supersonics were moved to Oklahoma City. Seattle is a basketball city, Oklahoma City is for queers and steers.”
Okay. This guy has officially stepped over the line and has successfully ticked me off. He has the audacity to talk filthy about my team while having a coffee stain above his left nipple.
“It’s just a jersey man,” I say with an expression on my face comparable to Kendrick Perkins. “I just want a frappuccino.”
“We don’t have those,” he replies.
I look just beyond the counter and see a machine designed specifically to perform the job of making various flavors of frappuccinos.
The coffee shop employee continues to stare a hole through me with beads of sweat beginning to stroll down his forehead.
Wait a second, is this guy trying to fight me? Did my jersey really upset this guy so much that he wants to try and hurt me?
Due to the severe confusion and immaturity of the situation, I decide to walk out the door. It is probably better to leave the encounter without ruining my day.
I turn around and walk towards the door. My hand is on handle. I stop and turn around slowly.
Don’t do it Jared! Don’t say something back! Just leave!
“I hope you were one of the fans punched by Ron Artest in the brawl at the Palace,” I say. “Oklahoma City Thunder rules.”
I walk out the door as he shouts.