MiddleClassSports.com

Coffee shop snobs are the beatniks of the 21st century. They are usually male, always single, often in their twenties. They wear thin T-shirts with band names or make-believe places across the front and jeans with holes in them. Their hair is one inch too long, unkempt, unattractive. They have facial hair, even though they can’t grow beards. They have male roommates, fellow beatniks unable to date women. They are easy to spot. I despise them all.

Earlier today, I walked into their world, against my will. After realizing that there was no coffee in my house, I decided to go to Starbucks. I put on the thinnest T-shirt I own, a pair of blue jeans and flip-flops. Upon arrival, I parked my car in the furthest spot from the front door, knowing that if the beatniks inside saw my Ford Fusion, my cover would be blown.

I walked inside. Standing in line, I looked at the board. Every word looked like it was in a different language. Sumatra…Mocha…Vivanno…Au lait. All I wanted was a cup of coffee. Actually, the only thing I could order was a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee was my comfort zone, my safe haven. Step outside of that, and I could get shot down in the coffee crossfire. When my wife is with me, I ask her to order me something else. But by myself, alone in enemy territory? No way.

It was my turn. I stepped forward. A dark-haired girl, wearing the right amount of makeup (which is rare for beatniks, I thought), smiled at me. “I just want a cup of grande coffee.” I grimaced. I said grande. At Starbucks, even if you want a simple cup of coffee, they make you use the words Tall, Grande or Venti. Not even Small, Medium or Large exists at Starbucks.

“Frefsdff, Roast, or Jiliekilkj” she asks me.

I freeze. I wasn’t expecting a follow-up question. “What?”

A trace of a smile crosses the girl’s lips. I knew what she was thinking. You’re not one of us, are you? “Rfesilkj, Roast, or IJkljiessks?”

I take a deep breath. Since I have no idea what the first and third options were, I say, “Roast.”

She smiles again, as if that’s what she expected me to say. She takes my money. I put a large tip into the square glass bowl, hoping that my generous donation will lead to goodwill from the coffee community.

After a minute, I get my grande cup of coffee. I dump a large amount of half-and-half into it to make it drinkable, and walk out. As I walk to my car, my mind glances across a thought. I’m a beatnik, too. Not when it comes to coffee, but when the subject is sports.

The things that scare me about coffee shops are what scares people away from me when the subject is sports.

During football season, I can be overheard saying this: “See the receiver lined up in the flat? If the corner jams him at the line of scrimmage, then the quarterback can’t complete the post play.”

Or this during baseball season: “That southpaw has a wicked cutter. All the hitter could manage on that pitch was a Texas league single.”

We are all experts within our own worlds. As a sports fanatic, I can spot a fake in a sports conversation as soon as he opens his mouth. When talking to you, I recognize every statement that is just a bit beyond your sports knowledge. When I hear it, I smile that same smile as the beatnik barista.

It’s a sobering realization. I guess you coffee shop snobs aren’t as bad as I thought. Just do me a favor. Be nice to me when I enter your aromatic world, and I will be sympathetic to you when you enter mine.

Because, in actuality, I like some of your specialty drinks. One day, with a little bit of help, maybe I will be able to drink them.

Scott Wiebe is the author of How to Fix College Football, an eBook you can find by clicking the Merchandise tab at the top of this page.

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