Saturday, April 27, 2012; ~2pm - I'm settling into what, for me, is an ideal day: plenty of kush, plenty of good food, two screens of poker tournaments, and (more importantly) a third one showcasing the first day of something I've spent months expecting to miss, and a few beyond that waiting for: The NBA Playoffs.
While I couldn't possibly ask for more without feeling a bit greedy, my good friend (and fellow basketball junkie) Alex Livingston and I were about to sweeten the pot by talking ourselves into going to a playoff game. We struck up a conversation, mused about which series would be the most compelling, and not an hour later, we were booked for an adventure down to Memphis for Game 2. My first live playoff game: Dream about it for 20 years; make it a reality in 20 minutes. Why not?
Now, being the financially irresponsible NBA addict that I am, I thought it was perfectly normal and reasonable to travel 2400 miles on a complete impulse to watch a single playoff game, but judging from the number of crooked looks I got from people inquiring why I was in town, apparently I'm wrong. Oh well.
Rather than base our trip out of Tennessee, we thought it would be neat to check out nearby Tunica, Mississippi: Just a half hour outside of Memphis, it was Vegas on the Bayou, allegedly boasting some of the best conditions for us avid poker players; a fun atmosphere, very soft games and generous gratuities. Then we actually arrived, found out that Tunica's about as fun as a lobotomy, and the geographic visual equivalent of drying paint. I was unimpressed by the game selection, underwhelmed by a five-star steakhouse for the first time in my life, and, in the climax, spent two hours wandering on the side of the highway under scorching sun (you should see my sexy beater tan) in an effort to find a drug store and replace the moisturizer and shaving cream that TSA stole from me. "Why didn't you call a cab?" you might ask? Oh, because for some reason, in a senior-filled tourist trap where nothing except the next casino/hotel is within walking distance,
there are no cabs. Not one. Incredible. This would have been problematic for our planned night of drinking, only there were no bars either. Within 20 hours of arriving, we called an audible, booked a new hotel in Memphis, and arranged to fly out two days earlier rather than prolong our misery. Basically, if you're ever planning on going to Tunica, don't.
We arrived in Memphis a few hours before tipoff, got settled in our new digs, and went to explore the vibrant downtown district. For the uneducated, Memphis boasts itself as the home of Blues music, and represents very well. Beale St; the one directly outside of FedEx Forum; is a southern-themed George St; complete with awesome BBQ, a litany of live music, and people openly drinking copious amounts of beer in the street, not to mention the bars that line both sides of it. Well, when in Rome... After some pulled pork at B.B. King's, some body shots at Coyote Ugly (ya,
that Coyote Ugly), and enough beer to give the Duff Man a rough morning, we rolled over to the game. (Might be worth noting at this point that between our booking and arrival, Memphis had suffered the worst 4th quarter collapse in NBA playoff history; so people were drunkenly carrying around a very volatile combination of anxiety and ambition that made us both fear for our lives if the Grizz were to lose again).
By the time we got to our seats, I was buzzing fairly hard, and things hadn't even gotten
that aggressive yet. So I stole a move from Grantland's Rembert Browne, and jotted down notes on my phone to recall the evening's memorable moments, when my memory for specific details was sure to be at its worst:
"WhiteOut!!!": We rolled into the arena an hour before tipoff (I wasn't about to half-ass this), and were immediately blinded by the white and yellow combo of "Believe" t-shirts and towels draped over every one of the arena's 18, 119 seats (man, would that job SUCK). It looked pretty cool, but the effect was only amplified as those seats were gradually filled with bellowing fans (and every last one of them was, or at least so says nba.com), wearing the shirts with pride and waving the towels like they were crazed football fans in Pïttsburgh. You see it on TV all the time, but to the naked eye, it's much more profound. Those who chose not to adorn the tees were exposed on the jumbotron, offered shirts by arena staff, and loudly chastised by the crowd until they put one on. #Awesome (peep the photo above)
"Dave": After about half an hour, our section started to fill out; we were joined in the seats on our left by Dave; a pretty cool guy (even after conversing with us at length and
not introducing us to his probably-too-hot-for-him girlfriend), who despite his admitted lack of in-depth knowledge, was as enthusiastic a couch-mate as you could ask for. To our right was another couple, one who didn't speak to us all game after Alex offered the (snobby) girl a sincere apology for accidentally snaring her towel. In front of us was a family of four, who were clearly dragged there by the father, an evident hoop-head. More on that in a second...
"beat LA! beat LA!": The pregame was an absolute perfect storm of NBA enthusiasm: a bunch of overly-intoxicated fans losing it for an upstart team that had left them yearning for years, suddenly gotten very good, and more recently, suffered a historic collapse that left them bloodthirsty for revenge. "Beat LA!! Beat LA!!" rang out so loud you couldn't hear yourself think as fans rendered their seats obsolete (if you were "sitting" in the lower bowl, at any given point during most the game, you were likely watching the guy in front of you wave a towel) and erased any regret I might've had about passing up the OKC fans in their favor.
"CP3 isn't human": Seeing Chris Paul play live has been on my Bucket List for several years now, and he still managed to insult my expectations - in a very good way. Watching this relative midget dominate the biggest athletes in the World with more precision and poise than I can put into words is one of those things you just have to see for real; TV just doesn't do it justice. He's no taller than six feet (I've stood right behind him in line at McDonalds and can tell you this very confidently), and yet so far above everyone else.
"Vinnys clueless": Paul's brilliance is starkly contrasted by his coach; watching Vinny Del Negro in person is almost as fascinating, because you get to see all the things that go on off-camera: his puzzled expressions, his overly-animated gestures at awkward moments, his players completely ignoring him. He was the recurring comic relief throughout the game.
"Rudy Gay bad pass reaction": Early in the first quarter, Rudy Gay is streaking along the left wing on the break, anticipating a pass that Mike Conley sends several feet in front of him and clean into the first row. Gay freezes dead in his tracks, holding the triple-threat position for several seconds, while looking over at Conley in disbelief.
"Sager Sighting!!", "Jerry the King": As I know TNT is broadcasting, I've spent a good amount of time playing a slightly easier game of Where's Waldo; trying to find a man wearing the ugliest suit in America amid a sea of white shirts. I spot him chasing down Vinny D for the standard "end-of-first-visiting-coach" interview (rocking something that Brick Tamland would've put together on an off day), and for just a few seconds, wish I was at home, so I could hear this meeting of minds. Of course, as I'm thinking this, the jumbotron zooms in on a conveniently-placed Clippers fan courtside. He's acting very boisterous and drawing the ire of the crowd, when, out of nowhere, appears Memphis native and wrestling legend Jerry "The King" Lawler - rocking a crown and custom "King" Grizzlies jersey - who confronts the fan WWF-style, before locking him in a tombstone piledriver - sending the crowd into complete pandemonium - and putting him down for the count. Standing O. Never mind, I'm glad I'm here.
"Dad n son in front of us": By the second quarter, I've noticed my view of the game has been slightly less obstructed than most in this standing-room-only arena. This is because in front of me is the younger son of the family of four. He's the only one not enjoying himself; in his seat, his entire body from the eyes down stuffed into his 'Believe' tee, watching the game on the jumbotron, clearly caring about as much as he must've in math class earlier that day. The father, to his right, looks down upon him and scorns "...
You're watching this on the big screen??", shooting him a look that's half "I paid $230 for these tickets" and half "Who the fuck is this kid that clearly got swapped for mine at the hospital?". I can only hope my children don't turn out that way.
"Gasol passing", "Blake shot selection", "Tony Allen jumper": One of the better parts of watching a game live is letting it speak for itself; you get to focus on it rather than be distracted by shifting cameras, dumb announcers, and all the other shit going on. Some things that I found don't get talked about enough on TV: For all the praise his brother gets, Marc Gasol is a really, really good passer. Not only that, he's extremely versatile; delivering an array of bounce, chest, and outlet passes, out of double teams on the low block, from the elbow, and in transition. So many hockey assists. He out Vlades Vlade.
Blake Griffin's shot selection is, well, interesting. I still can't wrap my head around it because it seems like so many of his attempts are careless forces, but he also holds an ability to control and contort his body midair beyond that of anyone his size, and he hits a decent amount of them. But still, sometimes you're just left shaking your head like "Chris didn't want the possession to end that way" or "If their coach wasn't completely useless he'd instill some discipline and find a way to combine that aggressive athleticism with the best point guard alive and get him better looks".
Tony Allen....Well, as someone on Twitter so kindly put it once; "At 3am, in a dimly lit bar, Tony Allen's jumper would still leave alone". Why Lionel Hollins hasn't tried shock therapy or something at this point is beyond me.
"Horrible reffing & fans not booing jumbotron": Kenny Mauer; I describe him pre-game to Alex as "tech-happy and not the best". By the second quarter, he's already blatantly fucked up three calls - right in front of him and us - unleashing a flood of boos from FedEx Forum's faithful as his mistakes are replayed on the 'tron. I'd normally take this with a grain of salt, but also on no fewer than three occasions so far, the big screen's replayed close calls that went to the Clippers, and not a peep from anyone. Maybe they're not
that drunk yet. The next morning, I tried to compliment Mr. Mauer when I was behind him in line at the airport newsstand, only to discover that it wasn't actually him, and awkwardly walk away (right, like anyone else who's
not European and in their 50s wears their hair like that).
"Ibaka, Jordan": I've spent far too long making faulty comparisons between Serge Ibaka and DeAndre Jordan offensively. I can't lie to myself anymore. After watching Ibaka absolutely devour Dallas on an impressive array of double-team sneaks, offensive glass putbacks, and even a few of his own moves to the hoop a few nights prior, I had hoped Jordan would come even close to measuring up, but was majorly let down. Somebody needs to convince Donald Sterling to hire The Dream to work with this kid over the summer, because he's an absolute monster of a human being, who could be Chris Paul's next version of Tyson Chandler if he had the slightest idea how to finish after taking contact, or even with a defender in his general vicinity. Vinny D's sure as hell not showing him how. As Jordan takes a weak foul and splits at the line, Vinny and CP3 meet at half; Chris does most of the talking. Vinny looks confused.
"Sirius": If the satellite radio station is what immediately came to mind, please stop reading this. If you're familiar with the goosebump-inducing Allan Parsons Project anthem that's become synonymous with NBA playoff drama since MJ made it famous, then you need no explanation as to why nothing in the World could get me more excited for the fourth quarter of a close game than a bunch of people screaming deafeningly loud over this song.
"Vinny, Blake inbounds play": The climax of Vinny's wayward night comes during a crucial inbounds play where Memphis is (predictably) running a pick-and-pop for Gasol to operate in the high post. I can clearly remember thinking to myself "
If they score here, it' over". Vinny's halfway on the court, near foul line extended, screaming for Blake Griffin (remember, this is Blake Griffin, not Tyson Chandler, or even Taj Gibson) to hedge closer to the screen. Blake doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge his coach, then rises above everyone to intercept the inbound pass.
"Juice = Huge": The one regret I have from this trip (aside from ever setting foot in Tunica) is not making the wisest $20 purchase of my life on a 'Juice is My Homeboy' OJ Mayo tee, and rocking it with pride as he proceeded to throw dirt on the grave the Clippers dug for themselves with a careless attitude towards passing and defensive rebounding. Wouldn't have guessed he'd be the killer down the stretch, but tonight he was in Michael Myers mode. Vinny certainly looks very frightened.
"Z-Bo trans steal = play of game": Something I'd have much more reluctantly guessed would be that a Zach Randolph transition steal to step on the Clippers' neck would be the play of a game in which he shared the court with Blake Griffin, but as soon as it happens, Alex and I both nod assent: that was it. By the time Blake finally throws one down, it's too little too late, but damn...Is it ever still a sight.
"Vinny game over, clipboard": With the game out of hand on its final possession, and Mike Conley playing out the motions at the line, Vinny D is suddenly trying on his best "coach deep in thought" act, thoughtfully exchanging glances between his clipboard, the scoreboard, and his white-flag-waving players after a night of frantic confusion and challenged authority. It was nice of him to provide us with one last laugh, even if he couldn't help CP3 guide them into an overtime thriller for us.
I awoke the next morning in the Memphis Comfort Inn, still clad in my 'Believe' tee with my new Grizz fitted shielding my eyes from light that would surely hurt like fuck. It was a pretty nasty hangover; we joined in the post-game victory celebrations (thankfully we avoided a similar outcome to Game 1, and the ensuing post-game riot) as they spilled out onto Beale St and beyond, finally getting a ride back to our hotel from Ashley, a sweetheart (and not hard on the eyes) bartender who we befriended out of mutual frustration with a drunk homeless guy who crashed our patio table. But that's a story for another day; it was time to go back to Canada, and sadly leave this explosion of NBA playoff excitement behind me.
At least I wasn't going back to Tunica.
