If, of course, you ignore reality and just go with the ethereal nonsense that rattles around in the brains of idiot sports fans like myself. I am usually a rational, pragmatic person. But when it comes to sports I am practically a voodoo shaman. I won’t wash my jersey after a win, I (usually) don’t drink during games, I ruthlessly analyze almost everything I do during a game to determine if the action will help or hinder my team. While watching my favorite sports teams I quite literally become temporarily insane.

As do millions of other fanatics. I’m cool with my fleeting mental illness, I’ve come to terms with it. I actually enjoy it, as it makes me feel that I actually have some control over the proceedings unfolding on the screen before me. But I’m not so far gone as to know, in my heart of hearts, that I don’t. Last week I had a few beers after halftime when all looked bleak for the Steelers–they won. This week we won’t be watching the game at Mark’s house, as he’s on vacation, so we’re going to a friend’s house where we watched the pens lose the Winter Classic. This seems like a classic karmic mistake…but what if their house is only bad luck for the Penguins? What if it’s only bad luck for regular season games and is in fact holy ground when it comes to truly important contests?

What if, what if, what if. What I do know, in this calm before the storm, is that it doesn’t matter if the Jets are a team of destiny, or if it’s rare for a team to lose 2 conference title games in a row, or that they’re due for a huge win while the Steelers have spoiled us the last 15 years. If you’ll allow me a poker metaphor, just as the cards don’t care who they’re dealt to, the games are contested by the players on the field, not by the ghosts of days gone by. The game will be won by the team who plays the best today, and destiny and karma and predestination has nothing to do with it. Every game is it’s own separate universe, and in a bit we’ll all get to find out what happens.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to put on my Polamalu jersey (unwashed in months), get my Terrible Towel (the one I twirled during that legendary comeback playoff win against the Browns) and pick out a spot by the TV that seems to have the most in-tune vibrations coursing through it.

And then the next day Ben Roethlisberger was accused of sexual assault.

Roethlisberger’s fate has of course been a huge topic of discussion in Pittsburgh and now that the D.A. investigating the case has decided not to charge Roethlisberger the chatter has, if anything, gotten louder. Before the D.A.’s press conference you at least could say “Hey, we don’t know what happened, we have to wait until the facts come out”. Now the facts have come out, or at least the information gathered during the police investigation has come out, and it’s leaves the league, the Pittsburgh Steelers, and Steeler fans in a moral no-man’s land.

Here’s the first part of the problem. Roethlisberger wasn’t charged with a crime. Accused of a crime, but not charged. So, if you’re the league or the team and you want to suspend him for his conduct, what conduct are you suspending him for? He wasn’t charged with a crime. The NFL’s personal conduct policy allows Roger Goodell to suspend players for littering if he pleases, so whatever penalty is handed down will have to come from the league, because if the Steelers try to impose their own discipline the NFL Player’s Association would almost certainly fight it. Sanction a player who hasn’t been charged with a crime? That’s a precedent the union would no doubt fight tooth and nail.

That’s part one. Here’s part two–Roethlisberger was accused of a heinous crime, and there seems to be compelling evidence that he did it. Or, at the very least, he and several of his companions engaged in some utterly loathsome behavior. It’s true that Roethlisberger wasn’t charged, but that’s due in large part to the alleged victim not wanting to pursue the matter. That might have saved Roethlisberger from a criminal charge, but it might not save his career. In the aftermath of the D.A.’s decision not to press charges, we’ve heard a statement from Roethlisberger where he said he was “truly sorry for the disappointment and negative attention I have brought to my family, my teammates and coaches, the Rooneys and the NFL”. OK, fine, you brought disappointment and negative attention. That’s bad. But what exactly did you DO? If I was accused of sexual assault and I was facing serious financial repercussions and the destruction of my reputation, and I didn’t do it, once I was out of legal jeopardy I’d be vigorously defending myself. Instead we had a hangdog and creepy-looking Roethlisberger standing at a podium (alone, no owner or coaches or teammates offering support) mumbling a vague apology.

Yesterday Art Rooney II said that “After imposing an appropriate level of discipline…we intend to allow Ben the opportunity to prove to us he is the teammate and citizen we all believe he is capable of being. And we hope the entire Steelers community will allow Ben the opportunity to prove to them that he deserves their trust and their respect.” Rooney then said, “”I have made it clear to Ben that his conduct in this incident did not live up to our standards. We have made it very clear to Ben that there will be consequences for his actions, and Ben has indicated to us that he is willing to accept those consequences.”

Which leads us full circle–exactly what conduct did not live up to the Steelers’ standards? Roethlisberger was accused of raping a drunk girl in the bathroom of a bar and that doesn’t live up to anybody’s standards. What the hell do the Steelers think happened that night? Does the fact that he wasn’t charged with a crime mean they don’t believe the most serious charges? Has Roethlisberger told the team his version of what happened and they found his story convincing?  The alleged victim said Roethlisberger had sex with her after she said it wasn’t OK. Her friends say two of his “bodyguards” physically prevented them from going to her aid. After they left the club they reported the incident to the first police officer they could find (who apparently wasn’t very sympathetic and today quit his job). What has Roethlisberger told the team that makes them believe his side of the story?

Because if there isn’t another side of the story, then all this talk of discipline and suspensions should be moot. If the allegations against Roethlisberger are even vaguely accurate, the Steelers should cut him. NOW. After the police findings were released a lot of NFL reporters and observers on Twitter were saying that the info was so damning and disgusting that they thought that Roethlisberger’s suspension should be far worse than the two-to-four games that was the general consensus beforehand. But if you believe the info in the police report, then I don’t see how Roethlisberger has a place in the NFL. He certainly shouldn’t have a role with the Pittsburgh Steelers. The team should release him, immediately.

The fact that the Steelers haven’t released him makes me think that the team honestly believes he didn’t commit sexual assault. I would like to think that the Rooney family wouldn’t go to bat for a despicable criminal, even if he is a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. But we still don’t know what happened, we don’t know what Roethlisberger told Goodell and Rooney that makes them feel that stern discipline is warranted yet not an immediate release.

And it leaves Steeler fans in moral limbo. If Roethlisberger remains on the team and returns to the field after the inevitable suspension, are we cheering on a rapist? And while there are no doubt Steeler fans who would forgive Roethlisberger if he shot Sidney Crosby, just about every person I’ve talked to wants the Steelers to either release Roethlisberger or trade him. I don’t know about the ethics of trading a player who might be a sexual predator (I think it’s a wee bit shaky) but people seem disgusted at what he allegedly did and fed up with him in general. Roethlisberger has never been especially popular in Pittsburgh, I think the motorcycle accident was what made people first look at him askance. And then he was accused of sexual assault in Lake Tahoe, though that was a civil suit filed a year after the alleged incident and not a criminal charge. People seemed to believe him when he refuted the allegation and filed a counter-suit, but once again he was in the news for all the wrong reasons. He wasn’t named a team captain until a few years into his career and the fact that he wasn’t named team MVP until last season led to rumors that he’s not well-liked in the locker room. But of course there’s a big difference between being unpopular and being a rapist. Right now all Steeler fans know is that Ben Roethlisberger did something bad, bad enough that he’s going to be suspended by the league and bad enough that it’ll probably cost himself at least a million dollars in lost wages. But not so bad that the Steelers are washing their hands of him. Roethlisberger is a man charged with no crime who is acting like a criminal and being treated like one.

The saddest aspect of this story is that everyone (including me in this post) is focusing on how this incident will affect Ben Roethlisberger and the Pittsburgh Steelers, and not on how it affected the woman who was allegedly the victim of a violent crime. This story is a sordid and all-to-common confluence of sex and money and celebrity where concepts like the truth and justice are given short shrift. It’s ugly, and its stupid that something as trivial as sports should be the focal point of this story. And unless compelling information exonerating Roethlisberger comes out, I’m going to feel ugly and stupid rooting for the Pittsburgh Steelers with him as their quarterback. Until I hear that compelling information, my opinion is that the Steelers should release him.

“Man, this is pretty (deleted) weird”.

Because the Rivers Casino is a…casino. Looks like a casino, sounds like a casino. Got the flashing lights and the slot machine toodle-oodling and the Munchian carpeting.  And it’s in Pittsburgh, about a quarter-mile down the river from where I used to work. As I said the other day the opening of the casino snuck up on me, though I followed it’s progress in the news I’d never actually seen the structure until just a week or so ago. And after the grand opening Sunday (when I was away) I decided to head down Monday afternoon to check it out. And it was really, really weird. Because to me it feels like it sprung up overnight, as if the aliens slung it under one of their saucers and dropped it on the North Shore. And then opened the doors the following day.

Here’s my brief review–it’s pretty nice. The decor is cool and sleek and modern. I read that all the slots in the casino are of the latest design and they look it. I didn’t get many good shots of the floor (think I had the camera on the wrong setting) but this should give you an idea:

There are some Bellagioesque touches when you walk in from valet parking, they have these streaming-water pillars and lots of Chihuly glass. What with the natural light that pours in throughout the casino it’s quite nice:

Facing the river is the Drum Bar, which has a long circular bar with many flatscreens and little tables and couches where you can sit. No video poker machines, alas, but a nice bar. And there’s glass and an open ceiling and this…I guess you’d call it a chandelier rising 40 feet into the air:

All this sightseeing made me thirsty, so I grabbed a stool at the Spiral Bar and, yes, played some video poker! I inserted my Rivers Club card (after waiting in a line that was 75 deep on a Monday afternoon) and asked for a Yuengling. It quickly appeared, along with a request for five dollars. And here we run into a serious problem–comping drinks is not permitted. I’m not sure what sort of bonuses you get as a card-carrying patron (can’t find any info online) but without free drinks I find it much more difficult to justify indulging my video poker addiction. I should say that the machines were brand-new, glossy, and even a bit coy–I was dealt three to a diamond royal flush and caught the ten of diamonds…and the King of hearts (the red paint card made my heart go ka-THUMP). My first hand I was dealt three sixes but couldn’t quad up. But I made two full houses and when I cashed out I was up ten bucks.

Which I took upstairs, to the Grand View Buffet. I was hungry and figured I’d try out the casino’s mass cuisine. And it was pretty good, better to my mind that the MGM Grand’s buffet. You do get a grand view from the dining room…well, it’s pretty good. I got a view of a coal barge and the tail end of Mt. Washington, though if I’d turned around this is what I would’ve seen:

Most of the food was good–I especially liked the carving station ham, which was fantastic. I didn’t try the Mongolion station, where you pick your meat and veggies and the chef does his Mongolian thing to it, but I did get request a bowl of pho from the Asian station. At first it looked just like the setup they had in our hotel in Saigon, two big pots of broth and a variety of protein and vegetation to add to the mix. Alas, appearances were a bit deceiving. In Vietnam they put the noodles and meat in first then filled the bowl with scalding-hot broth, which cooked the meat and noodles by the time you finally dug in. Here the noodles were already limp and the broth was lukewarm at best. It tasted OK, in fact that first cilantro-laden spoonful transported me back to Saigon’s Majestic Hotel, where I also ate pho outdoors on an extremely humid day. But the rest didn’t even rise to OK, and I actually abandoned it halfway through, something I thought I would never, ever do with pho. Tho it looked pretty:

I wandered around a bit after my meal then headed for home. Didn’t feel like playing more video poker, I’m not much of a slots guy, and they don’t have table games in Pennsylvania. Yet. There will be, someday, it’s inevitable. I read that there’s 30,000 square feet of space set aside at the Rivers for the day when table games are legalized, and that’s a lot of bare carpet for a casino where much of the money goes to the state. I also read today about a trial where a guy is accused of running an illegal gambling enterprise, namely a poker game. The defense is relying on the ‘ol “poker is a game of skill, not chance” chestnut, an argument that, while valid, hasn’t exactly wowed the courts over the years.

One odd bit in the piece is I think deserving of attention:

Pennsylvania State Trooper Rebecca R. Fabich, who was involved in the investigation, testified she had participated in Mr. Burns’ tournaments four times. She said her grandfather and uncle taught her to play poker when she was 10 and she’s been playing for the past 25 years, including 12 to 15 times a year at casinos.

“I know how to fold ‘em,” she said.

Trooper Fabich said that Texas holdem is a game of chance.

“I believe the outcome of the game is determined by your cards,” she testified.

Over the course of the four times she played at Mr. Burns’ location, she estimated she lost $300 to $400.

So you have an undercover cop infiltrating a poker game…it’s not exactly Donnie Brasco but stay with me. She says that she learned how to play poker from her grandfather and uncle. In her own words she says, “I know how to fold ‘em”. Doesn’t this imply that poker is a skill, that can be learned? Folding is one of the ways skillful poker players display their ability, by playing tight and throwing away good hands when they’re beaten by better hands. If I was the defense attorney and a witness for the prosecution made a slip like that I’d pull out a fork and knife and tie a napkin around my neck before I began my cross-examination.

Trooper Fabich provided another avenue for the defense to explore when she said that she believed that the outcome is determined by the cards…and that she lost between three- and four-hundred bucks. I’d turn to the jury with a triumphant “A-ha!”  Could it be that the trooper is a bit biased, perhaps? That her ego won’t let her even CONSIDER that poker is a game of skill because she LOST!!! I’d shake my head at her and say that her grandfather and uncle, who taught her the game, must be shaking their heads in dismay right now. God it’d be great to be a defense attorney, to be a total prick as part of your job description.

The skill vs. chance debate is, of course, largely pointless. If you’re arguing with someone who truly believes poker is purely a game of chance then you’re screwed from the get-go. Seriously, how are we to explain poker players who have great success over a long period of time–either they have more talent and ability than most, or they’re just luckier. What do you find more reassuring, that the guy winning the money year after year is good at the game, or that God or the cosmos or whatever has decided that this player is anointed while the rest of you are damned?

Then again, denying that chance has a role in poker is also pointless. Of course there’s luck. Of course there’s skill. That’s what makes the game fun, that’s what draws players from around the world to the Rio in July to play the Main Event. The real question is whether responsible adults should be able to play the game when they want, where they want, without worrying about the law stepping on their throat. I walked around the Rivers Casino yesterday and watched hundreds of responsible (well, maybe some are) people happily playing games of pure chance–slot machines–with nary a district attorney in sight. Of course the state gets a whopping big percentage of the take at the new casino, and to paraphrase that great philosopher Homer Simpson, “Thou shalt not horn in on thy government’s racket”. I think before too long you’ll be able to play poker (and blackjack, craps, roulette) at the Rivers with no worries. Whether you’ll be legally allowed to play poker outside it’s state-licensed walls is another story.

It was nothing of the sort. First of all, the roads around PNC Park were jammed. With people going to the game. “WTF?” I said as I inched my silver steed toward the parking garage, which was the only place I felt confident of getting a space. I was following some (deleted) with Ohio plates who kept choosing the wrong lane and then cutting me off to get back in the proper line. “You scurvy BASTARD!” I shouted as he nosed in front of me at the garage entrance. “Death to you and all your kind!!” I usually don’t get road rage but for some reason my temper was already frayed. The jackass pulled in, I let a car coming from the opposite lane take his turn and pull in…and then two dippy women in an SUV cut me off and pulled in too. There are three things to mention about what happened next:

• I let loose with a towering stream of profanity that would’ve made Artie Lange stand and applaud
• I did so with my driver and passenger windows wide open (sunroof too)
• I did so with a City of Pittsburgh police officer standing on the sidewalk five feet away.

Oh, and did I mention that those sidewalks were crowded, mostly with children? I guess mores have changed because the cop didn’t ticket me for creating a public disturbance. Instead he he frowned and shook his head at me. As if to say, “That was uncalled for. Really.”

My trial wasn’t over once I paid the exhorbitent fee and actually got in the garage–I had to follow those two…women…to the top of the garage because it was nearly filled up. Ten stories and they drove about 3MPH, looking for that great spot that didn’t exist. They make you turn around these cones to create two wide lanes in the garage and the driver had a heck of time steering her tank around them. “DON’T BUY THE GODDAM TRUCK IF YOU CAN’T DRIVE THE GODDAM TRUCK!!” I screamed, pleased that my rage had fallen to a more acceptible temperature. We finally reached the roof, I parked, and ran down ten concrete flights to the street.

Which was swarming with kids. Groups of kids. Groups of kids in brightly-colored T-shirts. OK, school’s out, it figured there would be more children around than a game in September. Still, this seemed…organized. And it was really crowded. I went up to my usual ticket window and the line was 100-deep. I ended up walking all the way around the the left-field entrance and picking up my general-admission ticket there, after a teeth-grinding ten-minute wait.

Once inside the park I wandered back around to the right-field upper deck, a good spot to get some shots of the city. But the day was overcast and gloomy, not great for picture-taking. No matter–I’d drink and eat until my mood (and hopefully the sky) improved! I got a Primanti’s cheesesteak and a Bud and found an unpopulated section to enjoy my lunch. But this was not to be. First of all, my beer had a decidedly cardboardy aftertaste, as if it’d been stored in a paper milk carton instead of a keg. Second, my Primanti’s was the worst I’d ever had. They put the slaw on the bottom, then the fries and meat on top. So the bottom slice of bread was a soggy, gooey mess within seconds. And the tomato they used (which I’d forgotten to tell them to exclude) was a red, runny mess…it looked like bloody snot. It WASN’T, I hasten to add, but when you’re about to eat lunch that isn’t the most appetizing thought to have running through your mind.

I sat in my seat, frowning, sweating (it was humid), and watching Ryan Braun smack a Paul Maholm pitch over the left field wall. I took some meh pictures and decided that I’d try to find a different vantage point behind home plate. Usually when I go to afternoon games I wander around, from the upper deck to the pricier seats below. The park is usually 2/3 empty, and after the 4th inning or so the ushers could care less if you sit down front. They’re happy to have some company, I think.

But that wasn’t the case yesterday. It wasn’t a sellout, far from it, but the good seats were taken. I wandered around the concourse and heard a huge roar and the bang of fireworks. Andrew McCutchen had just hit a home run and I missed it. “Crap!” I said as I watched the replay on the scoreboard, and then I resumed my search for a perch.

About a minute later there was another roar and more fireworks. I raced over and saw Garrett Jones jogging back to the dugout after hitting a home run of his own. “Excrement!” I snarled. The most excitement the Bucs have had in 5 years or so, I’m in the park, and I miss it. I turned on my heel and continued on my way.

Cheers. Fireworks. “Bull-SHIT!!” I screamed and ran to the rail. Ryan Doumit had just hit ANOTHER home run. Three homers in four batters. I shook my fist at the heavens and said, “Are you SHITTING ME??” Doumit actually didn’t cross home plate right away, as the umps ruled that the ball hadn’t cleared the Clemente Wall. Turns out it had, the Bucs challenged and instant replay confirmed, and Doumit finished rounding the bases as I settled into my new seat along the third base line. My mood was darker than the Pirates playoff hopes. It was the third inning, the Bucs were leading 5-2, and I was thinking about leaving. Take me out to the ballgame?

I took a deep breath, a couple of pictures…and then I decided to change seats again. I did this because I was bracketed by about 500 extremely annoying kids. Now, I’m not talking about kids enjoying a day at the ballyard, with cotton candy and Cracker Jacks. I’m talking about kids who were climbing over the empty rows of seats to see who could reach the top of the stadium first. Who were endlessly backtalking the “adults” who were “supervising” them. It was that constant background noise that had me heading to the concession stand for another beer (a Yuengling this time, which also tasted cardboardy) and back to my original seat.

It was about this time that I heard over the PA that this was “Day Campers Day” at PNC Park. Ah, so that explained all the kids wearing matching T-shirts. Today was an outing for all those kids whose parents shunt them off to the backwoods to give their sanity a chance to recover. Let me say this about that–if you send your kids to camp, and you think that your child, with 30 others, is being “chaperoned” by two teenagers who spend most of their time flirting with each other, good luck to you. I saw one coven of hyperactive children who I wouldn’t tackle without the aid of the 82nd Airborne–their shephards were an octogenarian and a girl who looked 14. I crossed myself and fairly jogged back to my original, isolated seat.

The score was 5-2 and Maholm gave up a one-out single. “Let’s see how he blows this lead,” I texted my brother. Maholm duly walked the next two batters and gave up a bases-clearing double to Braun. In fact, here’s a pic of Maholm serving that up:

You’d think this sort of meltdown might get the attention of the manager, but no. With the fans booing (God knows I was) Maholm gave up a two-run dinger that put Milwaukee back in the lead. Pirate manager John Russell finally woke up or put down his knitting or whatever the hell he does during the games and took Maholm out. There was more booing, louder, but no one threw debris on the field or anything that was called for like that.

Someone named “Joel Hanrahan” came in and got the last two outs of the inning. I eased back in my chair and watched the most exciting part of any Bucco game–the pirogi race! Halapeno Hanna (sp, I know) beat out Saurkraut Saul at the end. Wonder how much money changes hands during the pirogi race. Fans gotta have some prop bets to hold their interest.

But then something weird happened–the Pirates rallied to tie the score. And something beyond weird happened–Andy LaRoche had a clutch two-out hit to score a run, and later scored they tying run himself. Perhaps you have to be a Pirate fan to understand, but “Andy LaRoche had a clutch hit” is a sentence almost as strange as “Sasquatch rode a unicorn to Atlantis”. I know, pics or it didn’t happen, so here is a shot of LaRoche (his brother Adam was traded yesterday so there’s no need to use the first name) getting a clean hit:

But after Ramon Vasquez doubled LaRoche in, Russell inexplicably let Hanrahan hit with two outs. Two outs, a man on second, and you let a newly-acquired relief pitcher with an ERA above 7.00 hit for himself. “WTF!!” I screamed. “W.T.F.!! The guy bats twice a year! You have a runner in scoring position!! Pinch-hit, you colossal asshole!!!!” But the Pirate manager, perhaps having a lie-down after the exertion of yanking Maholm three hitters too late, let Hanrahan bat (he did get good wood on the ball, lining out to right). I rubbed my temples for a few seconds and saw that my beer was empty.

And that did it for me. Well, that and the huge group of 8-year-olds sitting one section over who were shrieking, and I do mean shrieking, almost constantly. There was one girl among them, I have to tip my hat, she had a scream that was something out of a nightmare. High-pitched, high-decible, and she could sustain. She would scream and everyone would look at her and laugh, because it was hard to believe such a tiny girl could produce a noise louder and more piercing than an F-18 launching from an aircraft carrier.

Not that I heard her for long. Because I bailed. A 7-7  tie in the eighth inning and I left. I didn’t care who won–I wanted to get out of there. The kids, the heat, the lousy beer. John Russell. I didn’t want to get caught in the post-game traffic and there was one more thing I wanted to see before I headed home.

I used to work on the North Shore and I walked past my old building and felt that familiar nostalgic twang. Hard to believe that I left the company more than three years ago (be fair, the company left me). But I pressed on, past Heinz Field, past the Science Center. I wanted to see the almost-ready Rivers Casino, due to open on August 9th. You might think it odd, considering that I spend about two months out of the year in Las Vegas, that I’d never once seen the casino as it was going up. I literally had no idea what it looked like, how big it is, heck, even it’s precise location. I’ve read about it in the paper, of course, and I started to get a picture of it in my head. When it was first proposed I thought that it would be this little joint, like maybe the size of a Cheesecake Factory or something. Nope. I read about how many slot machines the place would hold and all the restaurants and bars and whatnot and, hey, it’s gonna be a fairly substantial place. This is as close as I could get to it:

A bit narrow but it should give you some idea of the size of the place. It is extremely weird to think that there’s going to be a casino in Pittsburgh. That I can, if I want, drive 20 minutes and be playing video poker in a casino. Very strange. And this is just the start, of course–there’s already been talk of introducing table games here (inevitable) and allowing video poker machines in bars (uhh, that could be bad for me). I think people should be allowed to spend their money as they see fit, but after spending two months in casinos I must confess to feeling a bit uneasy about having one here at home. Maybe that’ll change when I visit on August 9th (I’ll be there as soon as it opens, for professional reasons, of course) but it does seem a bit surreal to see a casino plopped down there.

After satisfying my curiousity I turned on my heel and headed for my car. And off in the distance I heard…fireworks. Lots of fireworks. Turns out that Brandon Moss hit a game-winning walk-off home run in the ninth. The Bucs hit five home runs and I didn’t see four of them. I’m not sure what this says about the Pirates or about me. I’m as insane a sports fan as you’ll find–ask Al and Jen about watching Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals with me. I’m a mean, vicious, uncharitable, gloating bastard, and I’m proud of that. But with the Pirates…ehh. They play 162 games a year, can’t get too excited about any particular one. And the Pirates haven’t played a truly meaningful game since Barry Bonds failed to throw out Sid Bream at home back in 1992. I probably can’t name 20 players on the major-league roster (harder than it sounds with all the trades of late). But I still go to three or four games a year. The team stinks, has stunk for nearly two decades, but people keep coming to the games ’cause the park is gorgeous and it’s nice way to spend a summer day. Next time I gotta pick a game without the campers.

Oh, and last night I hit quads TWICE, booking a $70 win and erasing about 30% of my gambling losses for the trip. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually play some poker. Or, maybe not. So far I’ve worked, uh, 22 out of 22 days. Feel fine, no burnout, getting enough sleep, finally got some meds to beat back my bronchitis. Of course the idea of having an entire day off makes me want to weep with joy, but I don’t see that happening. No biggie. My shattered body and psyche will rest when I get home. Home. Home.

Anyway, about the Cup:

It’s a hockey night in Vegas. Or it WAS a hockey night in Vegas, last night in fact. The NHL Charity Shootout tournament was held yesterday and a number of current and former NHL legends were here in the Amazon Room. I took a bunch of pictures, which was difficult at times because what with the ESPN cameras orbiting the table I had to shoot through the glass that was set up around the table–you do recall me saying that they’d remodeled the Feature Table arena to give it a more appropriate feel:

They also replaced the table’s green felt with a really cool rink motif:

The tournament was conducted shootout-style, with the top 3 players at each table moving on to the final table. A few pics I managed to snag:

Current MVP (and he’ll almost certainly win the award again tonight) Alexander Ovechkin of the Washington Capitals. That white fin pointed at his head was from the lens hood of the film camera, sorry about that, couldn’t angle myself over to get a better shot. Notice please that Ovechkin is wearing an All-Star baseball cap, not a Stanley Cup Champion cap. Have I mentioned before that I’m from Pittsburgh and a borderline-insane Penguins fan?

Montreal Canadiens forward-enforcer Georges Laraque. Laraque played for the Pens the previous two seasons, where he was a huge fan-favorite (literally and figuratively). One of the most feared fighters in the NHL, Laraque isn’t one of those guys who goes out and picks fights. He lets others start the fight…and then he ends it. Oftentimes two guys will agree before a faceoff to duke it out, and after the two agree to drop the gloves Laraque often says, without sarcasm, “Good luck”. Seems like the sort of guy you’d like to have at your table. Maybe at the other end of your table.

Jeremy Roenick, currently with the San Jose Sharks after having played (and played exceedingly well) for about a half-dozen other teams during his illustrious career. He was one of the more crowd-pleasing players during the tournament, and even when he was waiting for the final table to start. We were sitting on Media Row when Roenick sat down with a stack of red and green chips and was playing some young guy heads-up. It didn’t take Roenick long to lose his stack, and then he leapt up and headed back to the stage. It was remarked during the tournament that Roenick looks more like actor James Woods than James Woods does.

NBC hockey analyst (and former Penguin player, coach and announcer) Ed Olczyk. More than any other hockey personality at the event, Olczyk LOOKED like a poker player. He also won a pot playing my favorite hand, the Hammer (otherwise known as Seven-Deuce offsuit).

As the day wore on I started to get a wee bit excited, as I knew the STANLEY CUP would be arriving around 8pm and I was gonna be there when that happened. I knew the Cup was going to be included in the daily bracelet ceremony (which was pushed back from 2pm to eight) and a bit before the appointed hour I got a spot by the stage and stared down anyone who tried to infringe on my territory. Some guy tried to engage me in idiotic conversation (about how he should’ve won two bracelets already like J.C. Tran but in 2007 his aces got blah blah blah) but I looked at him in such a way that he quickly ended the conversation and scurried away with his head still on his shoulders.

And then the side door behind the stage opened and…there was the Stanley Cup, carried in by a gentleman wearing clean white gloves and escorted by a phalanx of security, Harrah’s execs, and excited gawkers. I held my ground by the stage as people saw the Cup carried up on stage and pressed close, and I squeezed off a few shots of the Holy Grail itself:

It was smaller than I expected, more nicked-up, not as shiny, and the bowl at the top was dented in a few places. And, sigh, it was more beautiful than I dreamed. Jeffrey Pollack took the microphone and told the crowd that the NHL had come to the WSOP for the day, and that included the greatest trophy (yes, he said even greater than the WSOP bracelet) in the world, the Stanley Cup.

Pollack introduced the three bracelet winners from the day before–Leo Wolpert, James Van Alstyne, and J.C. Tran, and the crowd stood as the Star-Spangled Banner was played for the three new champions:

After that Pollack introduced Gary Bettman, the NHL Commissioner (and Pollack’s brother), who returned the throngs to action by announcing “shuffle up and deal!”. And then the two Commissioners posed for a few pics with the Cup:

It’s been something of a running joke among my friends on Media Row that I’d need to be kept on a leash when the Cup arrived. I may have made some idle comments about grabbing the Cup and making a break for the door (and probably getting Tasered within five steps). During the bracelet ceremony I was about 5 feet from the Cup–all I had to do was step forward, reach out, and touch it. That’s all I wanted to do–touch the Cup. Maybe get my picture taken with it.

As the ceremony ended a guy in a Steelers sweatshirt squeezed forward to get a better look, apologizing for his shouldering by saying, “I’m from Pittsburgh, I gotta get a closer look!”. I said I was from Pittsburgh too and we did the fist-bump to celebrate the Pens victory. As the crowd started to disperse he took that step forward, reached out, and touched the Cup, as his friends snapped pictures.

The reaction wasn’t as extreme as I feared, but there was a reaction. Security moved forward, a Harrah’s person told him to knock it off, another barked an order and the man with the gloves whisked the Cup off the stage. My fellow ‘Burgher apologized and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I HAD to touch the Cup!” That seemed to satisfy the guards, they didn’t hustle him out of the room, so maybe I could’ve gotten away with putting my fingertips on the Cup. Or, maybe I would’ve lost my media badge. It wasn’t worth the risk.

They brought the Cup onto the Final Table stage and set it on a table near where the bracelet display usually is. A few WSOP employees had their pictures taken with the Cup, but they weren’t letting just anybody (or, just anybody like me) in for a snapshot. I guess I understand–let someone like me say cheese while standing by the Cup and EVERYBODY would want to get a picture. Madness, chaos, the end of civilization would ensue.

So I just there with the other media types for a bit and just…looked at it. Funny, had the Penguins lost Game 7 the sight of the Cup would’ve made me want to barf. Instead I sighed like a lovesick teenager. I wonder if players who win WSOP bracelets feel the same way when they get their hands on it. I wonder if players who come second and don’t have a bracelet look at it and feel nauseous. And I wonder how long those feelings last. For me, I looked at the Cup from afar for about fifteen minutes, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten in about 10 hours. It was enough to see it, take pictures of it, bask in its presence. Eventually the Stanley Cup will return home to Pittsburgh, and so will I. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to that glittering silver chalice, and headed for home.

ESPN is filming the event, they have their big cameras here and they added hockey accouterments to the final table arena. To wit:

Yes, those are boards, glass, etc. The table itself is really cool, they replaced the green felt with “ice” and added the bluelines, faceoff circles, the works:

The tournament is going on right now, they’re playing three shootout tables (the top three from each starting table ends up at the final table tonight) and the guy I’m rooting for right now is Georges Laraque, the former Penguin tough guy who was such a fan favorite. I fondly remember rooting him on many a time as he made a shambles of some silly opponent’s face.

Alexander Ovechkin will be playing at some point today (I’ll stay classy and won’t run him), Roberto Luongo is there right now, Pat LaFontaine got knocked out, as did Mike Richards. I’ve been told that there will be a Penguin playing today (Max Talbot?) and maybe that’s when the Cup will arrive. That would make sense, bring it later in the day when the room is filled and there’s more energy in the place. But at some point I’ll get to see the cup. Maybe touch the Cup. Maybe add my name to Stanley Cup lore–I’ll be the insane guy in Vegas who grabbed the Cup and made a break for it and got Tasered after five steps. Aw man, that’d be AWESOME!!!

After Talbot scored I texted my brother “MAX TALBOT ONLY SCORES BIG GOALS!” and then when Talbot scored AGAIN I texted “Um…MAX TALBOT ONLY SCORES BIG GOALS!!!!” When the Wings scored on that fluttering shot I got that burbling “Oh, shit” feeling in my stomach, but when Kronwell rang that shot off the crossbar I felt like we were destined to win. It seemed like we were down to 31.6 seconds, then 17.4, then 6.5. Of course we lost the faceoff, Fleury stopped Zetterberg’s shot and then threw his body across the crease to stuff Lidstrom’s last-gasp wrister. And then the game was over, the Pens threw off their gloves and jumped on top of Fleury, and I jumped up and threw my arms in the air and screamed like a maniac. And nearly passed out as all the blood rushed from my head. That would’ve been embarassing.

Wish I’d been home for the game but at least I got to see it. The bar cleared out a lot after the game ended and Change100 and F-Train stopped up for a drink while I answered texts from a half-dozen people and savored each sip of my Sierra Nevadas. About an hour after the game my brother texted me saying, “I’m not even happy right now, just relieved”. I know how he felt. If Lidstrom’s shot had gone it, had we lost in overtime, I can’t imagine how horrible I’d feel. But Fleury made the save, the game ended, the Cup was ours.

And how appropriate it is that Max Talbot was the hero, as I of course briefly met him two years ago at the World Series of Poker and got a few pics of him. “I suck at poker,” he told me then. Maybe, but he scores BIG GOALS.

Jeffrey Pollack, the commissioner of the World Series of Poker, is the half-brother of NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman. The NHL Awards ceremony is June 18th at the Palms (right across the street from the Rio) and Pollack twittered that the Stanley Cup may make an appearance at the World Series. If it does, you can bet that I’m gonna do everything I can to get pictures and just bask in it’s silvery brilliance. Is it bad luck to touch the Cup? Some people say that it is, but I thought that was limited to players who hadn’t won it yet. ‘Cause if I get close enough to touch it, I’m touchin’.

When the playoffs started I was in Argentina. When they ended I was in Vegas. Both a long way from Pittsburgh. It was a long ride in more ways than one. Pens won the Stanley Cup. Unreal.

I didn’t get to see much of Game 6, as I had to work and couldn’t skip out. And there’s the very real possibility that the same thing will happen tonight. That could be a good thing–I didn’t see either Penguin Cup-clinching games in their entirety. In ’91 we were all in Philly for Gary and Lori’s wedding and the bottle shop we watched the game at closed before the 3rd period started. And the bar downstairs wouldn’t turn the game on. In ’92 I had to work and missed the first period and part of the second, but I was there for the end and the celebration. So if I have to miss some of the game, so be it. So long as they win.

So long as they win. This is the glorious thing about sports, isn’t it–by the end of the day I’ll either be floating on Cloud Nine or wallowing in the pit of despair. All because of some contrived meet-up of large armored men with sticks skating around a rink. Very strange.

The hockey playoffs go on for almost two months and it’s takes a toll on the nerves. Between the Cup run last year, the Steelers winning the Super Bowl, and the long march to Game 7, it’s been a trying (yet glorious) year. It seems a bit much to ask the Sports Gods for a Stanley Cup after winning the Super Bowl (especially how the Steelers won it), but fans have short memories.

I’m gonna switch things up tonight. I’m not gonna sit at the bar and play video poker during the game. And I’m not gonna drink during the game–yeah, I’m pulling out all the stops. Gonna find myself a little table and watch the game and try not to burn out the screens with my brainwaves. Three hours ’till face-off. And then we’ll find out how the story ends.

As my body finally turned the tide against the bug that flattened me I started reading reports from my friends who were arriving in Vegas. I knew I’d be fashionably late this year–I’m actually sitting in a bar at Greater Pitt waiting for my flight to Sin City. I land around 8:30pm Vegas time, and tomorrow the $40K No-Limit event starts at noon. Gotta hit the ground running, and running fast.

When I got back from Argentina I was in the mood for the WSOP to start right then and there. I had plans, ideas, schemes. Got my new camera, new computer, I was locked and loaded. Then I got sick and two weeks I hoped would hone my blogging skills to razor-sharpness vanished in a miasma of misery. Instead of hanging with my ‘Burgh buddies and enjoying the Pens’ playoff run I was a shut-in. I got out twice in the last few days, including last night when I had the aforementioned beer and wings. Then it was time to say goodbye to them, goodbye to Ernie the Cat, goodbye to home and hearth. Goodbye to Pittsburgh in the middle of another glorious Cup run.

And now it’s time to hook up with my blogging buddies and fall into the insane routines the World Series of Poker imposes on those daft enough to cover it from soup to nuts. I’m excited to see everyone, especially as most folks I know are already there and have actually been there for several days. I feel like I’m late to the party, not fashionably late. Like I should already be there, working.

I’m hoping the adrenaline rush of greed and gambling and pumped-in oxygen will bring me all the way back from the bug that took me to the woodshed. When I finished packing this afternoon and pulled the plugs and lowered the blinds in my flat, I can’t deny the the lower lip trembled a bit. I wanna go, I’ll have fun, I’ll do good work (I think). And when it’s time to go home in July I’m sure I’ll miss Vegas and my friends there. But it’s these moments of transition, of limbo, that mess with my emotions. Maybe it’s just the bug twisting the knife one last time. Or maybe it’s the second beer I’m about to send to it’s inevitable end. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Vegas, in five hours. For seven weeks.

I’m not a big fan of the Post-Gazette’s regular restaurant reviews, and here let me pause a moment. Last year I wrote a post about the P-G’s review of a place called Geno’s, a review I thought made both restaurant and reviewer look bad. The photo that showed a sample dish was worse than something I’d cook up, and after a middling report the reviewer gave Geno’s one star out of four–one star meaning it was “Good”. Which makes you wonder how many stars a real slopfactory would get–half a star? A third?

Anyway, about two months ago I went to Geno’s with a big group of friends before a night of bowling. I’d half-forgotten about that review and post and so I was curious to see how the food was. And it was pretty good. Had chicken Parmesan, something I was in the mood for, and it was good. Big portions, pasta was good, maybe the breading was a bit slippy but I was happy with it. Service was a tad slow but we had a big (and thirsty) group, and our waitress was prettty. It was Good–maybe even better than Good. I’d go back, sure.

My meal there didn’t do much to improve my impression of the Post-Gazette’s food criticism. Today, however, delivered a more serious affront to my discerning palate. Today Munch went to J.D’s Pub, which I’ve written about a lot because that’s where I play beach volleyball and where I spend a lot of the summer lounging out at their Cabana bar drinking and admiring the stars. We also used to go there every Thursday after our indoor pickup league to drink many a beer and eat many a wing. The place has no small place in my heart and it’s also responsible for a share of my bloated waistline.

So Munch goes to J.D.’s, writes a 700-word review…and I have some trouble believing he/she/it actually ate there. For one thing, most of the review is about…Scrubs. The TV show. Seriously, Munch spends more intellectual energy discussing the show than J.D.’s (the pub, not Zack Branff’s) grub. At a restaurant with dozens of offerings, Munch bases his entire review on two dishes–marinated mushrooms (kind of an odd choice for a pub, but OK) and a pulled-pork sandwich, which he didn’t like.

It’s a motif of the Munch reviews that he/she/it brings along a companion and gives them a funny acronymic name. It used to be Friend of Munch (FOM) and expanded from there. On this occasion Munch brought no wingman and so took the advice of the bartender at J.D.’s, whom he nicknamed Bonecrusher Barmaid of Munch (BBOM). The BBOM told him that he’d “missed the boat by not trying one of the pizzas.” I dunno, if I was going to review a joint I’d never been to, and I was only gonna eat two things, might I not ask, “Hey, what’s really good here?” If I place is known for a killer fish sandwich and you order the pad thai, you might walk away disappointed for more reasons than one.

The strange thing is, Munch inexplicably describes the pizza’s on J.D.’s menus and says they look good. Uh, what? They LOOK good? On the menu?  How do they frickin’ taste?Hell, if you’re too full to eat a pizza now order one and take it home. And eat it later! Don’t frickin’ tell me that the pictures on the menu look good! Jesus. How the hell does that help me?

In fact, how does anything in this review help me, besides clue me in that Scrubs was renewed? OK, maybe I know that the mushrooms there are too cheesy and the pulled-pork too bland. And Munch does mention the Cabana and the beach courts and that stuff. Still, is it really worth passing that sparse information on to the P-G’s readers?

I can’t say that I’ve eaten my way up and down J.D.’s menu but I’ve sampled a fair few of their offerings. Yes, the pizza there is pretty doggone good, there’s a solid choice right there. One odd thing is the pricing, at least of the thick-crust Sicilian pizza–an eight-cut is a prohibitive eleven bucks, a sixteen-cut is $16. Never understood that pricing decision, and oftentimes I’d argue that we should get the bigger pie and have someone take it home rather than get soaked on the smaller one.

If you go to J.D.’s, you get the wings. They give you the whole wing, drum and thigh still attached with that crispy little tail at the end. When they’re on, J.D.’s makes a fantastic wing. Crispy skin, plump drums, outstanding sauces. They had this run back in January or so, the Spicy Garlic Parmesan wings were just ridiculous. A truly legendary wing. Reporting THAT would’ve been doing the Post-Gazette’s readers a real favor.

They make a really good burger at J.D.’s, all different ways. Fries aren’t the hand-cut sort but they arrive hot outta the fryer and crisp. They serve “Pub” sandwiches there, which is J.D.’s take on your classic Primanti’s-style–they come with fries and cole slaw piled between the slices. I had a Fish Sandwich Pub a year or so ago and, mercy. Two huge pieces of fish, two heaping piles of fries, two haystacks of slaw. All of it really, really good. Asked for both tartar and cocktail sauces, both were terrific and, I learned, both are home-made. Here’s the menu, by the way.

So that’s my slightly-more descriptive review of J.D.’s Pub. Go with the wings, pizza, burgers, fish sammich, you won’t go wrong. And my friends who have explored the menu more thoroughly have said just about everything they’ve had has been good. One thing to avoid–the nachos. I’ve always found it inexplicable that their nachos are so lousy, but they are. You get a bunch of store-bought chips around a low, long bowl of…well, it’s not salsa, it’s this thick, goopy tomato stew. Looks gross, is gross. You will choose elsewhere.

I was hoping to visit J.D.’s before I leave for Vegas, as the Cabana is open. But I’ve been too sick and totally without appetite. I’m slowly starting to get my feet underneath me, still haven’t felt truly hungry in over a week. But when I do, and if (God willing) that happens when I’m still in Pittsburgh, I’ll go to J.D.’s and have myself a Fish Pub. Or maybe Spicy Garlic Parm wings. Or, maybe, both.