I'm pleased to announce that "American Grunt" will be published by the team at Ballast Books out of Jupiter, Florida! You can find their current catalog at: https://ballastbooks.com/purchase

So the first part of the journey is over. I'll keep sending updates as I get information, but it's looking like a late spring/early summer release after proofreading, book design, etc.

In the meantime here's another snippet I cut out of the book about when I almost got killed working stadium security in Jacksonville.

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All of the games I worked that semester were pretty chill. Other than dealing with smokers and one rich dude during the Seahawks game whose level of upset was massively disproportionate to the size of the small wet spot lingering beneath his seat from an overnight shower, I didn’t have to deal with too much insanity – which was definitely lucky considering the amount of closely packed people getting intoxicated while watching America’s most aggressive team sport. Notice however, how I deftly said, “too much” insanity rather than “no” insanity. Because there was one fun moment where I almost had my head knocked into the next section.

At the beginning of the fourth quarter of a surprisingly competitive game against the Chicago Bears, I got stationed under the luxury boxes, looking down on about twenty-eight rows of seats in the lower bowl. Halfway through the quarter I’d admittedly zoned out and was mainly just watching the game when all of the sudden an older lady on the end of the row below me turns around and screeches….

“Well aren’t you gonna do something?”

My mind quickly slammed back to reality. Ah…right, I was technically at work. “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

She grunted and forcefully pointed down at three drunk rednecks in teal Jaguars jerseys who were on the stairs yelling up at three large black men in Bears gear. The Chicago fans were standing in the middle of a row at the bottom of my section and looked like the last three dudes cut from the team’s linebacking corps at the end of training camp. The Jags fans had mullets and beer guts. There was a lot of hostile pointing and threats being tossed around.

“Oh shit,” I muttered, taking off down the stairs.

The lengthy descent gave me time to contemplate how likely it was that the situation would resolve itself before I arrived. Surely by the time I bounded down fifty-six steps, the cops would be there to break it up or cooler heads would prevail - which would be a huge win for me because I’d look heroic without actually having to do anything. With zero plan whatsoever, I hit the aisle and squeezed past the Jags fans, whose angry faces now matched the color of their necks - arriving just in time to put myself smack in the middle of the impending brawl. I glanced around for all the backup that was surely pouring in from behind me to help. Any second now they’d be hustling up the stairs to put out the fire. Any second now. Any. Second. Now.

Well….fuck.

I anchored myself between the amped up groups and tried in vain to keep them apart like a boxing referee. “Hey, guys. It’s not worth it, calm the hell…”

I felt a tug on the back of my shirt and then suddenly a whitish blur flew past my right eye and thumped into the shoulder of one of the Chicago guys. I barely had time to formulate alarmed thoughts before the 6’3” 250 pound dude who’d just gotten hit pulled back his manhole cover sized fist.

I can see the dude’s face perfectly to this day. Probably about forty or so, head shaved bald, hints of a mustache, a single gold earring and an anger in his eyes that it’s never beneficial to witness that close in a man that big. In fact, he was so jacked about getting punched that I don’t believe he registered that I existed as he tried to interrupt the game by knocking the redneck’s head onto the field.

“Well, Brent, that was a great catch by Conway on the sideline. Amazing body control to get that second foot down and….”

“Not to interrupt you, Jack, but it seems that something just landed behind the Bears huddle at the twenty, let’s call it the nineteen-yard line. It looks like…is that a human head?”

“Wow, it is indeed a human head. A nice spot by you, Brent. Boy, you sure do see something new every week in the NFL. Ah, Jacksonville, it’s going to take a while for us to get used to your peccadillos.”

If you’ve ever been on the side of the highway when an eighteen-wheeler roars by, you know what it felt like as the Chicago dude’s fist barreled past my ear. When I turned around, the Jaguars fan was still alive, so it obviously didn’t land flush. Realistically the fact that I was between them is the only thing that saved the redneck from life in the vegetable aisle. There’s currently a sixty-year-old dude drinking a beer in his Lake City, Florida trailer who has zero idea that he owes me his life.

Having barely missed getting my face destroyed, I decided that another place to stand might be a good idea. I turned and put a shoulder into the redneck to knock him off balance, then leapt down the last six steps to the landing. Below me, my buddy Craig was happily enjoying a cloudless Jacksonville Sunday.

“Craig!” I yelled. 

He started looking all around for the sound of my voice. 

“Above you!”

“Oh, hey man…”

“Get the cops!”

“What? Why?”

I pointed in the exact same manner the old lady had done at the beginning of the whole fiasco. Craig had the same reaction. “Oh shit!”

And I swear on my life, this next part is true. As I hopped back up the steps to supervise the bloodletting, Craig started shouting toward a gaggle of cops who were standing together obviously discussing all the ways they could best serve and protect the public and not in any way scoping out women. The cops either couldn’t hear or chose to ignore him so Craig dashed toward them whirling his arms. When that didn’t work, he did the one thing any sensible person would do – he leapt onto the nearest cop’s back and hung there like a kid whose dad just got home from a business trip.*

At this point the cops all turned around and went, “Oh shit!” before running toward me, thus becoming the backup I’d originally hoped for. They dragged all the agitated dudes away, each of them mentioning how much they’d paid for their tickets and claiming their complete and total innocence in the matter. As quickly as it started, it was all over. The people around them filtered back into their seats and resumed ya know…watching the game. I let out a breath and looked around.

I guess I uh, go back up to my spot now? And stand there again?

It was a weird trip back up the steps as a short-lived celebrity as random people fist bumped and low-fived me for almost having my skull punched through.

“Nice job, buddy! Way to go!”

“Big balls! Attaboy!”

“You, sir, deserve a nacho!”

I got back up to the top, expecting the lady who’d started the whole thing to give me a very appreciative smile and thumbs up. And hopefully another nacho. I was starving.

“Took you long enough,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re lucky that wasn’t worse.”

She was right. I was very lucky that wasn’t worse. It would be far from the last time I nearly went from work straight to the morgue.

Stay tuned!

* Craig was like 5’8” 140 pounds. Please don’t try this at home. This is a move you will only survive if you’re a small white dude with a ponytail.