Welcome to the Extra P_int where the beer is always cold, the patrons less informed, and the conversation compelling.
Valentine’s Day had come and gone at the Extra P_int, and Dennis McDonnell’s customers were discussing the idea of the P_int hosting a fantasy baseball league. I sat at the bar with my head in a book by Bill James reading up on baseball math for the upcoming SABR chapter meeting.
Dennis rapped the bar in front of me to get my attention.
“Hey, Scribbler, what do you think would happen if I started filling your pint with Coors Light instead of Mirror Pond, but still charged you for ale?”
“I’d be annoyed.”
“What if I kept doing it?”
“I’d want my money back, but probably I’d move to another bar. I like it here, but you’re not the only sports bar in town.”
“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? You can go down the road. What if I were the only sports bar in town?”
“I could stay home and watch television.” I sipped my ale. “What do you mean that’s the point? What’s the point?”
“What if I were like the Blazers? The only show in town. I put hamburger on the floor night after night and keep charging for steak. What are you going to do?”
I closed my book and looked at Dennis as he walked to the other end to refill a beer for another customer.
“Go on,” I said, knowing him well enough to know he had more to say on the subject.
“I was thinking of the season ticket holders. They already bought all these tickets expecting to see professional basketball. It’s not like they can turn in the ones they haven’t used yet and get their money back. It’s like me selling you a ten drink card and not telling you that it was good for one night only. Would you do it again?”
I shook my head.
“Will the season ticket holders renew next season?”
“I’m guessing most will. It’s not the first time they’ve been overcharged.”
Dennis rubbed the polished bar to my right until it shone.
“So let me get this straight because I may be missing something here,” he said. “People will accept being overcharged, never receive any acknowledgment that they were screwed, and come back for more. Right?”
“Apparently that’s true in the NBA.”
Dennis snapped the bar with his wet rag. The sharp crack it made reverberated around the pub.
“That really pisses me off!” he yelled. “A bunch or rich guys sticking it to folk, and expecting those folk to bend over and take it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t do that. I got my pride.”
Cheers echoed from the corners of the Extra P_int.
“That sticking it to folk has sort of become the American way,” I said. “The banks are a good example. So are the oil companies. As long as people are willing to accept the status quo, the other side is willing to make more money.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
I drained my glass and held it up. When he brought the refill back, I said, “Instead of a fantasy baseball league why not a fantasy King of the World Night once a week or once a month. Invite a speaker, encourage your customers to bitch and moan but if only they have a suggestion on how to fix whatever they’re bitching about. A lot of ideas will be dumb because there are no easy answers, but you never know.”
He looked at me and blinked.
“You think that has more merit than charging for Mirror Pond but serving Coors Light?”
“I do. Look at it this way. It’s all about how you look at your customers. Do you respect them? Do you want them to come back? Do you want them to tell their friends? Or would you rather piss them off?”
“Around here, Scribbler, that’s a no brainer,” Dennis said before turning to a new arrival and yelling, “Welcome to the Extra P_int where’s the beer always cold and the owner himself serves you.”
Come back soon to the Extra P_int where the beer is always cold, the patrons less informed, the conversation compelling, and the P_int’s fantasy baseball league takes an unexpected turn.
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