A couple years back, a business contact, invited a friend and I to a Nascar race in Richmond Virginia – at the time it was named “the Pepsi Rock-N-Roll 400” or something to that effect. I immediately had my reservations because I had tried to watch Nascar racing on TV for years, but never quite found the appeal. I voiced this apprehensive concern of Nascar to my vendor and suggested he take a someone else instead, because they may enjoy it more than me.
He told me: “Don’t worry, you’ll love it live”.
I want to believe, so off to Virginia Ken & I flew.
Once at the track, we were stunned by the size of the crowd which made football tailgaters look like a bunch of pikers. Parking seemed to stretch for miles across what was once probably a Civil war battlefield. There were so many cars, but mostly it was pickup trucks that loomed across the horizon with tailgates down, radios up. RVs were also there en masse, packed with people, blazing grills, and well stocked coolers.
The domestic beers freely flowed.
Flags of every shape, size, driver, beer brand, and political movement fluttered in the breeze. I thought at the time that the flags were less about messaging and more about finding a landmark on the way back from the spectacularly clean porta-potties. Perhaps someone could “talk you in” like an air traffic controller, to a place to meet.
Something like this over a cell phone:
Imaginary me (IM): Where are you?
Imaginary friend (IF): I’m right by the flagpole that has the stars & bars, with the Natty Light & Jim Beam flags.
Me: Now just wait a minute,…. are they making Boiler Makers?
Friend: Hell if I know, I think it’s just flags, but they might just be drinking Boiler Makers, how do I get to you?
Me: Okay, head towards the track past the flagpole flying Pepsi & the University of Tennessee flag, hang a right at the Copenhagen-Ford truck flagpole and I’m sitting in a lawn chair under the “Enjoy Every Sandwich – Mutineer flag.
Friend: Cool, see you in a few.
Into to the stadium-like racetrack we moved like lonely cattle heading to slaughter. A stampede, while unlikely, did not seem out of the question.
This was a “high dollar vendor” entertainment event, so no expense seemed to be spared. We were treated to a tasty catered meal in an air-conditioned tent and received a tour of the pit and garage areas. We met the drivers, walked the track and were given the grand tour like royalty. I was impressed by all the rigamarole, and thought: “maybe it’s not so bad?”
I could not have been more wrong.
As race-time approached we were handed our tickets and told to take our seats for the big fun. Since this vendor seemed to piss money in every direction, I assumed we’d have great seats, maybe even the front-row – trackside. I was going to live large like an actor or rapper court-side at a basketball game.
I was wrong.
As we entered the grandstands, I paused to look down at the row numbers, then looked down at my ticket then back at the row numbers in disbelief. Oh shit, the nosebleed section?! What the hell?!?. We trudged a mile up the stairs into the stratosphere and took our places on a chilled metal bench with no back. It’s true, I had been wrong. Nascar was far worse than I imagined.
I’ve since learned that at this type of race, the “Spicoli level” high seats ARE thought to be the good seats, because the whole track can be seen which allows the viewer to enjoy more of the race. That is horseshit, it’s a miserable experience.
When the green flag waved, the suck really started. The atmosphere was choked with exhaust fumes and the sound was deafening. If you ever lose a bet and have to attend a race of your own to defend your honor, I would highly suggest bringing ear plugs.
For what seemed like forever, but was in fact only a handful of miserable hours, rednecks powered their machines along the track attempting to pass other rednecks by employing a strategy of making left turn after left turn after left turn after left turn, to the roar of the crowd and engines. Boring was replaced with torture as I could barely take it.
After what seemed like way too many hours, I screamed into my friend Ken’s ear that it was getting late and we had early flights the next morning. He turned to face me and I screamed in his other ear: “maybe we should leave before the race ends to beat the crowd and get back to the hotel.”
He screamed back, into my ear, “I’m ready to leave now!”
“Hallelujah”, I thought, Ken is a kindred soul.
Down the stairs, slipping through spilled beers and tobacco spit we descended, we bypassed the souvenir stands and walked out into the night. Past the RVs with smoldering grills and piles of garbage, as beer cans crinkled beneath our feet we walked to our rental car. We didn’t speak much, it was understood that neither of us had the words to accurately describe this new level of suck we had just experienced. Our ears we ringing, making polite conversation now difficult, so we agreed not to scream into each other’s ears and had a quiet ride back to the hotel.
I was happy to go home and vowed to never go to an event like this again.
A few years later I received a phone call from my brother Dean with an invitation to attend a Detroit Redwings professional hockey game. The hair stood up on the back of my neck because I had tried to “get into” hockey for years by watching it on television. I could never stomach more than a period or so.
I said: “Man, I dunno, I’m not into hockey”
He replied: “Don’t worry, you’ll love it live”
I recoiled at the phrase as my mind was flooded with unpleasant memories of the Nascar fiasco.
“Awe man, that’s what they all said about Nascar”
“Hockey is different” he said and went on tell me a little about his friends in school that had played hockey, and how he understood the game. He had moved to the Detroit years ago and had become a fan of the Redwings.
Dean had also recently been renting a home to a player on the Redwings team and told me we had Dom’s tickets, which were allegedly “great”, and he assured me, again, that I’d love it. This sounded like I was being led again down the Nascar primrose path.
I was worried.
Since this was my brother, and we generally always have a good time together, against my better judgment, I acquiesced and agreed to go with only his promise of a good time, and food & beverages of my liking.
Back in these days, the Redwings made their home in the stately Joe Louis Arena. It was known and loved better as simply “the Joe”, having been named after the heavyweight boxing champion and Detroit native. So a few weeks later, I drove to Detroit and my brother and I journeyed to “the Joe”.
Things started off well enough, this was an old school venue, low ceilings, crowded concourses filled with souvenir stands, snack bars, and beverage sellers. We headed straight to the cocktail stand and wrestled up a couple double Jack-n-Cokes. Then we decided to “take a lap” around the concourse of “the Joe,” taking in the sights and sounds of the red-dressed crowd. There were crazy foam fingers, “original 6” gear, and even octopus themed swag, which for some odd reason I didn’t even question. After taking the lap around we found ourselves back at the cocktail stand, thirsty from our long journey, in need of a couple double refills.
Refills in hand, we make our way to the seats and sit down in the top row of the lower bowl right at the “blue line”. Things are looking up and I think maybe, just maybe this won’t be so bad, or at least better than the Nascar debacle.
As I settle into my seat which thankfully has a back, I realize I’m already ahead of the game from a seating comfort and noise perspective. While there is a goodaize crowd, but not too loud.
I’m happy I can hear myself think.
I take a sip from what tastes like at least a triple and wonder if my brother is best friends with the Jack Daniels dispensing lady. Gasping a bit at the not unwelcome, but unexpected taste of the finest beverage ever to come from Tennessee, I begin to look around and take in the surroundings.
And what surroundings they were!
All around us, everywhere, were model like, large breasted blue-eyed blondes. It reminded me of one of those Swedish bikini team scenarios. I thought to myself, well, if you’re gonna be “out gunned, out-numbered and surrounded, this is the way to go, kid”
I lean over and say to my bro “Hey man, I’ve covered Detroit for a couple years in sales, and I know I’ve never seen, this many exceptionally attractive women in one spot, what gives?”
He replies, “this is the players section”, it’s full of their wives and girlfriends, and maybe both in some instances”.
“ah”, I said, “it’s good to be the king”
The puck drops and we begin to watch hockey. The pace of the NHL game is lightening fast, the players skate with grace and speed, and fight with ferocity. I find it difficult at first to follow along because of the speed and distracting surroundings that beautifully bounce with each good thing the Redwings do. Slowly I adjust and start to get into it. I ask lots of questions,
What is icing?
“It’s kind of like a delay of game penalty”
Why are they dropping the puck again over there?
“That’s where the icing happened”
These guys fight a lot, do they really hate each other?
“No, that’s just the way the game is played.”
Why are they fighting so much?
“Hmmm, maybe they do really hate each other.”
How did that guy get to ride on the Zamboni?
“He must have won a contest or something”
Who is that big guy that doesn’t seem to skate as gracefully as the others?
He’s a goon, he’s in there to fight.
They have players on the team just to fight?
“We’ve always got room on our the team for a goon.”
As the game concludes with a Detroit victory I see people moving towards the glass where (I’m not making this up) they proceed to toss dead octopuses (octopi?) onto the ice. I’m bewildered and ask my brother without asking,. “wtf?”
“I’ll tell you about it on the drive home”
Sometimes “you’ll love it live”, but you’ve got to go find out.