Welcome to the Extra P_int where the beer is always cold, the patrons less informed, and the conversation compelling.
The Extra P_int still hummed with Dennis McDonnell’s announcement of the 2012 AON with its prizes of free beer for a year and its accumulating pot if no one won. The conversational snippets I caught on my way to Men’s room were estimates on who could drink the most beer if he won. It would take a while before the talk turned to the practical business of coming up with the four toughest answers in American sports. I kept walking and pushed through the restroom door.
The P_int had twin urinals and enough room to stand in position comfortably. Dennis said it had been an extra expense making the stalls wide enough, but guys weren’t spending any money while they were standing there, and worse, if they stood there too long they’d realize they were “pissing money down the drain.” His idea was to get them in and out before they had a chance to think, and enough room to make sure they didn’t miss. “Guys who miss go home,” he said.
Roger, the arguer who’d asked me about the definition of a winner, stood to the right.
“Scribbler, did you spend your ten bucks last year?” he asked, meaning did I buy a shot at the All or Nothing.
I didn’t answer right away. Men my age need to pay attention. When I did answer, I said, “One for four. I had the Packers, but a lot of guys did.”
“You gonna pick them again?” he asked.
I paid attention and finished before saying as I turned away, “Yes, but I wouldn’t have if they hadn’t lost to Kansas City. Wake up calls bring focus, and this is the time in the season when you want your guys focused.”
I washed my hands, but Roger stood by the door evidently above the mundane.
“Who else you picking?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I called over the hot air hand drier.
“Oh, come on! The Perfessor’s the smartest guy in the place, but you know more about the difference between your ass and a hot rock than he does. Give me a clue! You write about this so you must have lots of insider knowledge.”
I pushed out the door then held it for him.
“Me and the boys will buy you a Mirror Pond if you’ll talk,” Roger said.
I smiled at him and said, “You buy the beer, and I’ll talk.”
In the middle of the room, the P_int had one round table built for six. It had a four pitcher minimum so no one but the serious beer drinkers sat there. As I sat, Roger waved at Nadine and pointed to me. She knew I wouldn’t sit there if I was paying. The four other guys at the table were Mort, tall and thin in the waist and even thinner on top who resorted to bizarre comb-overs in an attempt to hide his baldness; Randall, who said his right arm was two inches longer than his left because he’d pitched more than two thousand softball games in his career, the Judge, who with his gray hair and trimmed beard appeared as if he might have been one, and “Pontiac.” No one knew his real name but he said he got “Pontiac” when he was in college and had jock burn so bad he walked like a wide track Bonneville. He still walked like a wildfire smoldered in his crotch.
“Okay, you guys,” started Roger, “Scribbler says he will unload his wisdom on the AON as long as we buy his beer.” Roger threw a glare around the table daring anyone to argue, but no one did. “Go for it!”
Nadine placed my beer on a Diner, Drive-In, and Dives coaster. I sipped at the foam and sighed.
“Here’s what I know about the AON,” I said, as the others leaned in as if I had the answer to the stock market. “It’s all about who gets hot at the right moment. It’s about who the hot goalie is come May, or the hot hand in the NBA, or who feels slighted and unappreciated in MLB come fall. Hungry guys win.”
“How the hell we supposed to know who’s hungry that far out?” demanded Randall.
“You aren’t,” I said. “You have to guess and be lucky as hell. But the Perfessor is right. There are no more than twelve teams in any of the four leagues that has a reasonable shot at their title. Pittsburgh isn’t going to win the World Series. Columbus isn’t going to win the Stanley Cup. These are things that reviewing last year’s stats will show.”
Mort ran his hand over his hair as if hoping to feel more of it than bald pate. “I get it that we can help ourselves by not letting sentiment force us into a bad pick.”
“Like the Blazers,” Pontiac said.
“Good example,” I said. “We all love the home team and they should be entertaining, but they don’t have the horses to take down a favorite in a best of seven. They might get out of the first round this year, but that’s not the point of the AON. The Blazers would have to win it all if you want a shot at the beer and money.”
The five drank their beer, but no one said they gave the Blazers a vote in the AON.
“Here’s the other gem of wisdom your beer is buying. Too much talent dulls the fire to win. The Yankees look good early but don’t win when it really counts. Look at the Heat last year. Same problem. They had one too many superstars. It isn’t about teamwork. Those guys are all pros, but it is about feeling that pain in the gut that nothing short of the ring can put to rest. If you’re not on you don’t have to worry because there are others to pick up the slack. You want teams that have enough talent, but just enough.”
Roger and Randall toasted my comments, and I thanked them.
“You know what’s really diabolical about the AON?” Randall asked. He proved the question rhetorical by promptly saying, “Ties carry over. You go with the Yankees, Heat, Packers, and Bruins, you know all the favorites, and you ain’t alone. Got to have at least one long shot come through. Tough.”
“I object,” said the Judge, rapping the table with his fist.
“On what grounds, your honor?” said Roger.
“The whole thing is offensive. It promotes public drunkenness and encourages profligate behavior by wagering on absurd odds.”
“Objection sustained,” said everyone including me, but I was the only one who carried on. “We could close down the P_int and most of the state on that one. Let’s just agree that there is something seriously wrong when sporting events get this much attention. Sports are a fantasy. None of us can play a game like those guys so we watch instead. We involve ourselves even deeper by casting the occasional bet, and we probably spent time considering the bet before we placed it. We’re motivated to win in the hope that others will lose and we can feel superior. That’s life. We all accept it.”
“Fine summation, my boy,” the Judge said.
“Who wrote that?” Roger asked.
“I will,” I said.
Stay tuned for more happenings in the Extra P_int where the beer is always cold, the patrons less informed, and the conversation compelling.
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