Performer: Mark Knopfler
Songwriter: Mark Knopfler
Original
Release:
The Color of Money
Year: 1986
Definitive
Version:
None.
Growing
up in Columbus, Ohio, my hometown team as a boy was Ohio State. We didn’t have
a big-league pro team (ahem). But just before the end of the 20th Century,
Columbus finally got one—The Blue Jackets of the National Hockey League. Flint
had made me a big-time hockey fan, so this development was a welcome one.
Dad
bought season went to a lot of games with Dad. Sometimes we got freebies to do
with whatever we wanted. On one particular freebie night in the early winter of
2002, Shani had to work, so Scott came up to crash out on my sofa. Our schedule
was: the game, then go out and hit up the dance establishments after.
I
don’t remember who the Blue Jackets played, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure
they lost in the last minute, because, well, it seemed they ALWAYS lost the
game or tied in the last minute of every game when Scott and I went.
The
real reason that the outcome didn’t matter, however, was that I was in the
midst of a major brain meltdown. I felt the headache coming on about the second
period, and I knew instantly I was in trouble, because I hadn’t brought any
Advil to ward it off pre-emptively. Instead, I had to take the brunt, and it
was brutal.
Somehow
I made it home safely and told Scott I had to lie down. When the Big Ones hit,
all I really can do is lie down in darkness until the four Advil kick in and it
goes away. I gave Scott the clicker.
I
don’t think I dozed off, but I was in twilight. When I came to, an hour had
gone by, but I felt … OK. I heard stirrings downstairs and went down just as
Scott was putting on his coat to head home, thinking I was done for the night.
No, no. I’m fine now. Let’s go.
Scott
was in the midst of his Color of Money love, as was I, and he wanted to maybe
go somewhere and shoot some pool. A large ribs joint had opened just across the
street from Dockside Dolls called Smokey Bones. It might provide what we wanted.
It
definitely did, like four or five tables in the back. Scott and I played, and
we both had it going that night. It was the best I played since an epic night
long ago in Michigan City (good ol’ No. 589).
We
played nine ball (of course) while reciting all the key lines from Color of
Money at the appropriate times (of course), and no game took more than three
turns. I’d break, sink something, clear off three more balls, miss; Scott would
sink four, miss, then I’d sink the 8 and 9. It was amazing how fast we cleaned
off the table time and again.
After
we got our fill of the felt, it was time to add a little lace to that. I’d
taken Scott to Dockside Dolls before, and it was jumping on this night. Scott
took a liking to a particular dancer and did an uptime with her, but because
Dakota was gone, I kept to myself. He said we could go somewhere else if I
wanted. Sure, let’s check out The Dollhouse.
I
already recounted my adventure there (good ol’ No. 186). Here’s the rest of the
story: When I met up with Scott at the end of the night, he was being handed a
slip of paper from the ballerina he apparently had patronized. What’s that?
It’s her phone number, he said a bit sheepishly. What the hell …?
The
hell was that Scott wore his Blue Jackets sweater, with his favorite player’s
name—Knutsen, for Espen Knutsen—on the back, and Scott might or might have said
that he was in fact the player so named. The dancer obviously believed it,
enough so she offered “Espen” to call her at some later point, which he did
not.
Apparently,
the dancers aren’t the only ones who tell believable lies in such dens of
iniquity. I fell for my own one time, but that’s a story for another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment