Linda Cohn Dates the Balls

At least for one night anyway. Daulerio's got a great read on his date with ESPN's most high profile female anchor over at Deadspin, and there are some great lines.

We walked over to the restaurant and started chit-chatting about the Mets and Phillies. She’s one of those “my Mets”-types and she gets all fired up about it. Things are good, now, obviously for the Mets. She blabbed about Carlos Delgado and I briefly considered shoving her into traffic. I did not.

You should have A.J. You should have.

We had dessert. She had sorbet. I had figs. A lot of figs. Linda Cohn and I shared a fig together and she said to mention that fact that she had a fig. We wrap up and the check comes. $205. Fuck me. How much was this lady costing me? She eyed the bill. She was impressed. “You do it right,” she said.

Kind of. We walk back to the hotel and it’s extremely awkward. She’s holding her $5 flowers and neither one of us knows how to end this evening. It started with a handshake and ended with a “Thank you, very much for all of this, A.J.” She disappears into her hotel lobby. I've officially come to the realization that I have absolutely no game.

At this time, I began walking south, thinking over the evening, figuring out where I’m going to stay that night and then it hits me. Hard. In the stomach. You know that scene in "Trainspotting" when the heroin suppository kicks in? Yeah. Just like that. At this point, I’m starting to sweat and frantically try to find a bathroom. For some reason, it appears I’ve wandered onto the only three blocks in Manhattan that don’t have any goddamn bars nearby…then….splat. Seriously. Stuff just came out of me. I finally found a bar and gingerly walked inside, covered in sweat, soccer jacket now around my waist to conceal any evidence of my accident. I ask the bartender for an Amstel Light, plop the money on the table, then take two quick sips, attempt to make a face that looks refreshed then amble down the stairs into the bathroom. Christ. This is a mess, but manageable. Ten minutes later, back upstairs, I take two more sips of my beer, leave a $5 tip and skip out of there trying to ignore the bartender’s withering expression and trying my best not make a face like a guy who just shat himself.

As I’m back outside , stiffly walking toward my friend's house, The Linda Cohn PR Machine calls to tell me that “Linda had a really good time.” I tell him that’s great, she was nice, but I'm actually feeling a little ill at the moment.

“Oh, I hope my client is okay…”

Yeah, I wonder if Linda Cohn shit her pants?

I found out, today, that no, she did not.

So to get this straight, if you go on a date with Linda Cohn, you will probably shit your pants. Well done, sir. Well done.