A Tardy Affair

I made plans for tonight. Stupid. I hadn't seen Lorena and Helen in a long time and I believed I could make it home in time. But leaving work a half hour late didn't bode well for being home by tip-off, so, with the DVR set to record, I was comforted a little. Helen wanted Indian food. Vegetarian Indian food. So no chicken for me. Instead, I ordered a couple of bread platters I would feel safe eating. The food came after some time of catch-up conversation and I was on the way. First, though, I had to figure out what was up with the megaphone sitting on a plate in front of me. No joke. Flat bread or something. In the shape of a megaphone. I ate half of it, fascinated by its shape and good flavor. More megaphone bread, more conversation and I was off to the train. Now what train to take in order to make it having only, hopefully, missing the first quarter. The 6 to the N to the R? Too much waiting. My stress level would have increased. So I opted for the R. The local trip home. Slowly, reading Poisonwood Bible, ambling along the track, suffering through random delays, wondering what the score was. Finally, the train pulled into Union and I sped off, practically climbing up someone's ass who blocked my way up the steps. Home. And this was gonna be tricky. I would turn the TV on, rush for the mute button, and rewind the live bit. I can do that, right? Wrong. Plan B, which I didn't have. I would have to then watch what I had recorded. I intended to listen to Alanis. Couldn't. Even Will Smith singing a song I love (but unfortunately have yet to dance to). [God, shut up, Bill Walton!] I could fast-forward through commercials, timeouts, freethrows. And I did. Down 11-4. 15-4. Jesus. Then 20-17. Caught up. I hadn't missed much. And now, I'm watching it in CNT: Calinative Time. The game is tied 35 apiece. I'm nine minutes behind the live stuff. 1:21 to go in the half. Spurs' ball. Ginobli drives and shanks. Parker's shot freezes on the way up. Down by two with 09.9 left. That's it. Halftime. Six minutes behind. And wow. The Pistons came out hard. Blocked shots, forced turnovers. The Spurs. Missed plays. Disorganized on offense. And then Bill Walton: "I don't think the Spurs were prepared for how good the Pistons are." Just shut up. It's like the Spurs are down by 28. They're down by 2. All right. I just caught up. I gotta concentrate. On blocking out Bill Walton. Ninety minutes later. Game over. 1-0. Sweet...