The Day I Met Bob Costas
Bob Costas is a damn legend, we can all agree on that. So, I was pretty fired up the day I came into contact with the man.
So, just a brief background, I’m a hip hop artist out in San Diego, CA, called iLL Nicky. Yes, iLL Nicky. Yes, I make rap music. Before I started making money in that racket, working as a Server in restaurants was the most practical occupation for a check to check type dude like myself.
With that being said, it was a pretty lazy, summer Sunday at Il Fornaio Restaurant in beautiful, Del Mar, CA, home of the hottest cougars on the planet, but we won’t get into that right now. I was partaking in my usual serving duties, you know, splitting salads, pouring wine, and cleaning marinara sauce off of my tie. Then, service slowed down, and I began to loiter around the bar and dick around with the bartender while I anxiously awaited for my boss to cut me (That means letting me clock out and go home).
Instead, my manager approached and said some annoying shit like,“Got time to lean, ya got time to clean.”
So, I was reasonably perturbed in the moments leading up to the time in which I met the illustrious sportscaster and cultural icon, Bob Costas.
The TV above the bar generally plays the most popular sports game that’s on, but it was right around the beginning of August. There is nothing to get excited about in August. NFL exhibition games? I don’t think so. The NASCAR Chase and a real sense of urgency in the MLB? Those don’t happen until September. College football teams are still in practice pads, and every NBA player is on vacation or trying to pick up cougars in Del Mar. The biggest sporting event happening this month is a golf tournament, and no one was all that geeked for the PGA Championship when Tiger Woods was playing more like James Woods. So, with that being said, the TV was sitting idly on ESPN 2 while Bart, our regular drunk who brings in his own jam and toast, tilted on his chair and watched fuckin’ Billiards.
As I slipped into a daze, I heard it loud and clear. That baritone, ultra unique, ubiquitous sounding voice that I had heard in Larry Bird and Michael Jordan documentaries as a kid. It was completely nostalgic. I was surprised to hear Bob’s voice commentating such an amateur event. It didn’t make sense.
I looked at Bart, who by this point didn’t actually have his eyes open to notice, and I exclaimed, “Wow, I wonder how much these guys shootin’ 8 ball paid Bob Costas to announce the event, this guys got nothin’ better to do?”
Just then I heard it again, but it was more distant, coming from the other end of the restaurant. I slowly glanced over to the only tumbleweed of a table in the baron dining room. “Holy shit, its Bob Costas!” I almost screamed.
There he was, squatting at the head of the table, sharing stories like Tommy DeVito. Although his sort of glamorous, mafioso type demeanor was a bit intimidating, he was as jovial as I would have imagined. His guests laughed at his anecdotes like they were trying to win something.
As I moved closer to the table to make my stamp on the history of Bob Costas’ life, my manager told me to clock out. I told him I would stay and close the restaurant, and he obliged. I proceeded to table 47, and as I opened my mouth to announce my presence, my tongue became very apparent in my mouth, and I struggled over each word like they were hurdles at a track meet.
Instead of writing me off as a waste of space, Bob kindly welcomed me into their elite circle consisting of friends, colleagues, and his wonderful wife, Jill. All of a sudden, my introduction turned to banter and our banter turned into a full on, passionate debate, as I caught myself in my work uniform, chugging down a glass of Jamieson Ranch Cabernet that they generously offered me. I politely excused myself before my manager came over like Spider and ruined the moment (Yes, thats my second ‘Goodfellas’ reference. I’m Italian, it’s really all I got)
I eagerly told the pantry chef to prepare a nice piece of Tiramisu so that I could rack up some brownie points with the Costas Family. I rushed the dessert over like uhh, I don’t know, I’m done with the metaphors, I rushed it over super fast.
Before I dropped the Tiramisu at the table, I pre-empted my offering with an intro that, in retrospect, was probably a little much. I thanked Bob for his loyal service to the game of sports, his animated commentary, and his cordial response to a fan. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I crushed that intro, because I was met with a damn applause around the table, like I just dropped off an amulet of Frankensense or some shit.
Although I was reluctant to be the “check out my mixtape, fam” guy, I was aware that I had one of my CD’s in my apron pocket, and that this was a great opportunity to take advantage of. I reached into my dirty, worn out pocket, and retrieved my independently produced rap music. As I quickly wiped off any possible food residue covering the album sleeve, Bob gently accepted it with genuine curiosity. “Oh, so your a rapper, that explains the blue hair.” They all laughed, and I appreciated his harmless jab. I told him, “I think you’ll really like the third track, ‘Short People.’
He hastily replied, “Why the hell would you assume that?”
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Just as quick as he responded, I hit him back with, “Because, I have a feeling you enjoy a little Randy Newman, and I remixed his classic song.”
Bob burst into raucous laughter and my face lit up with pride, due to the fact that I just caused fucking, Bob Costas, to belly laugh.
He carefully placed the CD into his wife’s purse, thanked me for the conversation, and left an immensely generous tip in my shirt pocket. He was no Mr. Pink, know what I mean?
So, he left, and I had this golden story. I was busting outta’ my skin thinking about everyone I was going to tell, and the excitement immersed my thoughts for the remainder of my shift.
As months went by, that’s all it was, just a cool story, a wonderful anecdote for dinners and parties.
However, months later, I was alerted that my service at the restaurant was requested. The dim-witted hostess spelled the reservation as “Rob Kastis” so I didn’t think anything of it. As I approached the table, I casually glanced over the gathered group and began my generic server spiel.
I was met with an exclamation, “iLL Nicky!”
It was Bob. My heart dropped and I began giggling like a little school girl.
I nervously asked, “So you listened to the CD?”
He replied with conviction, “Listened to it? Listen to me pal, the only thing we listen to in my car is Adele, Paul Simon, and iLL Nicky!”
I nearly fainted. His wife even threw up my signature hand sign that my fans call, “iLL’s Up” which spells out the acronym, “iLL,” with three fingers.
This experience almost made me evaporate into thin air. I graciously completed the dinner service, and again Bob left a hefty tip in my shirt pocket. He told me how talented he believed I was and confidently encouraged me to keep working, because my success would inevitably come. This was more than any paper tip anyone could ever leave me.
A man of this caliber listened to my work and told me he loved it.
I’ve been up and I’ve been down. I’ve performed for bars with 7 people and enormous venues with 1,000 and more. There will be haters, skeptics and trolls, in any occupation you choose. But one thing I know:
Bob Costas is an iLL Nicky fan, bitch !
Peace and Love,
- iLL Nicky (@TheiLLNicky)
