Pat Summerall is in it
Sunday, June 05, 2005
I remember walking into this bar. There would rarely be a large crowd - a good reason to go there. Karaoke would sporadically be the main focus of attention. A few regulars would take up their regular seats to watch the singer while others would be playing pool, perusing the jukebox, or sitting around the bar telling stories of days past. Everything was right. Everything was normal.
This weekend we went back to this bar and were met with a completely different scene. The place was packed with bodies. Nearly all of the patrons were hunched over a table coldly eyeing their neighbors. The air was thick with distrust. Poker chips were incessantly clicking together as decisions were made. Everyone was playing poker and it was the saddest thing I had ever seen.
Now, the reason we went there was to play poker. We knew full well what we were getting into. I'm just having a little trouble embracing the craze. I was poker's biggest advocate before it hit ESPN. My response to "What do you want to do tonight?" would often be, "Lets play some poker - C'mon some low-hold, 7 stud, draw, 7-27, iron cross, Chicago? Hmm?" The answer would always be along the lines of, "Oh Dan, why don't I just give you my $10 now and we skip the whole thing?"
All of those people who used to turn me down for poker are now the ones starting these games and planning evenings around poker - now that it's on TV and everyone is doing it! The feeling is much like when your favorite band - the one that only you like - suddenly goes mainstream and everyone is suddenly 'out-fanning' you. From your little corner you're screaming to deaf ears, "Hey I knew them before everyone else did!" But no one cares to hear about your music opinion history.
I think the poker craze is soon going to collapse upon itself, Atkins-style. Staying with the music analogy, do you remember when you'd go to a club and the DJ would say, "Hey are you guys having fun tonight?" After a half second pause he would fire up Hey Ya and everyone would go crazy. Oh my goodness Hey Ya is playing! This is my favorite song! This is what music is supposed to be about! I don't even know what the name of this girl I'm dancing with is, but Hey Ya is playing and I couldn't be happier! Heeeeeyy Yaaaaaaa!
Now if the DJ tries to play that song he'll be buried in a pile of beer bottles and plastic cups. "Hey dickhead! Play that latest 50 Cent shitbomb of a song instead! Or play Hollaback Girl because I forgot how to spell BANANAS!" (How in the hell is that song #1?) Actually I kind of like Hate it or Love it so my blanket hatred for 50 is possibly starting to show some holes. But I guess it's actually The Game's song? Oh yeah I don't care.
Anyway, back at the bar, my night ended early. I went all in because I played dangerously (stupid) and lost. Waiting for my friend to lose, my eye wandered across all of the abandoned bar machines and activities. It was sad to see everything wasted. Nothing was even playing on the jukebox. Next to the jukebox was the Golden Tee game. The voice of Pat Summerall was droning on. Welcome to Golden Tee! Come put money in me. You want to play unrealistic simulated golf.
I will not be ignored.
I didn't want to play but I felt kind of bad no one was playing and probably hadn't for a long time. The voice continued. If you little bastards don't put those cards down soon I'm going to call the police about your semi-illegal gambling hut. Did I hear that right? Golden Tee games are connected by a phone line... Would Pat really do this to the bar?
He must have heard my thoughts because the next thing I knew the screen on the game turned red. Pat's face appeared on the screen. The numbers 9-1-1 appeared over his face. There was a countdown timer over his head. 20 seconds and the cops would be called!
"Is anyone seeing this?" I exclaimed pointing at the game.
No one even humored me with a nod. "I'll raise..." They were too consumed with becoming the next Phil Helmuth to acknowledge anything outside of the game.
I sprang to my feet, bumping the table and knocking over stacks of chips. I had to stop that 80-year-old madman inside that video game! I ran over to the Golden Tee to abort the countdown. 10 seconds left! I didn't have any dollars left so I couldn't feed in any money. In the confusion I rapidly tapped the START button. The countdown only quickened!
"Should have picked the green wire!" Pat laughed. "Peter, call the police for me. These old bones can't press the numbers." The 9 lit up first followed by the 1's. A dial tone. A pause.
"Hello, 911."
"Hello this is the NFL's Pat Summerall..."
I grabbed my friend and convinced him to leave before to police arrived. We were almost out the door when the Golden Tee game tried to jump out and block our path. Mr. Summerall's taunting face filled the screen with rage. We thought we were going to be forced into making a hole-in-one in order to acquire safe passage. That's when Pat's expression changed. He was caught. The cord only reached so far. The machine lunged in one final attempt to stop us. The cord pulled from the wall and the game landed sideways, smoking. Pat Summerall's rampage was over, but the damage was already done.
Not one poker player paid the scene a cursory glance.
The policed stormed the building as we watched from the car. The world will have to wait for the next Phil Helmuth.
What a bad ending.
posted by Ghengis @ 12:35 PM,
