Recently I got tickets to go to a game against the Phoenix Suns. I was going to go with a friend, but he wasn't able to make it, so I ended up going by myself.
And that is where you, loyal reader, come in. What follows is an account of possibly one of the most pathetic things a human can do: attend a sporting event by himself.
I don't have anything against doing things by myself. I go out to dinner once an a while by myself. I've been to several movies recently by myself. I don't mind. I'm fabulous company.
But a sporting event or concert is something different. I drew the line at going to see Neil Diamond by myself when the person I was supposed to go with bailed.
I had the tickets, but I don't think I could live with myself if I ever had to tell someone, "Yeah, I've seen Neil Diamond. By myself. And I cried during September Morn" If the person I told that to didn't put a bullet in my head on the spot, I would have to do it for them later.
So I traded my tickets for a limited edition Neil Diamond figurine. God, I hate myself.
Anyways, back to the game at hand. I wanted to see the Suns play, the Verizon Center is like 15 mins from my office, so I decided to treat myself to a night on the town with myself.
Yes, I realize that's what divorced fifty-year old women tell themselves. I didn't say I was proud of it. Want to know how awesome my life is? I share many experiences with 50-year-old divorcees.
Hanging myself in the shower has never sounded so good.
I got to the game with plenty of time to spare, and I headed to the Will Call window. In front of me, I eavesdropped on a most interesting conversation.
There was a woman in front of me, with two younger kids. She was very attractive, and she was arguing with the lady at the Will Call about showing her ID to pick up her tickets.
"I know the name is different, but I bought these tickets a week ago, and I just got my name changed today."
I was hooked. Immediately I had to know more. Why did this woman change her name? Why is going to a hoops game a priority post-name change? Why the kids?
It got even thicker. And no, not my penis. Well, yes my penis. But it wasn't the only thing. The plot also thickened. Though not as much as my penis.
She was sitting in the upper section along with me, and I was behind her on the escalator. The escalator to the top stops on the club level, and you have to get off and get on another escalator to go all the way to the top, probably so the people on the club level can see the human scum who sit at the top, and will never sit anywhere else but the club level again.
As this lady and her kids passed the line of people getting into the club level, she clearly recognized a similarly hit MILF, who was waiting to get into the club. The mystery lady exchanged greetings with the club lady, and that got me even more interested.
Let's recap. This woman:
- Has changed her name in the last three hours, ergo her life is in shambles
- Made a point to go to the Wiz game, to watch a horrible team from horrible seats
- Her kids are with her
- She has at least one wealthy friend, who she ran into
Odds are that she just got divorced, and wanted to spend the quality time with her kids, but that's pedestrian, so I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.
Sadly, this was the last I saw of the mystery woman. Her seats were not near mine, and my standard fantasy of some sort of covert bathroom dry-humping did not come to fruition. Such is life.
As the woman faded out of my life, I stopped at the beer stand to get a tall, frothy glass of "Life is okay after all," made my the good people at Budweiser. For all the crap that professional sports get about concession costs, a 24-oz. beer for seven bucks isn't too bad, especially compared to car prices in D.C.
I took my seat, and I entertained myself by watching the pre-game jumbotron fesitivites, and listening to the PA annoucner spew his filler. Some highlights:
- The PA guy announced that it was illegal to sell or buy scalped tickets. Oh really? If you're inside the game, it doesn't really matter who the fuck you got your tickets from, because you're already in the arena.
- The jumbotron had a big advertisement about the penalties for underage drinking, then an ad that no one was allowed more than two alcoholic beverages (fuckfaces), followed by an ad for delicious DeWar's Scotch. Good placement.
There must have been a hole in my beer glass, because it was empty before the game began. I went to go refill it, and got back into my seat just in time to see the Wizards cheerleaders start their pre-game routine.
I love looking at hot ladies as much as the next fella, but these chicks had something to be desires. When you have a cheerleader with love handles, you know that you only have nine wins.
As the game began, I started to think about writing a blog post about the game. It would be just me and you, dear reader, watching the game, and enjoying it.
Though, when the wave of crushing loneliness hit around the second quarter, that didn't help too much. Fuck my life.
People can text messages up to the jumbotron, and they're usually stupid things like, "Hey Stan!" and shit like that. I briefly considered texting: "If I blow my brains out, will anyone on this godforsaken rock care?"
My seats were so high up that the Chipotle blimp couldn't climb to my altitude to drop free burrito coupons, which was also sobering. Or drunkening. Yeah, drunkening.
Even though I was in the upper section, a surprising number of seats were filled. I thought no one was coming to the the ol' Zards anymore, but the people were here. I wanted to scream, "Damn you people! Go back to your shantys!" in the worst way, but I didn't.
What I did do was drink beer and hope that some married chick with a single friend who loves basketball and needed a place to stay tonight would sit next to me. No such luck. Instead there was a prick behind me who spent the whole fucking game complaining that The Dark Knight wasn't up for best picture.
Apparently there is a whole new generation of motivational songs that play at sporting events. I grew up with Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll Part II" and Tag Team's "Whoomp! (There it is!)", but apparently that has passed me by.
Now they play M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" and Kevin Rudolf's "Let it Rock," which I must say, isn't much of an improvement.
Also, I noticed that there aren't many things in this world more awkward than the Kiss Cam that they do at games.
They always end up getting one couple who is actually brother and sister, one couple who don't know each other, and they always focus on two members of the opposing team. If there's one thing that's funnier than interracial homo-eroticism, I haven't seen it yet.
Much like the Kiss Cam, the Dance Cam comes with it's own stigma. They always show a bunch of ugly white kids who have no rhythm, but they are obnoxious enough to get on camera. It always ends with a little dreadlocked black kid who has more rhythm than every whitey in the place combined (it's genetic, you know) and everyone applauds.
I knew I was feeling pretty good, but I didn't realize that I was actually pretty drunk until I let out what I thought was a quiet burp during the game, and the people sitting courtside looked up at me.
But I managed to make it out of the game without causing a huge scene, and other than the bottomless abyss of lonliness, it was good time.
This is the first in what should be a series of posts called, "Field Trips." I don't call them "On the Road," because I'm not really traveling, but they do involve me going to other places. So look for that. Or don't. I don't give a fuck.
1 comment:
I don't believe there ever was a Neil Diamond figurine.
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