Ames Progressive

He mentioned it in passing. As though the idea served as anecdotal fodder to fill a halfhearted conversation. “I had an opportunity to buy tickets for the Wizards’ playoff game,” my uncle Marvin said.

Without pondering the ins and outs of the trip I stoned my uncle by imploring him to see if the tickets were still available. Available tickets for a post-season game? Such an occurrence in New York occurs about as often as a Clinton conceding defeat.

With time off between temp jobs and a possible excursion to Brazil in the waiting, I could afford a $20 bus ticket to our nation’s capital to experience the intensity of an NBA playoff game for the first time. I began following the league in 1989 when the recently axed head coach of my beloved Knicks, Isiah Thomas, and the Bad Boys of Motown swept Magic and the Showtime Lakers. But I had been to less than 10 regular season games. My uncle, who works as an economist for the good people at Homeland Security, called back ten minutes after my initial astonishment to confirm success. Don’t worry, he’s a registered Democrat.

I fight off the momentary thoughts of sleeping away the day (my bed always provides such unproductive temptations) and scurry to the 63rd Drive subway station to pick up the Chinatown Bus. Usually, the ride into the city supplies a time for rejuvenation as the last moments of personal peace die away before a day trapped in corporate solitude arrives. Rather than selecting a soothing soundtrack for a mundane weekday, I seek unfiltered energy by going with the late rapper Biggie Smalls’ breakthrough album Ready To Die. It’s not even the anticipation of the night’s main draw that has me juiced. Instead, it’s the idea of fleeing the city for at least one day after wallowing in this commercial metropolis for the past three months that replaces my cynical mindset with fevered excitement.

I pop out of the subway with the expectation of meandering the streets of Chinatown for at least 30 minutes, knowing that I rarely find my way in Manhattan without a slight detour. Fortunately, my day-tripping tendencies lead me to a packed bus with an Asian lady rushing people on as the driver readies to pull away.

“D.C.?” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” the frantic lady says.
I exchange $20 for a ticket. The driver hits the gas as I stumble aboard.
Exasperated by the constant action on the streets, I pass occupied seats before asking a girl, who at first glance appears cute, if a seat filled with junk is available. She stashes her stuff under the seat and I plop down with my bloated backpack, attempting to collect myself and emanate an air of confidence.

Alright, just listen to your music for a bit. It’s too early for conversation. I have to show her I’m not a creep or freak.

I spend the first couple of hours shuffling between music blasting from my headphones and reading a Kurt Vonnegut book. Without a clean look at the girl’s face I can only hypothesize about her appearance. She engages in a 10-minute phone conversation in which she reveals that she just found a job and that, if it weren’t for being on a bus packed with people, she would scream in ecstasy. (Okay, so I threw in a more seductive and colorful word for my amusement.)

Peering over the girl’s shoulder I draw the conclusion that we’re stopping in Philly - I recall this road from my summer protesting the war in Iraq. I served as a field organizer in south New Jersey for a coalition backed by MoveOn?.org.

“What did you say?” I ask the girl as I pull off my headphones to see her freaking out.

“Is this bus going to Maryland?”

Not placing a whole lot of faith in this bus line as compared to Greyhound, I cannot placate her concerns completely but do feel confident that we will eventually hit her stop, Baltimore, and my stop, D.C. The unexpected pause in Philly does not steer us too far off our course since all three cities are south of New York.

“You’re still freaked,” I say as I continue to take jabs at her after reading a laid-back demeanor that belies her worried state. “We’re on our way. Just hold tight.”

This girl, Sara - as she’s not about sporting a superfluous ‘h’ - had it going. Body wise she appeared lean and tanned with wavy hair cascading over an infectious smile. But devoted to more than just vanity, our stimulating conversation started the trip off in memorable fashion.

“I’m moving to the city to become a hair stylist,” Sara revealed, with the added bonus that she will be staying in Brooklyn at the home of the Wailers, from Bob Marley and the Wailers, while they are on tour. So she has that going for her. “I’m really a country girl but I’m thinking the city is going to be a five-year plan.”

“Wow that sounds pretty mapped out and nerdy,” I say with intermittent laughter. “You ever heard of the movie ‘Bottle Rocket?’”

“Are you kidding? I love Wes Anderson movies.”

“You remember the part when Owen Wilson shows his plan for the next 5, 25 and 75 years of his life? That was hilarious.”

“His movies are brilliant,” she adds.

She won my heart. Lock, stock and fuck yeah.

I score her digits right before she vacates the bus at the Baltimore stop. I resist scoping out her body even more as we wait to pull off. She knows I’m into her. Don’t want to scare her off.

My stomach rumbling with vacancy, I fight urges to dip into a Chinese restaurant in D.C. as I await my uncle and my aunt Biloy.

Observing the heart of the other Northeastern cities presents a mystery for a typical New Yorker. A constant flow of bustling traffic instills a sense of familiarity but, without the manic frenzy, any street holds the potential to become desolate over the course of the evening.

My uncle spots me from across the street as I rest against a brick wall under a decorated gateway that hangs 20 feet overhead. The three of us resume to a Chinese restaurant for an early dinner/late lunch or, as Janeane Garofalo opines in a classic Seinfeld episode, linner. Off track, cannot recall saying that name in a while. To quote a more prominent figure in Hollywood, Chris Rock, “Showbiz is fickle!”

My aunt who, maybe due to her Filipino heritage, appears as radiant as ever despite her age of 50-plus, drags us into some clothing store before departing to the subway station - which is probably not what they call it in D.C. but us New Yorkers knowingly call everything associated with trains a “subway”.

With tip-off set for 8 p.m. my uncle and I pass time on an ideal Spring early evening by downing some drinks at a nearby pub.

“I have a bit of a problem that maybe you can help me out with,” I recall telling Sara on the bus ride. “See I’m a huge basketball fan and I know tonight’s game is going to be amazing but my uncle has this tendency of going on and on and I really want to enjoy the game. What would you do if I were an asshole and you didn’t want to talk to me?”

“I would just put on my headphones and ignore you.”

“Good move. Maybe I’ll do the same,” I said with an everlasting smile.

Fortunately, my uncle and I swim into fluid conversation as the combination of hearty beer and a calming flow of people passing us on the outside patio creates a perfect buzz that builds total comfort.

Marvin injects me with avuncular guidance as I express concerns over past personal transgressions. He vents about the absurdity of interoffice politics and I expound on my frustration concerning friends and both our cases leave us pondering how people can trample over the Golden Rule as though we don’t matter in their world.

Occasionally my uncle babbles on about trivial matters but, as is always the case, I stare raptly into his eyes as though I’m mesmerized by the wisdom. One would be surprised at how effective my listening skills apply to scoring girls.

A convertible full of four teenagers passes by with Wizards decals on the side and they shout generic sentiments concerning their team of choice.

A stream of people in white Wizards shirts follow the boisterous teens and suddenly I remember my prediction and hope for Washington to remain competitive.

I chose the Wizards - the No. 5 seed in the East, to upset the Cavs - the No. 4 seed. However, after losing a tight contest to start the series in Cleveland, the Wizards suffered a humiliating defeat in Game 2. I’m all about rooting for the home team but I expect LeBron? James to showcase his extraordinary skill-set. My buddy in NYC hooked me up with luxury box tickets to a Knicks-Cavs? game two moths earlier in which “The King” dropped 5-0 on a quasi-pro New York team.

The Verizon Center fails to generate a post-season buzz outside the arena and with tip-off still an hour away the inside appears dulled, but as we glide through the walkway and into our seats my eyes alight with the glow of the court and a coliseum of empty seats draped with white shirts. The charitable folks running the Wizards spoiled this depraved boy from Queens with a free towel and T, emulating the recurring trend in the NBA of building unity by wearing the team’s colors. The Jumbotron calls it a “White-Out” which I find mildly offensive and bland, as I would opt for a sea of blue shirts. Can’t wait until I buy the Knicks.

A late arriving crowd begins to make noise as players warming up show why they are in the pros by draining almost every single practice shot. The PA announcer breezes through the Cavs starting lineup and then … I’m transported back to junior high when my Knicks were relevant. A lengthy winter full of early sunsets and empty parks would slowly be eradicated by Spring’s gentle breeze and, without even having to think about it, the post-season would begin. A darkened arena and the corny, yet adrenaline-induced, chant of “Go New York! Go New York! Go!” and a two-month marathon of sweating through every play ensues.

Patrick Ewing, John Starks and Charles Oakley may have retired but, my lust for ineffable fanfare always intact, I jump up with over 10,000 other fans waving white towels as 10-foot high bursts of flames ignite after each of the five Washington starters are announced.

“Alright, now!” my uncle roars and I know he is as taken away by the moment as I am.

In the style of my Ewing-led Knicks, the Wizards hustle for every loose ball and swarm LeBron? with two defenders before he can even sniff the three-point line. The Wizards fully understand the importance of establishing team unity through fashion, just like my Knicks who often donned shaved heads at the onset of the post-season. Both Andre Blatche - a budding young center who pumps fervor that resounds around the arena with emphatic blocks, and DeShawn? Stevenson - a shutdown defender, chose to go with Mr. T Mohawks.

“Pop it,” I say right before Washington’s all-star forward Caron Butler drains a three.

“Everything’s going in,” my uncle says.

We exchange obligatory fives. Everyone continues to bounce up periodically as the Wizards hit big shot after big shot. Hustle. Determination. Active hands. Trademarks of playoff teams. LeBron? scores over 20 by the half but no other Cav has brought a semblance of a game to “The Hill” tonight.

“I can’t believe the score,” I say as amazingly the Cavs have scored only 33 points at the half and trail by 16.

My uncle hits the can and misses the highlight of the night as a break dancing duo stuns the crowd when one guy spins like a bottle on top of the other guy’s head. It’s not just about basketball in the NBA.

Stevenson finds his touch, which was absent for the Wizards during their first two losses, and celebrates each three-pointer by waving his hand an inch away from his face to mime that fact that he’s numb. The move is too innovative for me to remark on and I would give anything for Stevenson to bring his antics to Manhattan.

“Look, they’re putting in Petrov,” my uncle says. “Now you know it’s getting bad.”

Down by thirty, both coaches realize the outcome as LeBron? has also taken a premature seat for rarely used bench dwellers.

Surprisingly, my uncle and I engage in some high quality NBA cooler talk and he continues to impress me with his basketball I.Q. Not bad for an admitted chess geek.

“You want to get going?” I ask.

“I thought you always like staying to the bitter end?”

“It’s been a long day and this game is over.”

We pop out of the arena and into the warm night. The temperature has not dropped much despite the sun’s exit. I vacillate between exhaustion and attentiveness on the way home as a mob of fans from both the basketball and baseball game enter an empty train. Incidentally, a fan with Mets paraphernalia informs me that the Nationals whooped New York’s other team.

My uncle yammers on about something other than sports during the ride and, despite my incessant yawns, never fails to find a ripe topic for one-sided conversation. However, he stumbles into sports talk and the 20-minute walk from the train station turns amicable, even with the stillness of the suburbs providing a near-mute score.

I catch some of the late game between the Jazz and Rockets but betray my NBA desires and slip under the covers in the guest room bed downstairs. Plenty to mull over and assess but, with my batteries on E, I resign to the fact that there’s plenty of playoff basketball left. Maybe if I sleep long enough the Knicks will once again become a contender. Eh, I’ll opt for more quality time with my uncle and a date with Sara instead.