A Basketball Odyssey

Anybody have any idea how long it’s been since the Spurs last lost four straight? Oh, wait…the Laker series in last year’s playoffs. They didn’t lose even three straight during the regular season, even when Duncan was hurt. They do have a history of playoff flameouts, I guess, though they all seem to have come against LA. At least that’s some small pathetic hope for the Suns; they just need Kobe.

How ‘bout how long since anybody’s dropped 110 on the Pistons? Okay, trick question: Allen Iverson and the Sixers did it to them in the first round (115, in actual point of fact). That was after Iverson scored 39 with 10 assists and 5 steals against them in that ass-whuppin’ of a final regular-season matchup. They always have trouble with Iverson, but it’s unusual for anyone else to do this to them.

I’m pleased that the Heat won and looked good doing it. I was beginning to have serious fears about the possibility of a Pistons-Spurs final. I know, people who consider themselves basketball purists would love a final between the league’s top two defensive teams. Personally, though, I like a bit of scoring. Football, baseball, and hockey are defensive sports, but basketball is all about offense. I watch to see dunks and great shooters and fast breaks and mad passing and alley-oops.

At least Detroit’s defense is fun to watch, with Ben Wallace and Tayshaun Prince flying all over the place. Tayshaun’s block of Reggie’s lay-up in Game Five was easily the play of last year’s playoffs. Even at the Union, where nobody really cares about basketball, everyone came out of their seats for that one.

San Antonio is soooo boring, though. I mean, I know they’re a great team, but who gets excited watching them? Even when they win, they’re dull (well, except Manu Ginobili, who’s the absolute truth). They don’t put teams away with a flourish, the way Phoenix and Miami and even Detroit do. They just kinda strangle ‘em slowly, like a six-pack ring around the neck of a baby bird. Two minutes to go, the game’s tied…and then the other team just never scores again, and the Spurs win by five, and you just can’t understand what’s happened. How much fun is that?

* * * * * * *

With everything that’s going on at Hank’s, the weekend was kind of a basketball odyssey for me, watching the games in unfamiliar places. I caught games 3 & 4 of the West Final at the Union, on Saturday and Monday. I’m always at the Union on Monday, of course, to see Katy. But this was my first Saturday there in a long time. It’s not a bad spot for watching early on, because on Saturday it’s usually dead ‘til sometime between midnight and one. At that point, though, seemingly everyone in town shows up all at once and the place gets mad crowded. On Saturday everyone showed up with about five minutes to play, which pissed me off: I’d suffered through that abomination of a game and then, just when Phoenix came roaring back and made it interesting, I had people hanging all over me.

Last night went better. There wasn’t much going on and what was happening wasn’t directed at me, so I got to watch the game in peace. And, of course, Phoenix won, so that woulda cheered me up no matter what. It was the kind of dogfight I’d expected every game in this series to be, and Phoenix showed they were tough enough at the end to pull it out. It got a bit scary towards the end, though…Phoenix has the game in hand and then you blink and the Spurs are down one with a minute and a half to play, and you’re saying “Oh, hell, here we go again.” Amare Stoudamire wouldn’t let that happen, though. His block of Duncan late was classic. It was the kind of play that turns a series (like Tayshaun’s, mentioned above). Of course, there’s a big difference between a series-shifting play in #5 of a two-all playoff and the same play in #4 when you’re down three-love. This beautiful play probably came too late to save Phoenix. It’ll motor ‘em to victory in #5, probably, but again, four straight against the Spurs is probably too much to ask. They can use it to build on for next year, I guess.

[Oh, and to all those who thought that block should have been a goaltend: you will NEVER see goaltending called on a dunk attempt unless the defender actually sticks his hand through the hoop to block the shot, so shut up and stop whining.]

There's still hope for Phoenix, and it all comes down to that tired old cliché: take it one game at a time. Last night they were playing not to get swept. It's all about pride. Now they're playing not to lose the series at home; don't let the Spurs celebrate on your home floor. If they win that one, then it's trying to get back home one more time, and trying to tie the series up. And of course, if they win that one, it's three-all and the West championship belongs to whoever shows up in force for the Game Seven free-for-all, on their own floor. Tall order, but not entirely impossible.

In between those games was the East #3, on Sunday. Now, the Union is closed on Sundays, so I needed some other place to watch the game (plus I don’t wanna be in the same place every night, unless it’s Hank’s). When I left the library I headed for Jake’s, but I saw Remedies on the way. I’ve noticed it before, of course, because it’s on Fourth Avenue between the library and my apartment, but I’d never been in there. My friend Kyle had recently recommended it to me, and I thought, “What the hell. You live once.”

It isn’t a bad place. It’s a little more well-lit than I’m used to, because it’s also a pool hall ($2 per person per hour, if you’re interested), and every night they have a particular beer going for $1 a bottle (and they have a Rolling Rock night, so I’m gonna be there for that). It’s the first bar I’ve been into in a long time that doesn’t have a wood bar, but really that makes a nice change. I don’t know from building materials, but I think this stuff is called Formica. And it’s green, of course; green furnishings aren't unusual around here because of Marshall.

The bartender was someone I recognized; he’d been a regular customer of mine when I worked at the Union, but I don’t remember his name. I didn’t see anyone else I knew, except that Kyle came in for about five minutes on his way to Goodfellas. I did meet a couple of people, though, including an art student named Lisa who saw me proofreading work for this blog. She read a bit of it and liked it, and I gave her the URL, so hopefully she’s reading this now. Hello, Lisa! Anyway, she says that Remedies is the best bar in town and I should come in more often. I’ll make an effort.

It has occurred to me that my trouble with Hank’s might be good news for everyone reading this thing, though, because I’ll be scoping out new bars all the time. This blog might become more of a critical appraisal of local watering holes, and those of you from out of town will visit already knowing where you want to drink. Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe I can eventually trade free drinks for positive mentions. ‘Cause believe me, I’ll be as corrupt as you can imagine. I will definitely abuse my power.

* * * * * * *

There’s something I love about walking alone into a new bar. Not going into a place with someone else, especially if that someone has been there before, but alone. It feels like starting a whole new life, really. Maybe that’s just me, though; back when I was buzzing around the country, the first thing I did in every new town was find a likely-looking bar. They’re the best places to find temporary work and pointers about cheap places to eat; and there’s always a chance you’ll find someone who’s willing to put you up for a few days or weeks or whatever, depending on how well you get along.

Anyway, yeah, walking alone into a new bar feels like starting a new life. Probably, though, that’s because, for the last sixteen years, every time I’ve walked alone into a new bar that is exactly what I was doing.

There’s a town in Ohio called Yellow Springs. It’s a little ultra-liberal enclave in the southwest corner of the state, near Antioch University. A guy I knew, a very astute Political Science professor, referred to it as “The People’s Republic of Yellow Springs.” The college, incidentally, was attended by Charles Manson, or at least he spent a lot of time there. I used to get drunk and walk around the campus checking the trees and anything else that might have been carved by young Manson with a pocket-knife; “Charlie was here,” or a heart that said “C.M. + J.H.” or whatever. No luck, though.

Anyway, this was early in my traveling days, and I didn’t have any skills for it. Certainly, I didn’t know how to do it alone, going to a place where I knew no one. But I got cleaned up and walked around town, checking everything out. Yellow Springs is very small, and you can walk the whole place quicker than you’d expect.

I would eventually discover that the town had an excellent deli, and a Dairy Queen-type place which sold wonderful banana milkshakes. There was a surprising little grocery (Weaver's) that didn’t look like much but had a fantastic array of imported foods (one of those places that are bigger on the inside than on the outside). There was Ha-Ha Pizza, where you could get a regular old pepperoni-and-sausage pie but which specialized in obscure toppings (bean and alfalfa sprouts, spinach, artichoke hearts, apple and pineapple; I know you see more of that nowadays, but in 1991 it was kinda shocking). Best of all, there was a little comic book/used bookstore called Dark Star. I used to go there every afternoon, buy a fifty-cent paperback that could be anything from Agatha Christie or Conan to Camus or Flannery O’Connor, read the whole book that night and come back the next day for another.

But I didn't know any of that the first night (except the banana milkshake thing), and the place that drew me was the Gulch, a little bar with a pool table in the back and an old jukebox that played 45’s. The bartender was a terrific flamer; he was wearing a shirt that said “I’m not A bitch, I’m THE bitch, and that’s MISS bitch to you.” I struck up a conversation with him about his shirt, and we talked most of the night. He took a shine to me, poured my whiskey sours extra strong, only charged me for about half of them, and (most important) never ID’d me. I was at the Gulch every night after that until I left town (which was only about three or four weeks).

I had felt, walking around that evening, the thrill of being out on my own for the first time. It’s an elating feeling, a feeling that you’re larger than life and the whole world belongs to you. But it’s kinda scary, too; very unsettling. I felt more alone than I ever have, before or since. I had wanted to feel alone, I guess, and I felt strong and brave and grown-up, but still, the loneliness was very heavy on me.

By the time I walked out of the Gulch, very drunk and with some new friends, all the loneliness was gone. Really, from that day on, I never looked back, even though I moved back home for a couple of years later on. The nervousness of a new place was always tempered with the knowledge that I could walk into a bar in any town in the country and meet people and find what I needed, and make for myself something that was a little bit like home, and reinvent myself however I needed to be. All the fear drains away when you first feel at home in a new bar, and that was what kept me moving, and what makes me regret being semi-settled now.

I didn’t get quite that feeling at Remedies, of course; I was a block and a half from the apartment I’ve lived in for over a year, maybe a hundred feet from the library I work in and the campus where I’ve attended classes, and a block from Calamity, which along with the Southern Belle is as close as I’ve had to a home since I left home. It wasn’t nearly as powerful a feeling, and there’s no reason it should have been. But it was an echo of that feeling: It made me glad, and a little wistful, too; and it made me homesick for being homeless, if that makes any sense.

I will definitely have to go to new places more often. Though for tonight, I just need a spot to watch the East #4, and Remedies is awful close. I wonder if Tuesday is Rolling Rock night?