On Wednesday, the only thing that happened in Denver sports was nothing. Seriously. There was a pickup game at the Jewish community center, some kid in Parker played Madden, and that’s it.
It was the rare calendar day on which the Rockies and the rest of baseball were off. The Broncos don’t start camp until next week. The Nuggets played their final summer league game the day before. No Avs, no Rapids, no Mammoth, no Grizzlies, no Gold, no Zephyrs.
So, normally in this column space, myself, Mark Kiszla or Woody Paige would analyze or criticize the performance of Denver sports people. But because there weren’t sports Wednesday, I decided to analyze and criticize the performance of just Denver people.
Let’s start with you, paperboy. You throw with the accuracy of nervous Manny Ramirez snapping in shotgun formation. Who did you beat out for this job, Tim Tebow? I woke up Wednesday and it took me three minutes to finally locate the morning’s paper, though your hit streak of my front shrubbery is reaching Nolan Arenado territory. I’ve scouted your throws the past 60 mornings, and you’re whipping these throws like a pitcher with a whopping WHIP. You’re like the Chad Bettis of paperboys — perhaps they should send you down to deliver the Colorado Springs Gazette.
And don’t even get me started about this guy who picks up my trash — Denny Neagle picked up more trash on Colfax than you have this month.
I walked over to the coffee shop with my paper, and there’s no other way to say it: This barista was em-barist-ing (in fact, almost as em-barist-ing as printing that pun in a major metro newspaper). There were warm iced coffees and late lattes. The barista moved with the speed of Orlando Franklin dancing “The Electric Slide.” The morning rush is your fourth quarter, man. This is why they pay you the star bucks at Starbucks, why you’re their go-to guy, but your Caramel Macchiato is as good as Carmelo in the playoffs.
But just when I had lost my faith, the waitress at breakfast restored it with a masterpiece of a performance. Flawless description of the specials. Smooth delivery of the orange juice. Impeccable placement of plates. This was Ubaldo Jimenez pitching a no-no, Missy Franklin swimming in London, Gabe Landeskog on Tinder.
After breakfast, I headed West on Interstate 70 to the airport — a nice, leisurely drive, interrupted by ineptitude. The GPS took me to Limon! The voice kept channeling Peyton Manning calling audibles — “Recalculating! Recalculating!” — and my voice kept channeling Josh McDaniels — “Do your job, GPS!”
I finally made my way to DIA to pick up my guest, who wanted to see “the real Denver,” so of course I took him to 16th Street Mall, where the locals gather. After lunch at the Hard Rock Café, we walked around and were greeted by many folks passing out meaningless pamphlets like Wes Welker at the Derby. And seemingly every block a Denverite asked us for change, probably for those deceiving parking meters that make it seem like you don’t need to pay after a certain time (but you do).
Soon the sun set, and my friend and I decided to do what all guys do on a weeknight — watch some sports. Or talk sports. Or watch people talking about sports. But Wednesday was the weirdest of days, so we could only salvage the night by watching highlights of the Tour de France. We joked that if we were to fly there and ride a bike around, within a few years of doping investigation, we’d be named the default winner and runner-up of the 2014 Tour de France.
Thursday couldn’t come fast enough. As I typed this, I got giddy thinking about searching through my shrubbery to read this and the rest of the paper, maybe even some stuff about actual sports.
Benjamin Hochman: bhochman@denverpost.com or twitter.com/hochman
