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Blog: What Mike Missed

(originally written 1/21/07)

Mike, on Friday night you called me twice and sat through a total of 11 phone rings to tell me how excited you were about going to the Warriors/Cavaliers game Saturday—LeBron James was in town, and the Dubs were debuting four new dudes following a megatrade with the Pacers. In short—we had to be there, right?
Apparently not, because on Saturday—allegedly because of a gang-related stabbing nowhere near you that had nothing to do with you in any way—you unapologetically flaked. And I had to call you to find this out roughly 30 minutes before heading out.

Though disappointed—not because you weren't coming, but because now I was stuck with an extra $40 ticket you wouldn't pay for—I wasn't exactly shocked. However, the show must go on, and (my buds) Nate, Juan, Fleazoe, Aldo, Chicken and myself went on without you. 


Here is a somewhat quick rundown on what you missed out on:


  • Chicken calling to tell me he was in San Jose and would be at my crib in 15 minutes, then calling me 20 minutes later to tell me he was still in San Jose.

  • Fleazoe "following" us to the Oracle Arena, but somehow parking his car 10 minutes before we did.

  • Cops shadowing Chicken and I as we exited 880 and looked for a shortcut to the parking lot (which we found). This being Oakland, the cops got a higher priority call before they could hassle us.

  • The police/scalper confrontation that occurred before Fleazoe, Chicken and I got there (thanks for being late, CHICKEN).

  • That "helpful" Arena employee who instructed us to walk to the back gate "where there's no wait." By no wait, he meant a five-minute wait.

  • The guy who had parked himself in one of our seats, knowing we were on our way with food because I'd told him so, who continued to stall as long as possible holding out hope that I was just kidding about that seat belonging to my friend, before finally being forced to move when Nate and Chicken returned.

  • The gorgeous BBW sitting directly in front of us who kept tilting her head back and conversing with us—even inserting herself into our colorful conversations. When she took off her sweater, my main focus went from the round, bouncy thing on the court to the round, bouncy things inside her miniscule top. (I can't lie, I'm just a man.) 

  • Her corpse husband, who sat there next to her the entire game and didn't move or speak until the 4th quarter when she got up to use the bathroom. As a stranger it was hard for me to fathom sitting next to a nice hottie like that for 2+ hours, and spend it all staring straight ahead like David Puddy.

  • The two chicks who sat behind us in the second half, screaming at the Warriors. How "into basketball" were these girls? They couldn't understand Cleveland cutting into Golden State's lead, since "Who's good on Cleveland?"

  • The crew dissin' my do-rag and forcing me to take it off.

  • The annual debate over the proper spelling of Isaac's nickname, Fleazoe (proper) or Fleezo (proper to others).

  • Al Harrington's miserable 4-for-21 shooting debut, but at least he "pulled the chair" on Drew Gooden to everyone's amusement.

  • The refs screwing us over on call after call, until Mickael Pietrus or somebody accidentally stampeded one near midcourt as half the stadium cheered.

  • Golden State blowing an 18-point halftime lead to lose by two in overtime, souring our moods. As the lead withered away, Juan's drunken insolence worsened. "WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU MOTHERS? THIS IS A DISGRACE!!! YOU'RE GONNA BLOW IT!! ALL OF YOU SUCK!!!" This would usually be followed by five minutes of catatonia before another tirade: "YOU PIECES OF CRAP!! YOU SONS OF BITCHES!!!" etc.

  • The trip from the parking lot to the bar, in which we had to fit six men into my Neon until we could get to Fleazoe's ride outside the Arena. Though I tried valiantly to fit in the trunk, ultimately we fit the four slimmest men in the back as Nate scolded me for not owning a van. This ride featured the first of Nate's repeated toxic farts: in my car, in the bar, and everywhere in between. 

  • The three bartendresses. As always, the one I thought was cute made my friends retch. 

  • And perhaps the bar highlight: Nate specifically checking to confirm that he could get fries with his steak sandwich—then receiving a steak sandwich with no fries.



Closing note: Mike, though I was able to sell your ticket for $20, don't hold your breath waiting for future invites from me to anything—even a "Win $100,000 For Showing Up With A Guy Named Mike" contest.

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