June 14, 2004
Take Game 4 of the NBA Finals. A 9 p.m. tip-off. 9 p.m.! At home, that's 6 p.m. That means happy hour beers, a little open flame on the grill, and some Kobe with my BBQ. In the Eastern time zone, it means waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting ... for the 9 p.m. tip. No happy hour beers. No happy hour, in fact.Back when I was living in Seattle, it was great to be able to watch a big game at a reasonable hour and maybe go out for a couple of drinks afterwards, rather than trying to stay awake for the second half and collapsing into bed immediately afterwards. Maybe we'd miss the first inning or two of a World Series game, but it was still better than waiting around for the damn game to start and dragging ass at work the next day.
Football season was the best: I'd stay out late Saturday night and crawl out of bed in time to get some coffee and bagels from the local deli and watch the second half of the opening game and then the Seahawks game, and still be able to go out for a nice Sunday night dinner/movie afterwards, civilized-like.
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