Navigating the bar scene with your significant other during the big game is remarkably difficult. I wrote this story (entirely fictional, not true at all, have never, ever had an experience like this, not even once) a few years ago in jest of the battles one must face on such a day. Enjoy.
M I S T E R F U N D A M E N T A L
(OR HOW TO LOSE YOUR BALANCE)
I’m leaning onto the countertop with cash flashed high in one hand like I’ve got a size advantage on the ball-side block. I used to think this was the hard part. The fundamentals. “Vodka soda and a Miller Lite. Thanks.”
This will total $16 and change. I leave my $20 on the bar like a mid-range jumper, smooth off the glass. I am Tim Duncan. The hard part now is the balance.
Earlier that morning I pounded two glasses of filtered water in my underwear. I scrolled through 12 tweets that said that the North Carolina back court would struggle with Jeremy Roach and Wendell Moore Jr. I put one sixth of my bi-weekly paycheck on Duke by 5.
Killing eight hours on a Saturday is never hard when you have five sixths of your paycheck. I spent most of the early afternoon drinking in public and doing fractions.
While everyone is happy to be at the bar and drinking not everyone is at the bar and drinking for the same reasons. Some people want to socialize – which is nice and normal. Other people, mostly guys, want to do drink and do fractions – which is whatever you want it to be. For me, one of the best parts of being at the bar is the volume - not in the number of people, but in the overlapping voices beneath Jim Nantz and Bill Rafferty’s back and forth.
We’re still drinking but the only math that matters is about to tip on the TV and then Victoria says:
“So this is Coach K’s last game?”
I cannot comprehend this question at this time. How could she have not waited for the under 16:00 TV timeout? At least a dead ball whistle. These thoughts spill into my brain like vodka soda pours over ice. Then I say: “Yep.”
What’s next is an all familiar attempt to connect without saying the things we mean, like "are you fulfilled at work?” or “do you think you have a gambling problem?”
I never get too bummed when we skip the small talk. I offer up “Maybe we’ll order nachos?” while doing a few more maths.
“Can we get the veggie ones?” she says.
I do not want to order the veggie ones.
But I say “For sure.” Sip sip sip. Scratch off a little bit of label. Miller in a cold bottle is all chalk like a 1 seed in the Final Four.
“How old is he?”
“Who?”
“Coach K!”
“Oh.” Can’t she see that I’m doing fractions? "I’m not really sure. But I know he’s old.”
“He looks like it!” she says, trying to keep me interested. This is something that girlfriends do all of the time, and their boyfriends do not appreciate it nearly enough. I never ask about her work or her family or even her fractions. Just veggie nachos and –
“Yep.”
Sip sip sip. Look towards the door, then down at my phone.
“Who does Duke play?”
Phone down. It’s on the TV? But then I say: “UNC.” I say it like youuuu-ennn-seeeee which in hind sight may have been a pun.
“Oh nice. They’re good too, yeah? Or is Duke supposed to win?” This was one of the better attempts I’d seen in a while. She can’t ask me if I bet on the game without things potentially getting awkward when the game’s in the balance. But instead of indulging, or being nice and normal, I just look at the TV to witness Jeremy Roach commit a reach in foul in the North Carolina backcourt.
Take another sip.
“Yeah they’ve had a good go this tournament.” Her eyes drift over my shoulder. The nachos are coming. Then I say, “but I uhhh - I think Duke’s backcourt is better.”
The nachos arrive. Victoria takes the dribble handoff. She scoops. She scores. She dips again and says “I never know what to make of the guac in these places. Like do they make it back there? Where are the avocados from?” she says. “This is where my mind goes.”
My fraction measuring devices are getting all out of whack.
I check my phone to see where the guys are. Panning the bar I notice some familiar faces. I think it’s their girlfriends, but I’m not sure, because even though I’ve met them all dozens of times, I cannot remember their names. Vanessa. Amber. Rachel. Sometimes when I introduce myself again they’re offended by my short term memory loss. They don’t seem to realize the intense mathematics I’m grappling with when they ask me if I’m fulfilled at work. But I have been taking cues from older men, who are experts at math and memory. They say nothing and are rewarded for it with back handed compliments like “he has dad vibes.” But I am familiar with their post presence. They have the fundamentals. They have the balance.
One of the girls I’m squinting at (if you held a gun to my head, I’d say her name was Claire) walks over to say hi to Victoria.
“Victoria! How are you?”
“Claire! Just enjoying my nachos,” she says. “You want some? We got the veggie ones.”
Huge for the program. 1) I was right and 2) maybe now I can have the excuse to get the non-veggie nachos. The fractions continue.
But now my turn: “Hi Claire - where’s Tim?”
Claire’s way less happy to see me than Victoria. “He’s in the bathroom. All the guys are in there.” All of my friends also bet not-insignificant fractions of their respective paychecks on the game. Their girlfriends, to my knowledge, did not. Perhaps they had the balance.
There were a few minutes of bad basketball and poor form on my part. Asking people to repeat themselves. Working too hard to land a joke. Not offering to buy a round of Green Tea shots. Duke’s backcourt was struggling and so was I. I needed a timeout. I made for the bathroom.
The bar grew denser as I made my way to the back. There was a line for the mens room. There is never a line for the mens room, unless there’s a good reason, so I got in line too. I could still see Duke’s backcourt struggling on a TV behind the bar. This seemed like a good way to watch the game with other men, if nothing else. Actually using the restroom was a low priority.
Immediately, I struck up a conversation with someone.
“He looks old, don’t he?” I say, happy that my girlfriend had fed me some lines.
From the light of his screen I could see he was doing fractions. He paused, refreshed, sighed, and closed his phone. I know this look - he was losing balance. Then he said, “He does but I think they’ve got it today.” Guy looked up at me and asked, “Did you see the odds boost earlier?”
“I heard about it but I didn’t take it.” I said. “I still like to bet through a guy.” Then I said, “I’m old school, ya know?”
But this guy did not know. He said “yeah man I guess.”
You guess? Buddy. Then I said, “Betting on credit’s nice. I don’t like having to actually put the money in the machine.”
He rolled his eyes. I probably would have too, at me, acting like that was in any way better, almost like the way American Spirits could benefit from their addicts confusing the words Non-Additive and Non-Addictive.
“Did you take the points?”
“I did.”
“I think 4 might be too much but like – ”
“I like their back court.” He said.
We dapped. Big dap. The fattest. Other people turned their heads when they heard it. They said “damn, what a fat dap.” Then they dapped too. It was almost like we were together that morning in our boxer briefs before the Britta filter, scrolling through Twitter, reading about Jeremy Roach and Wendell Moore Jr.
Paolo Banchero made a 3. We all celebrated, and North Carolina took a timeout. We moved up one person in line, looked at our phones, and did our fractions.
It became clear that all the men in line had wives or girlfriends, and that we were all doing fractions. I doubly knew this because a woman walked by. As she passed we focused on our phones. Men will sometimes stare at women when they walk out of the bathroom. It’s a terrible, terrible look. I do not do that. When you have commitments, like chasing your losses during a TV timeout, you can stay the course. You can keep your balance.
The bathroom door opened. Three smiling men emerged. “Let’s see the girls, rip a green tea shot, and get back in there,” one of them said. They put their phones in their pockets, shook their heads, and stumbled by as we took their places.
Inside this glorious room you could hear the voices of Nantz and Rafferty. You could smell the nicotine juices. You could hear the Air Maxes squeak. Men swarmed the handicap stall like worker bees, towards a mounted 200 inch flat screen TV. Banchero knocked down another 3. The sink exploded. Elf bars lit up like bulbs on a scoreboard, blinking in unison with approval. They could have spelled out “We love Duke’s backcourt” in morse code.
Seconds left in the first half, UNC called a timeout. The phones emerged again like cicadas in the summer.
“Live boost Duke to win. +300.”
“That’s juicy bro.”
“I’m gonna smash it. Should we all do it? Stop and a score before half?”
The boys. Flooding to the screen, thumbs out, visibly refreshing and doing fractions. Back from timeout. Phones in pockets. Right away, a hack from Jeremy Roach on a dribble drive from Brady Manek. The boys groaned. Double bonus. Two shots. The room stumbled backwards in disgust as we lost our balance.
The toilet fell through the floor.