bobmckellar wrote:I posted this after the 2008 final. I am reposting it for Karmical purposes due to last year's excellent tourney results.
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Note: This presentation is based on actual events. Some details may have been altered for dramatic purposes or to avoid legal or spousal liability.
Saturday:
I do enough chores around the house to earn some time off for the afternoon. It works.
Game Time Wofford:
This is a Kilgo game, so I'm out back. The office fridge is well stocked, but not with Cokes. I've got Kilgo on one computer and the message board and Will's blog on another. The game is never in doubt, and I celebrate a little too freely. Maybe I should stock the house fridge; at least I would get some exercise going back and forth. I do make a few trips in. The Boss is doing lesson plans and she is entitled to updates, whether or not she is actually interested.
Sunday:
I earn more husband points in the morning, going grocery shopping. Discussions begin on why I'm not in Charleston, and I point out the awkward schedule. Charleston is 6 hours round trip, and I have to take Pink Hair back to DC on Monday, a 10 hour round trip. I also have to make a quick trip to see a customer Monday morning. Things just aren't working out.
The Boss and Pink Hair head out shopping in the early afternoon, stocking up for the trip back to DC. Pink Hair is apparently running a beauty salon and theater on 4th Belk, so she needs a lot of snacks.
I spend the afternoon with NASCAR, but my heart's just not in it this week.
Game Time UNCG:
This is TV, so I'm indoors. The laptop is next to me, part of my triple tasking routine. At each TV time out, I switch to Kilgo, since he's about 45 seconds behind. When he brings in the favorite soccer player I hit the message board, and finish there in time to unmute the TV. Sadly, Will gets relegated to halftime and postgame due to time constraints.
During the half the Boss comes through and points out that a trip from Savannah to DC and then to Charleston is significantly shorter than the Savannah to DC and back round trip I've made so many times in the last 8 years. She also sweetly points out that I am getting to be a dull and boring old man who never goes anywhere or does anything. I am forced to admire both her geographical sense and her perceptive powers. A vague plan begins to form in my head, but I suppress it so as not to generate any bad karma.
Kilgo has Chambers the yard dog, but I have two living room dogs. They interpret all shouts, groans and furniture smacks as calls to action. Being dogs, they don't have a lot of discretion about what kinds of activities are appropriate. It can get a little rowdy in there.
The Boss sits in for the last few minutes of the game. She watches the first few minutes of the postgame and turns to me. "Look," she says, "just go."
And so I do.
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Monday:
I wake up early, after not sleeping too well. Since just after the game last night, I've reserved a motel room and a rental car, and planned all the steps and contingencies of today's trip. Part of my working life involves imagining everything that can possibly go wrong and having a plan A, a plan B and so on. I have a hard time turning off that mindset.
Pink Hair just assumes everything will go perfectly for her, because she is the center of the universe and it is her due. I envy her at times.
The Boss wishes us well and heads to work.
We get all loaded up, including the 150 pounds of snack food from Sam's. My car starts, which it refuses to do on occasion. Potential Bad Thing (PBT) #1 has been averted.
We stop by my customer's office. I manage to get in and get out without getting sidetracked or bogged down on any new issues. PBT# 2 is no longer a factor. Pink Hair is out in the car with the engine running, to avoid PBT#1b.
Out at the airport, the rental car desk actually has my reservation, and the car is ready. That takes care of PBT's #3 and #4. Cargo is transferred and we are on I-95 a bit ahead of schedule.
I assign Pink Hair the task of figuring out how to change the electronic displays from metric to real measurements. She gets out the owner's manual and puzzles it out, and also learns how to run the satellite radio. I compliment her on her DC imparted research skills.
After a couple of hours she goes to sleep. I make a pit stop about 50 miles out of Charlotte for lunch, but she says she'd rather stay in the car and go back to sleep. This is an Unexpected Good Thing (UGT). I figure that saved me 10 minutes and several dollars worth of fast food.
I hit the ramp at Exit 33 and immediately think I've made a wrong turn. An entire new city has sprung up between I-77 and the campus. I figure out the two traffic circles and make it in to the Belk dorm parking lot. I call it that because it's the parking lot next to Belk, but I expect it will have its own name soon. They've sold the naming rights to all the buildings and I expect they'll start on the parking lots any day now. When they break it down to individual parking places I might be in the market.
We are loaded down with all Pink Hair's stuff when friends appear and help us out. The elevator is a big help too. The very concept of an elevator in Belk is hard for me to handle. I try to convince the group that when I lived in Belk we only had one light bulb per hall, and had to share it, moving it from room to room. I don't think they're quite buying it.
Enough slack has opened up in my schedule that I can afford my usual campus tour. We encounter more friends, including a former roommate. Some of these creatures also have hair colors not normally found in nature. Roommate says she's going down to the game on the bus, and Pink Hair tells her to look for me.
The ticket office in Belk Arener does not exhibit the typical DC efficiency I've come to expect, but they do show me a telephone number written on an old napkin. I make the call and reserve my ticket. This goes fine, so I've disposed of another PBT. Since I'm on a roll, I check my office voice mail and everything's fine. More PBT's bite the dust.
There are two messages from my Charleston customer, following the usual pattern:
1. "Problem, big problem!"
2. "Never mind, I figured it out myself."
I call her anyway, and tell her I'm on the way and will see her tomorrow. I promise her just enough time to make my whole trip tax deductible.
Soon I'm watching the mile numbers count down on I-77. I have enough extra time for 1 flat tire, 1 speeding ticket and a moderate traffic jam.
Even the weather is cooperating.
Life is good.
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Monday Afternoon:
I stop for gas in Blythewood, SC. As I'm leaving the store, three carloads of athletic looking young ladies wearing a variety of Davidson gear come in. I naturally start talking to them, but then I realize I'm not yet in uniform. I quickly identify my affiliation and destination so I don't get the "Dirty Old Man" treatment.
Heading down I-26 about forty miles out from Charleston, I spot a minivan parked in the emergency lane. As I go by I see a woman standing in the grass vomiting. I am so fixated on my mission that my first thought is "She must be really nervous about the game."
Arriving in Charleston, I hardly notice that my prepaid motel room is all ready and I have no trouble getting in. I have vanquished the PBT's! The room is pretty crappy, but I don't care. It's so old that the shower puts out a lot of water. The writing desk has a big light, but no convenient electrical outlet. Do they think I'm going to write something? On a piece of paper? With a pen?
The door's still open and a man comes up to it. He asks, in an accented voice, "Do you know Wallace?". I tell him I don't know anybody by that name, but he points to my laptop and says, "No, Wallace, Wallace!" Now I get it. "Wireless."
The French-Canadian couple next door is having trouble getting the motel's wireless internet working, and they thought I might be able to help. I give it a shot. Two problems immediately show up:
1. Their laptop runs on Vista, the most despised operating system in the world.
2. It's all in French.
So after a while I'm up to my armpits, asking for translations of menu items and prompts, and generally getting nowhere. The nice Quebecers tell me it's OK, I don't need to keep working on it, it's not a big deal.
But no. I'm in this thing and I will not quit. I am going to find a way to win. I refuse to be defeated. And I do finally win, and they are very happy.
Now where do you suppose I picked up an attitude like that?
The Coliseum:
I get to the parking lot and find a spot I can find my way back to. I have on my red shirt by now, and as I get out of the car I hear, "Hey, Davidson, over here!" A few feet away a group of students were partying around their cars. One hands me a beer and says, "I hope it's cold enough!" Of course, a Davidson Gentleman does not look a gift beverage in the mouth. That would be rude.
I introduce myself and suddenly get some strange looks. I try again and pronounce the last part of my last name more carefully. I point out that I do have a Bob and an McK and some L's in there, but I'm not claiming to be "Him". Much hilarity all around.
I tell them my story of being a 40 year prodigal, and how I used to make fun of old fat alumni hanging around the games. Someone says, "That's great. We were just getting ready to make fun of you!" I respond, "And you would be perfectly justified!" Even more hilarity abounds. This is going to be a good night.
After a while I have to move on and go get my ticket. Today's victories over the PBT's have been so complete that I fully expect my ticket to be waiting patiently for me. And so it is, in a nice little envelope.
I move around to the other side of the Coliseum and there's a van with the Alumni Association banner on it. I walk up and get offered another beer. Well, a Davidson Gentleman certainly would not want to offend the Alumni Association. I do my best not to offend them the rest of the night.
After a while, the Alumni folks are looking for more customers. I suggest the group I first met, and offer to lead the way. The Alumni guy says he thinks it's a bunch of Phi Delts. I say, "Well, I guess some things haven't changed in 40 years."
I realize I'm wearing a magic shirt, like I've read about in Mexican folk tales. Wearing the shirt, you walk around and people want to shake your hand, to talk to you, to give you beer. It's quite an experience for a quiet shy person like me.
The funny thing is that we don't talk about basketball. We talk about how special Davidson is, about evil experiences at non Honor Code schools, about how to convince our kids to go to Davidson. We talk about how the current students are so much smarter than we were. I also note that almost none of the people I'm having such a good time with were actually at DC the same time I was. The time spreads are wide enough that there's not much overlap. But it doesn't matter, since everybody has a magic shirt.
But suddenly time is up. We all head for the entrances, and our priorities have changed.
Let's Go Cats!
To be continued... (perhaps with actual basketball content)
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In the Coliseum:
Wow, it's noisy in here. Waiting until the last minute means a not particularly good seat, but as you all know I don't generally know what I'm looking at anyway. I'm in a top row, meaning I don't have to worry about anybody behind me.
We are all arranged so that the TV shots on the other side will look like it's a full house. There seems to be about a 5 to 1 fan ratio in favor of the magic red shirts. I think the noise ratio is even higher, but then I'm sitting near the Pep Band.
Looking over at the student section, I'm glad I'm not there. I want to be near them, but I don't think I could handle total immersion. Then I spot Roommate in the crowd.
I call out to her, expecting an acknowledging wave. But I get a lot more - she comes up to sit with me. This is very nice, not only for the company but for the fact that she has actually played basketball and can explain things to me. Somebody should be very proud of their daughter.
This is a neutral site, which means dueling cheerleaders, dancers, bands and parading elephants. Well, actually, I'm lying about the elephants, but it's not much of a lie. In the middle of all this, I'm beginning to wonder if an actual athletic competition is going to occur.
My fears are groundless, and a sure 'nuf game is soon rocking along. I don't know enough to critique things, but it seems to me to be well prepared teams both playing well. But the Cats seem to be a bit better and the lead gradually expands.
Halftime arrives, and the bouncing and jumping around on the court picks up again. I wish I had that kind of energy. I don't really bounce too well anymore. I take the opportunity to sit down, and realize I've been standing for most of the game so far.
The second half proceeds like the first, and I'm getting a bit of confidence. I keep mentally dividing the points lead by the minutes remaining. I know it's not really a linear function, but I feel good as the quotient slowly but steadily increases.
Part of being a fan is accepting responsibility for what happens in the game. I soon am caught in this trap, as the ghosts of all those PBT's I dispatched today coalesce to bring forth a new spectre, the mother of all Potential Bad Things, the possibility of an actual loss. The lead drops to five. I tell myself it's just a series of lucky breaks for Elon, a statistical aberration. But did I tempt Karma by having everything work out so well today? Should I at least have missed a turn, or forgotten to pack something, or had that flat tire?
A voice comes to me from above, and says, "You know, you're really an idiot! Those guys on the court can take care of things. Lighten up! It's not about you!"
I yell out, "It's not? Then why am I here?"
Roommate asks, "What did you say?"
"Uh, nothing."
And so the crisis passes. The lead to minutes left ratio climbs back up, and soon I say to myself, "It's a lock."
The band leader seems to agree, and I hear the much anticipated familiar notes.
This is my first live and in person exposure to "Sweet Caroline", and it's spectacular. I have no idea how a sappy song about sweet love and tender affection got transmogrified into an arrogant musical assault on a defeated foe, but it sure is effective. I would hate to be on the receiving end.
Those of you who are used to it may not fully appreciate the structure, the instrumental lead-in to alert the crowd, the initial monosyllabic grunts to get them started , the choreographed hand moves, and finally the full throated singing. It's a piece of work.
Then again, maybe it's not a militaristic anthem. It could, in a more benign interpretation, be like an ancient tribal celebration chant:
"Nice job killing that Woolly Mammoth, boys! Let's eat!"
The aftermath is fun to watch, with the extensive sharing of the net pieces, the team working the crowd like they were running for office, and the innumerable photo ops.
But the job is long done, and good times have never seemed so good.
Epilogue:
When I get home, I email Pink Hair, and announce that Roommate has been officially awarded "Associate Daughter" status.