First Round: Some Significant Airball

Full disclosure: I woke up nervous.

There were a few factors running through my head. 

 First: I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. People sound enthusiastic when I tell them that I’m doing this, so I’m pumped, but as a self-identified person with zero chill, the fact that I don’t know what time certain games start, or who is even playing on Sunday is driving me absolutely crazy. It’s Friday, already. Get it together!

 Second: I had mentally committed to going to a bar to watch an afternoon game on a Friday. Who the fuck is at a bar in the middle of the day on a Friday?! I mean, sure: this is LA. You see beautiful people strolling Runyon or taking a three-hour lunch, literally, any day of the week…but are those #fuckboys committed enough to their brackets to watch a game at a bar during their breaks from being an “influencer,” “producer,” or “entrepreneur?” Am I going to spend my afternoon hitting on homeless dudes? Because I think there have been, like, five sitcoms that have done that episode, and I’d do it for your entertainment, but I really don’t want to.

 Third: What am I wearing??? I’ve already sworn I won’t be a Cool Girl, and I won’t be a hooker, and I won’t wear any team’s colors or affiliated logos, so, like, what does that mean? Do I wear shoes that can tread well on sticky floors?  Sports bars get sweaty, right? But I’ll want a jacket because if I’m there until it’s dark out, I’ll definitely get cold. Is it flattering to tie a jacket around my waist? Because then no one can see my butt. Do boys steal coats or did that end my senior year of college? Should I get a blow out? I should definitely get a blow out, right? Would DryBar judge me when they start washing my hair and they do their habitual ask of what I’m doing today?

 Finally: Today’s wingman is my African Prince and absurd lush, Mthunzi. He is, and I say this with love, an absolute goon. I received a text from him that he woke up at our friend’s apartment, as though he was surprised to have discovered this.  When I texted him today’s logistics, it was fast approaching noon and I still hadn’t heard back from him. So I could be hitting on homeless dudes at a sports bar in the middle of the day without even getting a blow out, by myself.

After putting on 2 pairs of jeans, 3 jackets, a couple of bras and 4 shirts, I settled on this.

Pretty basic.

As I walked up to Goal Sports Cafe at 1:30, I was pretty sure it was closed. I opened the door and it may as well have been: I took in the scene, and there were maybe 4 booths with people in them, and five dudes at the bar, max. All I wanted to do (after I peed), was sit in the booth closest to the door, but instead, I sat at the v-shaped bar, smack in the middle. I will happily accept any jump ball puns now.

Let me tell you who goes to a sports bar and drinks during March Madness in the middle of the day on a Friday: whoever fucking wants to. There was a trio - two women and an androgynous guy - in Oregon gear. There were two guys clearly there by themselves at the bar, 3 seats apart, but very invested in Virginia, together. There was an extremely attractive man I kept accidentally making eye contact with in a booth alone. Most noticeably there was a group of age appropriate guys clearly having the time of their lives.

At 2pm, I thought we were going to get a bit of a Changing of the Guards - two or three people sitting at the bar left to go back to work after what must have been their lunch break - but everyone who had claimed a booth was there to stay.

At around this point, my friend Mthunzi, who was, in fact, alive, showed up and I filled him in on the scene.

As he threatened to go up to the hot guy I had noticed sitting alone in the booth (he now had a crew, including two Cool Girls, which made me want to lose ten pounds), two new guys sat down next to us in matching bracket shirts: it was a perfect conversation starter. Of course, they were a part of a thousand-person pool, all of the people participating were from Central New Jersey, and I heard the first of what I am sure will be a trend during March Madness versus, say, the NBA playoffs: these guys were not here to support their alma maters, but rather, for the integrity of winning their bracket pool.

Now that I had the confidence to talk to strangers (and two drinks), and Wisconsin was playing Oregon, I used a foul to seize the opportunity to waltz up to the table of fun guys (I’m talking Juuls and Irish Car bombs) who had been there longer than I had: their cheers were split. I literally sat my ass down, leaving my drink, my jacket, and Mthunzi, to learn that, no: these guys did not go to Wisconsin or Oregon; they were from LA and, like my New Jersey “Mango Madness” guys, very invested in their brackets. They had taken the day off, and not only was one married, but four hours later, I found out he was my friend’s brother. Like, are you kidding me?!

It was here that I realized I had to make a true decision about my transparency. Now, I do have a bracket… if you call my friend Derek emailing me his bracket “my” bracket… but I don’t want to fake my knowledge, so I told them what I was writing. It feels a little bit like you’re saying “hello, may I flirt next to you?” They entertained me long enough to offer some other bars to check out, and I returned to my prime post at the bar. I should mention that of course it was Mthunzi, and not me, who scored one of these guys’ digits.

We were fast approaching 4 hours indoors, and both the alcohol and smell of other peoples’ pizza were starting to get to us, so we decided to close out and go for a walk to a new bar for the next round of games.

I’d been sent a list of the best bars to go to during March Madness on LA Eater and decided that Hi Top on Santa Monica made sense geographically.

Now, LA Eater promised me several TV’s, great space and greater nachos. What LA Eater did *not* promise me was heterosexual men.

Guys, I went to a gay bar. But the nachos were fucking fantastic.

As was the $5 sparkling rose.

Since I now live in semi-outdoor spaces with multiple flatscreens, I decided to call it so I could at least watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend without being surrounded by intermittent shouting. Better yet, I could get up early enough to sweat off my calories tomorrow morning.

To paraphrase: I spent 5 hours in 2 sports bars only to meet my friend’s brother and sit with a bunch of gay dudes.

This is eerily on brand.