At the top of the page there is a link to the new introduction and the new “Best of” page. Phase I of the new site layout. The rest will be coming throughout the week.

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Back in the day, I used to be a basketball fan. A lot of us used to be, actually. You know, white people. It’s a dying breed now, the occasional fan left such as writer extraordinaire Jay Busbee but for the most part, they’re few and far between.

Michael Jordan left and, in my opinion, every franchise tried to bank on what Michael stood for but got it all wrong. Every franchise tried to get their flashy players not realizing that Michael was more than just panache, the man played with his team and his very existence made them all better players. So Michael left and the NBA slowly tanked and the Lakers’ debacle was followed by the even more embarrassing Olympics brain-damage and basketball, for most of us, might as well be as dead as hockey.

But I got to see him play once. The great Michael Jordan. Opening day against the Celtics, in Boston, second-to-last row of the Fleet Center on the foul line. Some of the worst seats one could get but I didn’t care. The man was pure energy, 80% of the stadium cheering for him, not the Bulls or the Celtics.

We actually camped out for these seats. Showed up at the Fleet Center at 10PM the night before they went on sale at 9AM. We had blankets, pillows, jackets, thermoses for our coffee and flasks for our whisky that we put in the coffee. And we drank all night while playing cards and slap-boxing, about the five-hundredth party on the line and excited that we would absolutely get good seats to see Jordan.

R, my lady at the time, was camping out with us mainly because she had nothing better to do. This worked to my advantage because I was broke as no joke and R had some cash to spare – she was going to buy the tickets for the two of us.

At 8AM or so we all start standing up and getting stretched out for when the line starts to move. R gives me her ATM card and tells me to go get the money out.

“Do you know the code?”

“Sure.”

I go to the ATM and the line is out the door and snaked up the block. After waiting for a half-hour or so, I finally get to the machine, put the card in and punch in the code.

INCORRECT PIN – PLEASE TRY AGAIN

I was tired; I probably just put the wrong pin-number in. So I reenter it.

INCORRECT PIN – PLEASE TRY AGAIN

That’s funny. Oh! It was the cousin’s birthday, that’s right. Not her birthday.

INCORRECT PIN – (Something about three strikes and I’m out and now the card’s being destroyed.)

And I stared at the machine in horror. I picked up the emergency phone they have next to the ATM machine and I demand that the lady spit the card back or else, “My girlfriend is going to fucking kill me.” She apologizes and tells me that a new one is being mailed out and I should have it in 5-7 business days.

I try to think up excuses – I was mugged. The card fell out of my hand and disappeared in a small gap between the ATM machine and the wall. I dropped it in a sewer. After five minutes of coming up with the worst excuses possible, I returned to the line and decided to fess up.

I’m not sure exactly what I said but I’m pretty sure this is what she heard: “Hey honey. After spending the entire night in the freezing cold watching me and my friends get drunk and slap-box the night away I decided the best way to thank you would be to cut off your money supply for the next 5-7 business days.”

Needless to say she was enraged. I weathered through the storm, however, and one of my friends spotted us money for the tickets (and the seats sucked thanks to scalpers and ticket agencies buying them up) and I pretty much just gave her the cash I had in my bank account because I felt so bad. I think one of our “breaks” came from the whole ordeal but those things only lasted until lunch-time the next day when we were both feeling ripe for a nooner.

And when it comes down to it, I got to see Jordan play. And in the end, that’s all that really mattered.