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- A Weekend in Buffalo

Driving north on I-90, the Pussycat Dolls blasting from my speakers, it took all my concentration to keep my hands from shaking on the wheel.  Today, all my years of intense study in the field of journalism were going to pay off. I had reached my professional zenith – for the first time ever I was being sent to cover the NCAA Championships in Buffalo, NY.

Following a lengthy conversation with the parking attendant about the merits of my press-related parking exemption, we eventually compromised on my paying the full $10.  As I was being sent to get the full March Madness experience, I decided it would be best to mingle with the tailgating fans in the parking lot before the first match-up between Maryland and the team I had picked to win the tournament, the Davidson Wildcats.

As luck would have it, I quickly stumbled upon a group of Davidson fans, who were more than accommodating.  They explained that they were freshman at Davidson, and they offered to share their beer with me.  One girl even applied some excellent Wildcat rub-on tattoos to each of my cheeks.  All-in-all, it was pretty clear that Davidson fans were pretty fantastic people.  Unfortunately for me, I was there as a journalist, and felt it necessary to get the other side of the story, and so, can of the Beast and under-cooked hotdog in hand, I headed off in search of some Turtle fans.

I spotted a group of youths grilling on a truck bed, all of them decked out in Maryland apparel.  Striding confidently over to them I decided it would be best to deal with them on their level, to make them see that I was just a regular college kid like themselves.

Walking up to the biggest guy in the group I offered my fist in what is known as a “pound it” configuration. “Yo, what up homie slice?”

“Yo man,” he said, “you gotta get the fuck away from here.  We’re here for Maryland and we’re not dealing with you people.”

I wasn’t sure how he knew that I was a reformed member of the Church of New Redeeming Light, or what he had against my people, but he was a lot bigger than me, so I thought it best not to push the issue.

“Yeah, that’s cool homez,” I said, tapping myself on the chest with a closed fist to show that his hatred had hurt my heart.  I meandered around the lot in search of more Maryland fans, but found that all met me with the same level of hostility and claims of my faggotry, and multiple threats of bodily harm.  As I left the last of these groups I had come to my second realization of the night.  Maryland fans are bigots.

Checking my watch, I saw that the first game would be tipping off in less than an hour, and so I decided to go get my hands on my press credentials.  After multiple encounters with the dullard HSBC Arena Staff, I was directed to Sharon Walters who I was informed was in charge of handing out credentials.

“I’m sorry Mr…”

“Ingram.”

“Mr. Ingram.  We don’t have any record of credentials in your name.  What organization did you say you were with?”

“That Site with the Name.”

“What site?”

“I told you, That Site with the Name.”

“And you’re a journalist?”

“Of course.”

“Well, it’s just… your face.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

Sharon didn’t respond, clearly embarrassed at having been caught in her adoration.  Eventually she agreed to give me a press credential with a promise that I “don’t come anywhere near [her] while I’m in Buffalo.”  Smart move Ms. Walters; keep the temptation at a distance.

Shuffling into the press box I surveyed the spread of complimentary foods provided for us.  Approaching the gentleman behind the bar I ordered a Popov on the rocks, but was informed that HSBC didn’t serve “that filth.”

Four fuzzy navels later I heard the horn buzz for the start of the game and shuffled out to watch my Wildcats take on the motherfucking Turtles.  Unfortunately, the first half didn’t go so well for Davidson, who trailed the loathsome Turtles by a point.  Slamming another navel I turned to my colleague Bob Ryan.

“You’re a disgrace,” he said to me, before walking to the other end of the box.  Bob’s always been a kidder.

As the second half began I ordered a double and set my eyes on the court, where my Wildcats had taken to slaying the heathens in white.  When Max Paulhus Gosselin’s three pointer put the Cats up 52-44 I retreated back to the bar to tell my new friend Terrance all the fun things I was going to buy with my winning bracket money.

I had barely begun to describe my plans for Ingram Island when Terrance pointed to the nearby TV screen.  The game was over, and Maryland had won.

“Oh, cock,” I shouted, slamming my fists on the bar.  “T, I’m ruined.”

I spent the next hour at the bar enjoying a bottomless bay breeze until, as I would later be told, I stumbled back out to the box, urinated over the edge onto some paying fans and then passed out.

I woke up as Duke, another of my Final Four squadrons, battled Virginia Commonwealth.  As you are all no doubt aware, the Duke Blue Devils basketball squadron is the single most dominant force this world has ever known, so you will understand my surprise to find them trailing the lowly Commonwealth in the final minute.  It wasn’t until Duke’s Demarcus Nelson laid in the tying basket with ten seconds left that I realized everything was going to be okay.

***

Stumbling drunkenly through the underbelly of the Arena I replayed VCU’s winning shot over and over in my head.  How could Duke, the unbeatable Duke, have lost a basketball game?  There had to be corruption involved.  And like that, I knew I had my story.  Racing through the tunnels I made my way to the Duke locker room and kicked the door open.

The room was somber as Duke’s coach Mike Shashefski addressed his players.  Pushing one weeping player out of my path I shoved Shashefski hard.

“You conniving bastard,” I screamed at him.  “You threw the game.  Admit it.  It was a conspiracy to kill my bracket.”

I attempted to throw a punch but soon found myself tackled to the ground by several Duke players.  Thinking quickly I screamed “Rape,” banking on my ability to play the race card to earn assumed guilt.  It was at this point I noticed the flaw in my scheme: the Duke basketball team had a remarkably large number of white players.  Suddenly I understood their poor season was not a conspiracy at all.

***

The second round action at HSBC featured some of the most exciting games of the round.  An underdog Butler squad pulled off the upset in the day’s first game, and the same VCU team that knocked off Duke overcame a 19 point deficit before succumbing to the #3 seeded Pittsburgh ball club in overtime.

While the cell I was being held in did not have a TV, the warden assured me the action was intense.  Despite the unnecessary hostility showed to me by the Maryland fans, and my impending assault trial, I had a great time at this year’s March Madness.  It truly is one of the greatest sporting events in the world, and I look forward to my attendance next year after my exoneration.