Years ago, Dave Portnoy gave me his phone number.
But that’s not what happened.
I bet it’s tons.
Dave Portnoy, right down the middle, my friend, boss, mentor, but mostly friend.
That’s how I knew him.
That’s how I thought we would text over the ensuing years.
Something changes in people when they make hundreds of millions of dollars.
Whatever you thought this was, it isn’t.
Still, there were periods of robust correspondence.
But when I found him, his face fell.
Dave and I have had plenty of great exchanges like this over the years.
It’s a shame as there were some truly historical gems in there.
I won’t lie: once Dave fizzled me, things went a little dark.
These messages were devoid of structure and punctuation, the ravings of a man in full spiral.
He has that effect, you know.
You wouldn’t know; you don’t have his number.
But my story is not unusual.
Through the support of family and mood-stabilizing drugs, I found my footing again.
That’s an eternity.
For the first time in recent memory, I held the cards.
You want me to be part of our premier game show?
Let me weigh it, bud.
Let me toss that shit around.
Privately, I was over the fucking moon.
She spelled her name in a preposterous way but I forgave that given how playful she seemed.
Do you know how many times I wrote and rewrote that message?
I wanted him to know I was bummed but cool enough to handle it with grace.
Tough luck, but I’ll live.
As in, I thank thee for trodding across my heart in dirtied stilettos, Madame Pain.
Who’s that at the door, humiliation, ruin, and shame?
Let ‘em all in, the more the scarier.
Texting Dave is like living in Scott Hanson’s witching hourwhere losses become wins and wins become losses.
For this very Monday, I received the latest:
The boy is off the bubble, folks.
And I think it will stick this time.
Not the Dave I know.
Not the Dave I text.
