May 22nd, 2025

 A guy who treated me like a dick died yesterday.

It was the tail end of my senior year of high school down in Indianapolis when the Baltimore Colts were stolen in the middle of the night. The team was owned by the Irsay family, and their 24-year-old son Jimmy had just moved to town.

I was working valet at a place called the Manor House Club, just up the way from Dear Old Cathedral. The club was an old mansion the Catholics bought from a banker named Fletcher. It was a good gig that paid well, and I learned to drive a stick shift on the job.

The manager was a jagoff named Marvin. The head valet was an older Black gentleman named Jimmy. Marvin insisted on calling him "James," which drove Jimmy nuts. But everyone loved Old Jimmy... the members, the staff. He took me under his wing and looked out for me. Jimmy taught me a lot during my valet parking days.

Young Jimmy Irsay had already built a reputation around town. Spoiled. Entitled. Rich. And proud of it.

One Saturday evening, the place was packed with a big wedding and busy dinner crowd. In walks Jimmy Irsay wearing flip-flops, swim trunks, and a T-shirt. Everyone else is in jackets and ties, but he struts in like he owns the joint.

He tells Marvin he wants to grab some beers to take back home. Marvin, being the brown-nosing type, snaps his fingers and tells Jimmy, our Jimmy to go fetch some beers for the young Irsay.

“Big John, can you help me grab beers for this motha fucker?” Jimmy asks me.

We loaded up a box with an assortment of six-packs and brought it to the foyer, where Irsay was waiting.

"You can carry it over to my place for me, big boy,” he said.

I looked at Jimmy. He just tilted his head and made that little click noise he used to make. A sigh with a nod. His way of saying, go on, Big John.... just get it done.

So I walked with Irsay to his house. Not a word the whole way. When we got to the back door, I went to step inside and he snapped, “Don’t come in here. Leave it on the patio table, kid.”

That was it.

No thank you....No couple bucks.....

Just that smug little command. I probably missed out on tips while hauling his beer, too. I never volunteered for another Irsay errand again.

Forty years later, I’d forgotten that moment until the news of his death brought it back. I’m glad my friends in Indianapolis have an NFL team, but to me, they’ll always be the Baltimore Colts.

It is going to be another cold and rainy day in Chicagoland. Try not to be a dick to your valet.