Monday, October 10, 2011

Lockouts need coffee

The writers on the sidewalk were, as usual, putting together a pool. It's a dollar a head, and the game is to guess at precisely what time David Stern will address the media.

Worth noting: Those who had covered multiple lockouts were guessing late.

It was already approaching 11 p.m. Sunday, but the good money was on this lasting hours more. Stories were told of CBA all-nighters of yesteryear.

More coffee would be needed.

And it wouldn't be easy to come by that late on a Sunday, and in this neighborhood. Earlier I had asked about coffee in the bar of a very swanky restaurant on the block. The conversation:
"Could I please get a cup of coffee to go?"

"To go? No, we don't do that."

"Do you have any idea where, around here, I could get that?"

"Maybe Starbucks?"

"Great. Where is that?"

"No idea."

A helpful NBA staffer knew about a phone app that would tell you, essentially, where to find coffee nearby. It suggested several options. I took orders and dollars from the crowd (four black coffees, two iced coffees with milk and sugar, two waters, an orange vitaminwater) and set off into the night with promises I'd get a text message should the meeting break up while I was gone.

It's a funny thing, this stakeout business. You have hours and hours and hours to kill. It's easy to get the feeling nothing is all that pressing. Then you miss that key minute, and your entire day is wasted.�Hard to know if, in that context, it's a good idea to leave for coffee.

The coffee app was a good one, but less useful near midnight on a Sunday. Three swings, three misses. All closed. Lots of walking. Another very swanky restaurant, though. A waiter on the sidewalk said the bartender could hook me up. At the bartender's request, I took a seat and wrote out the list of drinks, skipping the vitaminwater, 'cause this was not that kind of place. Orangina, maybe.

They didn't even really have regular coffee, but would Americanos be OK?

Fantastico.

The wheels were in motion. I kept my phone in hand, planning to pretty much sprint out of there if I got the text.

After an amount of time in which a dedicated barista could have made 50 Americanos, the bartender disappeared into the back and returned, not with a sack of coffees, but with deflated body language.

No to-go cups. They were out of to-go cups. Her apology included something about Columbus Day. Columbus Day? Nevermind. She had an idea about a place to try around the corner. As it was on my way back to the stakeout, I walked by. Also closed.

I thought about playing with that app again, maybe going East this time, but looking down the block to the stakeout I could see reporters all standing up and gathered in one place, as opposed to the norm of lazily sitting on parked cars and stoops. Action? As I got closer, clearly it had been a false alarm. Just people talking, probably wondering why I came back without coffee. I reported on how poorly the search had gone, and set out again.

About five blocks South there was, of all things, a hoppin' nightclub. Bouncers with earpieces at the door, velvet rope, highest of heels, the whole thing. Bouncers know late nights. Bouncers know coffee. The biggest of all had crystal clear coffee insight: A block away, he said, and open 24 hours.

He was no liar.

It's no small thing to get all those drinks into bags -- experience is required in deploying all the coffees in those four-cup holder cardboardy things, in a stacking action in one bag. The other bag was for loose bottles, napkins and sugars.

Still no text.

I'm walking fast now. Almost there. Nothing to worry about, see? Can almost taste the coffee. But ... what?

At the final corner, where I am due to turn right and walk 100 more yards ... is standing ... David Stern.

That's him? There? Can this be? He's just standing on the corner? Adam Silver honed into view, too.

The two of them, blatantly not in meetings. They see me coming, a journalist laden not with a tape recorder, but shopping bags, of all damned things.

In an instant, we all know I have completed the entire stakeout but have missed the moment that mattered. Not really their problem, per se, but from a humanitarian perspective, a pisser -- not unlike a kid who upends his own lunch tray in the school cafeteria. Everybody knows that's the pits.

"We'll do it again," offers Silver, a bit of mischief in his tone, as if to say: this'll be fun! They'll recreate, he's implying, their entire press conference for an audience of one. He reaches out an arm to Stern, and brings the commissioner into position.

The two of them side by side, facing "the media," or me, still with a bag in each hand. When he's in place, Stern takes a breath, fixes me in the eye, and through a hoarse voice (a cold or -- too obvious -- too much talking?) says the following: "In accordance with our agreement with the players, we will make no comment at this time, other than to say that we have agreed to meet again tomorrow."

In other words, I have missed nothing. This street theater is mainly to amuse. Stern and Silver get into a waiting SUV and are gone. I make my way back to the stakeout, where Derek Fisher (in the end, the only one to say anything of note) has yet to speak.

I'm still 30 feet shy of the assembled pack before I get the apology about the lack of text. Stern had been so fast, in emerging from the hotel, in saying one line, and in departing, that there had been no time. All's well that ends well, right?

I finally put the bags down and pull out my recorder, in plenty of time to hear from Fisher, and to learn that I did not win the pool.

Fisher finishes speaking. Reporters flee to phones and laptops. In an hour, the stories will all be written and filed, and it'll be time to start thinking about sleep.

Not much need for coffee now.

Source: http://espn.go.com/blog/truehoop/post/_/id/32396/lockouts-need-coffee

Charter Air Transport Ford Phoenix Construction Chevrolet Chevrolet Jeff Burton Houston Rockets Jerry Stackhouse Michael Stephen Wallace

No comments:

Post a Comment