So I went to Other Favourite Bar yesterday evening. It's a spiffy Irish pub just a few blocks from where I live, so I can drag myself home by my lips, should the need arise.
I walked in and Christopher (the cute bartender with the curly, dark hair -- as opposed to Jim, the cute bartender with the clean-shaven head) said, "Smithwick's?" and started drawing one before I'd really even said yes or fully parked at the bar. When the bartender has your drink ready before you even sit down, either you've arrived or you probably ought to leave (AntiM Public Service Announcement #1).
So I twiddled the foam on my beer and I glued my eyes to the Syracuse/S Alabama game. A guy sat down next to me. He asked the score. I told him. He told me he's a *huge* sports fan ("I even coach football!" he said, in much the same manic, bootlicking tone in which I say, "I'm your new best friend!") and asked if I'd joined my office pool. I told him I filled out a bracket on ESPN, but I'm going low-key this year.
BBall Boy: What teams did they give you?
(Imagine my blank look here)
Me: Well... you can choose a group to join...?
B: But you get to choose your own teams?
M: What kind of pools have you been in?
B: Oh. So it's not by lottery or something.
M: Nope. I got to fill out my own bracket.
B: Cool. Who do you have?
M: Kansas to win it.
B: Yeah, they always win it. Or at least down to the last game... [PLEASE don't ask me to translate that. I don't know either.] ...so, Kansas State?
M: No, Kansas State is out of the NCAA. They're playing the NIT this year.
B: Oh. So the Kansas...
B: ...
B: ...Bluebirds?
M: Rock Chalk Jayhawks (cheerfully)
He proceeded to tell me how every single year, some team NOBODY has EVER heard of wins the tournament (not remotely true. There are one-seeds for a reason).
"Remember Gonzaga?" he asked.
"Remember John Stockton?" I wanted to say.
"This is the first round of the NIT, right?" he asked, cleverly reading the big banner graphic on the TV that said "First Round, NIT."
"It is," I said.
"So is Syracuse pretty good?"
"Oh, yeah. They were on the bubble, so they're likely better than a lot of the teams in the NIT."
"See? So they don't belong here so they'll win the whole thing, just like I said. You wait and see."
"There's a good chance," I replied.
A few minutes later: "Hey, it says Syracuse is number 2. That's pretty high."
"Yeah, they didn't quite make the Big Dance, so they're pretty high at the high school prom that is the NIT."
"Oh."
I haven't even told you (in loving detail) the conversation in which I educated him on the fact that there are FOUR number one seeds in the Tournament.
Now, there are a lot of people who know more about sports than I. There are a lot of fifth graders (though I maintain that I *am* smarter than a fifth grader) who know more about sports than I. But I'd like to think the conversation didn't go too far before the guy figured out I knew way more than he did in this limited arena and maybe he should be asking help rather than spouting nonsense.
Poor BBall Boy. I make him sound like a complete dink. He was really a pretty nice guy, just chose the wrong venue to try to make a good impression. Then didn't know when to throw in the towel.
AntiM PSA #2 (courtesy of my father): Show 'em your warts. Nothing wrong with putting on a clean pair of jeans or a little war paint, but no point in pretending you know more than you do. Case in point, see above.
There is an outside chance (*ahem*) I just shared that little story with y'all 'cause it's the last time I'll feel superior to ANYONE this month over this tournament. Shit, I was having delusions of being Linda Cohn. It was such fun!
[GREEK CHORUS: AntiM knows more than a boyyyyyy, AntiM knows more than a boyyyyyy. Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah nyahhhhh!]
Due to extreme basketball situations (the Syracuse game ended and the Mavs/Suns game came on. Love me some Steve Nash) knitting was brief and painful yesterday. Allow me to explain:
I was going to have one beer, maybe two, then head to the grocery store. Then the nice man with the basketball deficiency started talking to me and I finished the first beer and decided to go ahead with the second, just to be sociable (and possibly to see if I could get him to say more stuff to make me feel smart).
Then BBall Boy left just at the tip-off of the Mavs/Suns game and I thought to myself, "Self, this might be a pretty good game. Perhaps you should watch a little. Yes, Christopher, as a matter of fact, I would like another beer."
I did drink six glasses of water with my three beers, but I was still a little fuzzy around the edges (to match the hair) when I started home. I decided to knit a little on Pink Magic, seeing's how it's a really easy little pattern and mostly what you have to do is know how to count to five.
You know where this is going.
(One! One stitch! Two! Two stitches! Three... Nine! Nine beautiful... ah, fuck. *tink* *tink* *tink* *tink*)
And that soy stuff is soft and pretty, but man, when you tink it (since some random boy may be here under the dashed hopes that this is a basketball blog, tinking is undoing knitting backwards, one stitch at a time -- knit:tink -- get it? Knitters are funny!), it gets fluffier and fuzzier and bigger (Marin hair on the seashore big) and I finished a full two rows in a half-hour and that's almost as pathetic as my Tyra Banks-fueled turn on the Stupid Blanket last week.
AntiM PSA #3: Don't drink and tink.
*************
I almost forgot! I'm going to the Brown Palace Hotel (seriously, a big, fancy, historic hotel -- it's a little like saying you're going to the Ritz or the Waldorf-Astoria) for a reception tonight. They opened a spa a year ago, and apparently if you spend enough of your hard-earned dollars somewhere, sometimes you get an auxilliary version of Kharmic Green Stamps and people want to feed you pomegranate martinis (in fact, that's what the invitation said: Massage Therapy... Aromatherapy... Pomegranate Martini Therapy) and chocolates and give you rockstar gift bags and sign you up to possibly win stuff.
Annie and Tani are going with me. Of course, Tani's pregnant, so Oprah moments like the Pomegranate Martini are a distant dream for her. Maybe she can give me her Pomegranate Martinis...?
Actual images from the invitation
I'll take pictures.
[GREEK CHORUS: AntiM thought she was Linda Cohn, now she thinks she's a rock star. Imagine what she'll believe with a couple of Pomegranate Martinis in her!]
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Hey! Where are the footnotes? I mean, my toenails are green and I could probably tie that into the Flavor Flav/$600 toenail clippings discussion from yesterday, but that's not the footnote y'all are used to. Hell, mix it up. Keep 'em on their toes.
*************
In all fairness to BBall Boy, my brother tells me there are actually pools where you DON'T get to pick your own brackets. So he wasn't completely lost. However, the fact that he made it to the age of 41 without, apparently, knowing there are pools where you DO get to pick your own bracket keeps me a little suspicious of his true sports fan nature.
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