Back in the day, before Direct TV and the NFL package, I spent far too many Sundays in smoky, dingy sports bars, swilling brewskies and munching on greasy spicy chicken wings as my degenerate buddies and I cheered for the teams we had bet money on.
Much like in the classic TV show Cheers, I began noticing in many of the customers/fans bar related, football personality disorders (FPD).
I’ve been silently suffering from it for years. In Cheers you had the bar owner Sam, the recovering alcoholic, Norm the drunk, Cliff the know-it-all, and Frasier the pedantic intellect.
A few minutes after I awoke this past Sunday disaster struck—the power in north Redondo Beach went out.
I was forced to abandon the comforts of my living room and my 60′ HD TV, where I fanatically watch the NFL games each week.
I reluctantly returned to a popular sports bar near the pier I had often frequented many moons ago. It had been 10 years or more since I watched the Sunday games in a saloon.
I am pleased to report that the assortment of unusual, abnormal, obnoxious characters were out in full force.
Eight games kicked off at 10 a.m. It took exactly two minutes for the always present bar intolerable idiot to declare himself a Raider fan.
“Go Raiders, kick their fat butts, the crappy Bengals play like women, Raider nation, Yaaaahhhh!!”
Check this guy’s ID, bartender; I think he’s 11 years old.
Unfortunately, he sat at the bar two stools from me. The caveman was obviously in search of another Neanderthal to swap hackneyed clichés and vile obscenities with.
I knew he was trouble when he sat down wearing his oil-stained Raider hat backwards and sporting a Motley Crue tank-top.
His boney, pasty-white arms dangling from his jersey resembled two twigs from a dead birch tree.
I just wanted to quietly watch the games and drink my coffee until God was finished messing with me and my power was restored. Twas not to be. “You a Raider fan dude? Who’s your team dude? Did you bet any games dude? You play fantasy football dude? Hows ’bout a shot of Johnny Walker with me dude?”
“I hate that degenerate band of thugs dude, now turn around and shut up or I kick your mangy butt outta this dive dude,” I thought.
I said, “Yeah, I like the Raiders.”
I lied. I knew this would end poorly if I stayed on my stool, so I faked a cellphone call and walked out onto the patio.
As I got up, pencil-arms flipped the “finger” at the TV he was watching because the Bengals scored a touchdown. Upon returning I relocated to a small table at the back of the bar. To my left sat two 20-something couples all wearing Buffalo Bills jerseys (another dog meat team). They giggled and whispered as I sat down. “Barn door’s open buddy,” the youngest guy said to me as he pointed at my waist.
I glanced down and realized my zipper was open. I muttered, “thanks” and turned away. Things were not going well today. To my right three portly gentlemen with impressive beer bellies, all wolfing down breakfast burritos and guzzling beer were involved in an intellectual conversation regarding their love-making skills.
Somebody shoot me, please. I was now the recipient of unwelcomed stereo drivel from the tables on each side, raising my irritation level to new heights. Couldn’t all these cretins shut up and let me watch football unfettered? As if I wasn’t miserable and annoyed enough, in sauntered four boisterous obvious pub regulars.
They made the rounds energetically greeting everybody in the bar (except me) with high fives, handshakes, fake cheek kisses and man-hugs.
They plopped down at the table directly in front of me. I prayed they wouldn’t speak to me.
“Hey dude, who ya like today?”
“I like the assassin I hired who’s going to come in here real soon and blow all of you magpies away,” I thought.
Of course, my response was a little more subdued. “I kinda like the Bears.”
My wimpiness even makes me a little queasy sometimes. I often come up with witty fantastic comebacks, I just never voice them.
So, there I sat, stewing in my own juices (one of my dear departed mother’s favorite sayings), surrounded on all sides by a table of bogus Bills fans, tubby Lotharios and jolly bar flies.
I actually missed my buddy at the bar who was now flipping double-birds at the TV and his beloved Raiders who were getting their rear kicked. I then experienced my first epiphany of the day. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I decided to quit internal whining and strike up a conversation with the good people around me.
Just as I prepared to ask the goofy Bills couples if they were from New York (the Bills’ home state) I received a cell call from my neighbor Wayne. “Hey Petey, electricity’s back on. You can come home now.”
I had asked him earlier to call me the minute we had power. I dropped a five dollar bill on the table and hustled out of the bar without saying a word.
