Selling Out and Coming Clean, or, Corporate Suites: Sweet or Salt?

What’s up guys, A Friend of Mr. Glass’ here. I’ve got a confession to make, and the truth is, this isn’t easy for me. It isn’t easy because I feel guilty on the one hand and pretty good on the other, but I know I shouldn’t feel equal parts former and latter.

It’s kind of like the feeling of pissing the seat when you’re little. You're too young to care about cleaning it up but old enough to know that you’ve done something wrong. One way or another, you enjoyed yourself immensely. (My apologies go out to M.O.A.F.O.M.G. and S.O.A.F.O.M.G. – it’s just the way it happens sometimes.)

In any event, the feeling I’ve been unable to shake the past couple days is a little like that. Only I’m old enough now and I’m coming clean.

So what happened? Wednesday night I became “that guy.” You know his look, you know the cut of his jib.

He saunters into a sporting event (or, on other occassions, a dive bar) wearing his work clothes.

You ask yourself what could have possibly been so important that this asshole couldn’t have changed into something more befitting a sporting event.

And then, as the two of you part ways and he ascends to his corporate box to watch the game while you sit among the rest of humanity like a real man, you wonder whether this guy thinks his shit doesn’t stink.

That was me on Wednesday, only I wasn’t asking the questions, they were being asked of me. Wednesday night, I went to a live sporting event and watched from a corporate suite.

Now look, that may not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, and I want to say a few things up front. One, this was a Knicks game. Knicks-Heat. Knicks got slaughtered. Like completely dismantled. Needless to say.

Anyway, it was a Knicks game. I like the Knicks, but I’m not gonna lie, the passion that I’ve got for the Mets just isn’t there for the Knicks, or any other team for that matter. I’m happy to wear the fair-weather fan mantle if I must for the Giants and Knicks. I take my licks with the Mets and as a general rule I don’t take no shit from the other New York teams.

(Lord knows I loved watching Giants game with the Blondie’s crew this past season, and I legitimately rooted for them, but the truth is I haven’t thought about them once since football season ended.)

But as for the Knicks, no. I got excited when they somehow won 6 games in a row (speaking of which, this has to rank among the most improbable winning streaks of all time. The Knicks, currently owners of the second-to-worst-record in the NBA and a .283 winning percentage, beat Phoenix (.679), Washington (.519), Cleveland (.593 – beat them on their home floor no less), and Dallas (.792 – .792 for god’s sake) in a 6-game stretch leading off 2006. This feat was only slightly less improbable than Emilio Estevez leading the former District 5 over what IMDB.com describes as “the big boys from Iceland” in the 1994 ice hockey romp, D2: The Mighty Ducks. No, you haven’t just slipped into a Bill Simmons column, but surely what you’re reading right now ranks up there with the longest parenthetical comments of all time, so in the interest of sense it may help to go back to the beginning, and ignore this parenthetical) – but since then my interest has waned as the losses have mounted.

So that’s a long-winded way of saying that I don’t have the same emotional connection with the Knicks that would preclude me from doing anything that would detract from the experience of The Game with a team I really cared about.

And so it was that I gladly accepted the offer of attending Wednesday’s game when Client X offered my Company Y passes for 17 people in the corporate suite.

Almost as soon as I walked out of the subway station at Penn Station, I knew things were going to be a bit weird. The colleague with whom I arrived at the game was used to this routine, but not me.

As soon as we emerged from the subway I immediately began walking towards the regular entrance. No, no, she said, this way. I stared empathetically at the peons using the main entrance for a brief moment. They stared back.

Like the crazed future-man proselytizing on the street corner who’s removed his tracking tooth near the end of 12 Monkeys, “I know you… you’re one of us!” they seemed to cry out to me.

It was hard. It was like one of those moments in a movie or TV show where the heroic main character has to make a choice between his old friends and his newer, cooler, better-seated friends.

As in those same movies and television shows, I inevitably chose the company of my new friends, and after one last pensive stare I hurried along to catch my colleague. Together we entered the Garden courtesy of the side entrance, took the elevator to the 10th floor and arrived at our suite.

It pains me to write it now, but this place was like heaven. All the arena food you could eat. I’m talking chicken tenders, sliders, French fries, pigs in a blanket, chicken nuggets, hot dogs – anything you would hope for in the way of greasy, fatty sporting event food.

Not only that, it was better than the standard variety fare you get sitting in the poor people seats. (Note: I don’t actually know this for a fact; again, I’m not a regular at Knicks games, so I can’t say how the suite variety hot dogs compared to the regular concession. What’s certain is that the food in this suite at MSG was a hell of a lot better than anything on the menu at Shea Stadium, but I suppose that was inevitable on some level.)

Not only was there the traditional arena fair, there was also a massive three-meat sandwich sliced to perfection, a vegetable platter with dip, and freshly baked tortilla chips with two varieties of salsa and a bowl of guac to boot. Shomik, if you’re reading this, this place was heaven. Get your shit together with your boss and get us a suite down at Camden Yards sometime.

On top of all that, there was all the booze you could drink. Now, being that A.F.O.M.G. was rubbing elbows with his coworkers, many of whom were anywhere between 10 and 20 years older than him, this wasn’t a rage and let rage environment. I had one gin and tonic. In keeping with the theme of the evening, it was the best gin and tonic of my life.

On another night though it would have been over – the Glass would have been shattered by 10 p.m. Gin, Seagram’s, Heineken, Corona, Budweiser, Vodka -- pick your poison, they had it all.

Just when it couldn’t get better, it did. There he was. The man, the myth, THE DUNK!

John Starks.

Not in our suite but directly outside. I didn’t get an autograph (had nothing for him to write on), but I sent him my best from all the readers at Yankees 2000, which he seemed to appreciate.

So where does that leave me now? Are the days of sitting in the stands like any commoner gone?

Well, yes and no. The truth is, I may need to watch all my Knicks game from the corporate suite, at least for the foreseeable future.

Between watching Knicks fans leave en masse from Wednesday’s game with 8 minutes left in regulation and hearing the World’s Most Famous Arena become as quiet as a tomb, I decided that I just wasn’t missing all that much by sitting away from the sea of humanity.

Besides, when Client X gives tickets to Company Y, everything is free of charge – it’s a pretty sweet fuckin’ deal.

But what about Shea? Could I really leave behind the upper right field nosebleeds (famed site of O.O.T.G.C.O.A.T.)? Or the lower loge seats made famous by Nails’ season ticket plan? Or the field box seats immortalized by a young, hungry A.F.O.M.G. sent by the Hound to get a ball from Willie Randolph? Or any of the other countless seats around the stadium that I’ve watched the boys from in my life?

I’m happy to say I just couldn’t see that happening.

I’m like everyone else. I could do without the heavyset guy sitting in front of me rocking the terrible farmer’s tan and reminding you of the fact that Mets fans, in general, are not specimens of particular physical beauty.

I could do without the moment when the duh-duh-duh-dun-duh-duh! ends and a few people embarrassingly cry out “charge!”

I could do without Bret Saberhagen spraying me with a super soaker loaded with bleach.

But Mets games wouldn’t be the same to me without the sounds of the crowd.

Or the off conversations you have with fellow fans.

Or the sticky floors.

Or the stink of beer and the B.O.A.F.O.M.G. fourth inning special (jumbo pretzel, hot dog, mustard).

Or the thrill that accompanies each foul ball hit in your general vicinity, which looks, for one brief moment at least, like it's coming right at you. (Note: Catching a foul ball was one of the best experiences of my life. Foul ball off the bat of Doug Glanville, summer 2002. I was flush with all the enthusiasm of a rising sophomore in college. The Mets were on their way to a 75-86 finish. It was good to be alive.)

Or perhaps most important of all, the possibility of sharing an awkward high five or hug with a complete stranger when the home team gets a clutch home run or a pivotal strikeout.

So in the end, the whole experience really was like one of those TV shows. I went with my newer, cooler friends, had a great time, and realized in the end that the times we shared were hollow and devoid of the meaning and sentimentality that defined my relationship with my old friends. I took stock of everything, and in the end, my relationship with my old friends is better for it.

But don’t tell that to the suckers in the stands at Madison Square Garden. For now at least, they’re on their own.

GO NEW YORK, GO NEW YORK, GO NEW YORK, GO!

- A.F.O.M.G.

Alright, full disclosure. I’m reading Bill Simmons’ book at the moment. From the look of it, I’ve got another week and change before I’m through with it, so you’re just going to have to bear with me through this little stretch. Although I’ve gotta say, I really enjoyed writing this post, so we’ll see what happens. A Friend of Mr. Simmons’? Stay tuned.