N.B.Gay.

(This was written in October, 2006)

Tonight I had a rare night free from household obligations. Since I am a life-long fan of basketball, and of my hometown Phoenix Suns, I thought it would be fun to go see a basketball game in person. Upon review it was a Bad Call.

I came away wondering when the NBA became a Gay Night Club.

I don't hate gays or anything like that. It's just that I paid to see some old school roundball up close, and maybe sip a cold american beer. Instead I endured a hammering, flashing, distracting dance club experience. With the constant flow of "hawkers" I would have seen the game better at an old Scottsdale bar with a dusty TV up in the corner.

I sat a few rows behind a locally famous retired player. I won’t name him, because he still works for the team, but everyone knows him. Knowing ----- ----- is right after knowing what a Ladmo Bag is on the list of things that allows one to claim status as a native Phoenician. He is one of those Colangello era, clean cut players. Conservatively dressed, always polite and never emotional.

He seems very representative of most of the fans in Phoenix. We are modest but involved. Our kids are quiet during home free throws and our grandmothers lean forward during the nuanced moments of the contest. I watched ---- off and on throughout the game. He looked like a frog that just realized the water is about to boil. Everyone did. Where was basketball amid the red blinding lights, thum-a-thumpa music and screaming junk sellers?

Loud vendors made more view-blocking trips down the aisle in the critical third quarter than the players made up and down the court all night. It might not have been so maddening if someone wanted those oversized “treats” they offered while blocking my view of the game. Besides, Isn’t that what half-time is for? Indeed, fans were able to replenish their mini-kegs of beer and their brick-sized rice cereal treats well before the third period honked open. ----, (who still looks like he could step out onto the hardwood and work inside with Steve Nash for a few minutes if needed) did not indulge in the giant sugar bars.

Every minute or two the lights dimmed randomly and a liver thumping dance beat echoed through the venue. Blinding graphics pulled my eyes repeatedly to giant electro banners which covered every flat wall of the facility. During game-breaks the dancers and the Gorilla tried fruitlessly to get our attention back down onto the court, but it was a lost cause. Short of full-blown porno escapades between the mascots and dance team members, nothing could keep our eyes from the intentional distractions of the interstitial advertisements. Our focus, as a crowd, was battle-hounded in all directions by loud music, blinking graphics and flashing lights. The Game of Basketball had nothing to do with my game night.

Very few fans looked happy and none danced to the throbbing beat. Even the players were regularly distracted by the disco gimmicks of this new NBA experience. The Suns are earning rights as one the most fun teams to watch in the history of the game. They are a team of internationally sophisticated players lead by a humble Canadian point guard and a Midwestern coach. Our most decorated and renowned fan is not a hard-partying mega star, she is a 60+ year old catholic Nun.

This season it is the playoffs every night in Phoenix. These Suns could sell 15,000 tickets three nights a week if they played outside at the Window Rock Navajo High School. So why do they make fans attend a gay dance party in order to watch a sublime Basketball game?

I (used to) love this game.


A.