Ah…breathe deep. Suck it in.
It’s good to be back home, in the cold, where it takes two hours to travel a distance no greater than forty miles on a Tuesday afternoon.
Where thirty car pile ups snarl expressways for hours.
It’s nice to have two feet planted on terra firma after the pilot announced yesterday, after spending nearly twenty minutes in what the airlines call a “holding pattern” (which sounds much better than “hovering over Lake Michigan until we nearly run out of fuel and have to make a decision”) that we were going to “try and land” at Midway. He even went as far as announcing that in winter conditions like the Chicagoland was experiencing yesterday (Feb. 6, 2007) that the standard practice was to “come down hard” and “stop harder” which left me uneasy in my seat.
Yup, welcome back…
After three days in sunny Las Vegas, eN Vee, I have returned a different man.
While most major Sporting News agencies and even a few fellow Bloggers (
Kissing Suzy Kolber,
Deadspin,
With Leather) sent representatives to South Florida (has it struck anyone else strange that they refused to refer to the City of Miami by name?) The Monday AM QB decided it would be a good experiment to buck the trend and send me to Vegas. Here’s what I remember………..
Saturday February 3, 2007.Day started with a Bloody Mary and a fat sandwich from Pot Belly. There were Bears fans everywhere at Midway International. Chicago was abuzz with Super Bowl Dreams. I sat and spoke football with my travel companion. We were both feeling the same…IF the Bears show up and play, they have a chance. The ‘experts’ were off base. Good for Rex for telling that reporter to suck his ass.
The flight was quick…at least it is when you’re snoring your ass off for the majority of the trip. I woke up shortly before final decent into Vegas. A flight attendant came over the speaker telling everyone to take a dollar out and write their seat number on it. He cracked some smart ass joke that he only laughed at.
“You’re all gonna lose money when you land anyways, might as well have a shot at a winner.”
He was a prick. The cash ended up going to someone a few rows back. The frugal fucks actually wrote two seat numbers on one bill.
“Good for them,” I thought to myself. “That’s more money then those two fuckers brought for their whole trip.”
Shortly after the excitement we were on the ground and deplaning. Our bags showed up rather quickly and we hopped a cab to our casino.
Due to some good planning by my part, we had exactly two hours to check in, change into suits, and head to Caesar’s Palace to meet some associates for drinks and dinner before heading to a Comedy Show at the Mirage at 10:30. I had managed to plan it so I wouldn’t be able to gamble away a single dollar before midnight at the earliest.
Little did I know…
We got lost walking in the Forum Shops at Caesars. Then the people we were meeting were late and even though we had dinner reservations we waited an hour to be seated. The opening act at the comedy show was 100 times better than the headliner but got 1/3 the stage time. He wasn't by any means BAD, but the opener kicked his ass.
I won't share his name with the world, but I'll give you this as a hint...His TV Wife...
By the time we got back to our room to put on some street clothes, I was hammered. I had my heart set on hitting the Sports Book and making a few wagers on the Big Game, but instead grabbed a seat at a Blackjack table. This was sometime around midnight.
My associate busted out and headed to bed around three o’clock in the morning. He was just as drunk as I was, mixing a slew of various liquors over the course of the day. But I was determined to stay up, take the joint’s money, and party with my new friends at the table.
There was Tony Blair, a young black man from London. He talked just like Basher from Oceans 11. He was with his cute wife, an Indian woman also with an English accent. I quickly dubbed her Bend it Like Beckham.
“Can you do me one favor?” I was looking her dead in the face smiling ear to ear, trying not to laugh.
“Sure, what is it you wish?” She had a sheepish grin, but she had been drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio every time the waitress came around, so she was a little tipsy also.
“Repeat this sentence. Hello, welcome to Jumbo Mart.”
Reluctantly, she uttered the words, confused, unsure of my intentions.
The dealer and I started laughing hysterically. Evidently he was a fan of E.R. too.
We gambled for hours, drinking heavily, winning, losing, and shooting the shit. They were on a 4 day layover before heading to Australia for his new job. And Better yet, they were completely oblivious to the high light of the weekend.
“Where you guys watching the Superbowl tomorrow?” I was making small talk. We were running out of topics.
“Waaaaas dat ‘mate,” he looked confused.
“You know, the Superbowl. Football. American Football. Helmets and pads and high speed collisions”
“Ah, we don’t give a minute to that game ‘mate.” He was laughing. “It’s not something we follow. It’d be like me asking you if you were taking in today’s Cricket Match, now wouldn’t it?”
He had a point. To the rest of the world, football is Soccer. And here in America, Soccer is something kids play, not a professional sport followed by virtually everyone with a pulse. It’s strange to look at a sport that means so much to our culture in the eyes of someone who knows nothing about it. Here’s this kid from England in Las Vegas on a HUGE sporting weekend in America, and he has no clue.
We sat and talked a while about the strangeness of the whole thing. Eventually he busted out and headed off. I sat and played for a while until a strange man came over and sat right next to me. There were four other open chairs, but he sat close by and talked even closer.
I quickly learned he had been at the casino for a week. He was moving from Tucson to LA to become an actor.
“That’s thinking outside the box,” I quipped. The dude was creeping me out.
After a few hours he finally leaned in and asked, “So, are you holdin’ man?”
I knew now what his M.O. was.
“No man, I’m not ‘holdin’ shit. First off, I’m no addict. Second off, I flew in from Chicago, so even if I was how the hell am I supposta get shit through security?”
“Well I got a joint if you wanna come up and smoke a bit and catch some breakfast in a while. You’ll smoke a little won’t you man?”
He was giving off the creepiest vibe I’ve ever felt in my life. He seemed like a normal fella, but something about him was fucked.
“No thanks man. I’m gonna go up in a bit and pass out. I’ve been at this since midnight and I’ve been drinking since this afternoon. I really need to catch a few winks.”
“Alright man, that’s cool. I’m gonna hit the bathroom, think about it. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He got up and walked away. I practically threw my chips at the dealer.
“Color me up. I’ve had enough.”
He knew I wanted to get the hell out of there and quickly handed me my chips.
“Have a good evening sir,” I said to the pit boss as I walked away, flipping a $100 chip on the table.
“Mr. B, its 7:30 am, so the correct term would be ‘have a nice morning or nice day’ not good evening,” he was busting balls still.
Earlier in the night he mentioned he was from Detroit and was picking Indy to win the Superbowl. I was getting a little more vocal, and I always try and bend a pit boss’ ear. You want them to remember your face, but not necessarily your name.
“You’re from Detroit, what the hell do you know about football? Your team couldn’t beat themselves. Your GM is certifiably retarded. Marty Morningwig was your coach for chrissake. And YOU’RE telling me about football? HA!”
I strolled over to the elevators, looking over my shoulder the entire way. As I stepped through the doors and put my key card in the reader to be whisked away to the 35th floor, I had visions of getting all pissed to the sheets with that guy, heading up to his room, and waking up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidney missing.
In my old age I was starting to make wise decisions. And with one colorful chip in my pocket worth the initial $1,000 I had started the session with over seven hours prior, I knew I was going to make some wise decisions in the Sports Book the next morning.
After all, in six hours my Chicago Bears were going to win the Super Bowl.
I'm going to step out while I'm at it...I'm officially going on record saying the Bears will be worse off next season without Rivera.
Rot in HELL Lovie.
After a week of suspensions brought on by illegal aerodynamic adjustments and even Jet Fuel additives found in gas tanks, the race got underway Sunday afternoon. I’ll spare you the details early on, let’s just say 40 cars made an ass load of left turns for hours on end. Some crashed into each other, the wall, etc.
But the story of the race wasn’t Martin’s inability to hold the lead. It wasn’t Harvick’s jump from 29th to 1st in 22 laps. It wasn't NASCAR's decision to let the two drivers race it out to the finish line without a caution flag.
“Ah Fuck!” The short, fat man in front of me announced. He was wearing a Colts’ jersey.
