San Diego! Spanish for...Saint Diego! Say it with me. It feels good. San Diego!
In 21 years I had never made it out to California. A combination of living in Minnesota and not being cool kept me away from the glitz and glamour of the western frontier. So when WPRB begged me to go spend its money and broadcast the game, I thought about it . . .
. . . and in that time had already booked the flight.
We flew out Thursday night and spotted New Jersey Nets' forward Aaron Williams at the Newark Airport. I have never been more unimpressed to see a professional athlete walk right in front of my face.
After an hour or so of delays we landed in Phoenix and quickly found the bar after learning our next flight would be delayed as well. It was going to be a late night.
Friday
Friday was our free day in San Diego. The game was Saturday and we had plans for the day involving women, parties, and alcohol.
We went one for three. My pasty skin is no more attractive in Cali than it is here, and we're not exactly up on the party scene out there. We are 21, though!
At the rental car place in the morning we were treated to a free upgrade because we were, as the man at the counter said, "doing a good deed" by broadcasting the game. He made me feel like I was building homes for the poor. Is broadcasting a big altruistic act in southern California? What a country!
We swapped our Geo Metro for a PT Cruiser. That's right. The only catch was we had to throw in our manhood to sweeten the pot.
We took the Chickmobile to the stadium to check things out. This campus was ridiculous. The athletic center behind the stadium looked like a 19th-century Spanish villa, complete with palm trees, wading pools, monkey butlers, and chewy chewy cocoa beans. If I didn't regret going to school in America's armpit enough, this was the clincher.
We were hungry, so we began roaming the city looking for food. We took the bridge to Coronado and wandered through blocks and blocks of thick residential area before finally emerging at a naval base.
"Umm, I'm sorry, I'm not in the Navy," I said to the pimply-faced guard doing his best to look military.
He showed us the way out, and before we knew it we were sipping mojitos and margaritas at a little restaurant on what I suppose would amount to Coronado's version of Nassau Street, only it never rains on their Nassau Street.
Rob knows someone everywhere on the West Coast. We decided to meet one of his old friends from high school that night in Los Angeles, thereby exposing me to a little more California culture.
Except we never met him. The car he was riding in fell into a wormhole and disappeared into the depths of space, and we drove for two hours without hearing from him. So we stopped in Burbank, and Rob insisted that I eat at an In-N-Out Burger. Here is their menu: Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Double Double, French Fries, Shakes, Beverages.
That's it. But it's all good, and it's cheap. Fast food that's tasty and looks as good as the pictures. It's years ahead of it's time.
When we gave up on Rob's friend returning from the wormhole, we headed over to the Santa Monica Pier. I tell you what, that Pacific Ocean has a lot of freaking water.
"You know," I said to Rob, dodging flailing fishing lines, "Minnesota has more coastline than California, Florida, and Hawaii combined."
He scoffed and turned away.
Yeah . . . it's not the same.
Saturday
The game was Saturday. You already know what happened with that. I very much enjoyed the Asian usher standing next to us who decided that he would make comments to us during the broadcast.
"You think it'll be a sneak here?" he'd say, looking at me for approval.
Did he expect me to stop during the broadcast and say, "Yes, random usher man, I think it'll be a sneak." We took 'Prince' senior writer David Baumgarten out to dinner afterward. The Padres were in town, and we wanted to catch a game, but Big Sexy had to get back to his host alum's crib to start working on the 5,000 articles the 'Prince' was making him write about the essentially meaningless game.
Rob and I paid $26 dollars each to get into Petco (yes, Petco) Park, and the seats weren't even next to each other. The Princeton football Tigers were there to catch a few innings before their red-eye flight back to the Superfund State, so Rob talked to some of his friends on the team while I kept it real over in the corner with Four-Eyed Larry, the Pocket Protector Gang, and the rest of the squares. The team took off, and Rob used his knowledge of Spanish to score us two connecting tickets from people who were leaving the game.
It was a record crowd at Petco: 44,863. Apparently it was the last Saturday home game, and there were fireworks, which was why a ticket was about as hard to come by as a rain drop. Oh, how the rubes come out for the fireworks.
I finally met the patriarch of the house we were staying at that night.
"So, Zack, you're from Minnesota. Are you Lutheran?"
Panicking. Sweating. No, sir. I like God. He does good work. But I am an evil man, I know. Hey, I was baptized, does that count?
Sunday
The fun seemed to be over as we trudged our weary selves to the airport Sunday morning for the flight back to reality. I was working on my 48th coffee of the weekend and was desperately clawing at the muffin crumbs in the cup holder of the Cruiser, fearing a fine.
We landed in Phoenix later that morning, our minds still in San Diego. I sat down to wait for the flight to Newark, and Rob went to get food. Tired of work, I dropped my book and looked up at the room. There, sitting across from me in the waiting area, was Diana Taurasi.
Who? Diana Taurasi, the former UConn women's college hoops star, just yesterday named the WNBA's Rookie of the Year for her work with the Phoenix Mercury this season. It made sense — the season just ended, she's heading back home.
Rob came back, and I motioned for him to look. He shrugged his shoulders, had no idea. I pulled out my cell phone and typed DIANA TAURASI on the display.
Rob slow played it, engaging her in a conversation about her text messaging device, pretending he didn't know her. He asked her where she's from, she said California.
Check. (Why do I know that?)
He asked her why she was going to New York, she said she had family there.
Check.
He told her we went to Princeton, she said she went to UConn.
Checkmate.
I dropped the charade. "You were really good at basketball."
Three-plus years of Ivy League education and that was the best icebreaker I could come up with.
She gradually put her text message buddy away and started talking to us about sports. Rob asked her if she could dunk. She shook her head, then checked out my legs, looked at me and said, "I'll bet you can dunk."
Hey . . . she's the expert. Now that I'm back in Jersey, you can find me in Dillon, working on the 360-reverse.
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