Three Men, A Lady, and A Sports Bar

The college basketball season is finally over.  

So last Saturday night, I spent my evening at our neighborhood sports bar, a place aptly named J. P. Looney's.  And though I only drank one and a half  Miller Lites, I'm still recovering from the rather alarming chili.  I don’t wish to blame Looney’s for my sensitive GI, but if you have a hankering for haute cuisine or require healthy eats, the local sports bar isn’t the place to go. 

Now if you want a couple of beers, the ambience of big screen TV’s, and noise so deafening you can hardly hear your own words, you’ve come to the right place!  Because sports bars certainly have all the B’s covered:  beer, basketball, big-screen TV’s, bustling, and “bad for you” food. 

To be perfectly honest, I can’t think of another place I despise more than the monster sports bar. Because once you’re there, you’re there-- immersed and surrounded on all sides by sports, sports, and more sports!. And though I consider myself the master of tuning unpleasant things right out of my mind, it is an impossible feat to mentally remove yourself while sitting smack in the middle of a sports bar. 

Believe me, I’ve tried!


Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell my darling husband I would have preferred to stay home on Saturday night with my Yamaha acoustic guitar, strumming and singing “Old Man.” My incredibly patient guitar teacher has finally guided me to a place where I can play that tune.  And with a little more practice even Neil Young might think I sound pretty good.   

But by 10:30 I was still in looney land ...

Now you’re probably thinking 10:30 isn’t all that late, because some people don’t even start their night out until 10:30.  But let me explain. We had already been there for more than three hours. And for any person, like me, who doesn't give two hoots about men shooting balls into hoops, three hours spent at a sports bar is akin to sitting in the dreaded dentist's chair. And being the only forty-something woman and one of the few sober people left in the joint does not in any way improve upon that experience.

I did, however, take a break at the nearby coffeehouse with my friend Patti.  But we came back. And then Patti left me. Alone.  Three men and me.  Not to be confused with the cutesy Three Men and A Lady movies, which, incidentally, would have been pure heaven to see at this point. Especially Tom Selleck, who I've always liked.      

But I, the good wife, had already been deemed the designated driver, so there was no escape, no convenient excuse to leave Looney’s.  I was stuck in sports bar hell, wishing I could twitch my nose like that beloved TV witch from my childhood days. And disappear to anywhere.

So I sat back down at the table and prepared myself for a long, painful evening with three middle-aged men who were feeling no pain.  Maybe we’d be out of there by midnight. 

Maybe not.            

The three men, one of them my husband, had consumed a few too many cheap beers on tap.  No surprise there.  Our dear friend Mark was busy buying shots with crazy names and shaking hands with numerous patrons. Our fun loving friend Jeff was engaged in a friendly shouting match with a nearby table, competing for the title of who could yell louder for their favorite team.  

And my husband was babbling on and on about singing  at an upcoming open mike night. True, my man seems to know every lyric to every song on the radio. But unfortunately, he's no Tony Bennett. (Though he can still kick butt out on the basketball court!)  Then Clever Mark, seizing the opportunity to egg him on, jokingly came up with the idea of forming a trio called “The Three Cat Night.”

That's when the three musketeers reveled in big talk and sweet dreams about singing “Joy to the World” to anyone who'd listen. (I, for one, would swipe my debit card to hear that performance!)

Suddenly, I found myself having an absolute blast watching these guys having an absolute blast!  I didn’t notice the big screen TV’s or hear the noise of the crowd. I didn't feel the churning in my stomach from that cup 'o chili.  I didn’t even yearn for a quiet moment singing Neil Young on my guitar.

I took in the joyful sight and sound of three men, enjoying each other’s company at their local sports bar. Then I took those cats home just before midnight. 

Joy to the world, indeed!           

This piece was previously published on the blog Urban Semiotic in April 2009.  I've resurrected it for your reading enjoyment.