It’s a rather embarrassing story, and one I would probably otherwise not tell. But Gator Country had asked me to relay some stories and anecdotes from Nassau, and well – – quite frankly, the board is in need of a good chuckle.
Even if at my expense.
So, my dad and I made the trip to Atlantis – – – a feat in itself considering the size and closeness of our family, coupled with the event coinciding with Thanksgiving. But our sales pitch was well-rehearsed and perfectly executed.
We arrived in Nassau Wednesday afternoon— had dinner, gambled, lost money and eventually made our way to the arena. Well, it was not really an arena, but rather a converted ballroom. As we arrived at the designated ticket pickup location, my phone buzzed with a text message.
Andrew Spivey: “You can pick up your press credentials at media Will-Call”.
Press credentials?
Media Will-Call?
I was clueless as to what this entailed, or what it meant. You see, I am not a journalist by trade — only by hobby and education. And I have never been educated in the finer points of the profession.
This would soon become quite apparent.
I succeeded in obtaining my pass without seeming overly naïve, and proudly hung the badge from neck. All the while, my dad waited outside the guarded media room — peering inside.
“Wow! Look at you,” he said as I emerged.
“Yeah — I don’t know what I do with this though,” I replied.
But my dad sure did.
“Hey, they have some snacks in the room. Grab some peanut M&Ms”.
And so I did, flashing my pass for the first time — to get candy.
As we entered the converted dance room, I felt like the beau of the ball — even if I am not so ‘beau’.
“You are this way, Sir,” the usher said as he gestured to the courtside seats along press row.
Truth be told, I wanted to sit with my dad. But he insisted I experience press row, even if just for the first game.
I shuffled past Seth Davis, Andy Katz and Jay Bilas— very cautiously so not to trip over their microphone and television wires. I strained my neck and aging eyesight — looking for the placard designating my seat. The somewhat familiar face of Mick Hubert offered comfort, and assurance that I was getting closer.
Alas — “Brent Mechler: Gator Country”
I settled in my courtside folding chair and peered across the arena in search of my dad. My gaze was interrupted by a friendly lady carrying a large tray of snacks.
“Refreshment, Sir?” she asked.
Mind you, I had just lost all of my carried cash in the casino.
“Ummm…. Are they free,” I questioned.
Ugh. As soon as I asked, I felt the heat of humiliation rush through my face.
They were free, of course. And I hesitantly reached for a box of ‘Sour Patch Kids’.
The low hanging lights of the converted dance floor seemed to be laser focused on my bald dome. That, coupled with my early faux paus had me sweating profusely.
I heard the click of a camera, and turned to find my dad photo-documenting my discomfort.
Within moments, my seat neighbor arrived in a whirl — setting up his computer, scribbling notes and going through an assortment of pregame preparations.
This guy was a professional.
I finished chewing a “Sour Patch Kid” and introduced myself.
“Nice to meet you, too. I’m Chris Harry” he replied. “Are you with the UAA,” he asked while eyeing my Gator shirt.
I did not know at the time, but apparently it is somewhat of a no-no to convey your allegiance while seated in press row.
Faux paus #3. Or was it 4?
Within moments the game started— and I busily noted lineups, rotations and the apparent health of Eli and Dorian. I posted my first update on Gator Country —live from press row!
This was exciting now. And so was the game.
Early into the contest Devin Robinson launched his first of several air-balls.
Now, my friends and family will tell you — I am an animated, superstitious, ritualistic and nervous fan. And I was tonight. Except tonight I was not in my living room, nor the stands.
As the shot sailed waaaay over the rim— I flew back in my seat, threw my hands on my head, let out an audible sigh and gazed skyward.
“Don’t do that. You can’t do that,” my seat neighbor implored.
“What? Don’t do what,” I asked.
Georgetown easily converted on the other end. I slapped my knee, wringed my hands and whispered ‘damn’.
“That. That. You can’t do that. They will run you out of here,” he said feverishly while mimicking my gestures.
“I can’t cheer,” I asked — all while beginning to reconcile where I was seated and the reasons I must act differently than I normally might.
Either that, or abandon my post.
It was a tight game late in the second half when I witnessed an obvious Georgetown foul. I leapt from my seat and shouted in full voice . . . .”FOUL!! That’s a foul!”.
The referee’s whistle simultaneously blew in recognition of the same.
I turned to my seat neighbor and gave him a high-five. My dad returned the favor.
Yup. I abandoned my post, though not my duties. Not as a writer, nor a fan — though I am arguably more proficient at the latter. And certainly more comfortable.
Go Gators! (ß I shouted that, by the way.)