Bar Olympics - Friday, August 17, 2012

We dropped off our rental car and checked in at the airport.  The Atlanta Airport is enormous.  You need the tram to get anywhere.  While we were on the tram, the invisible conductor announced, “Now reaching Terminal C as in Charlie.”  Once we heard the “C as in Charlie,” I challenged Ari to name more than half of the NATO alphabet.  This is how we pass the time.  It took him an hour [Ari’s Note: That’s horseshit.  It didn’t “take” me an hour.  We were talking about other things] and a few wrong answers, but he celebrated with “Juliet,” his fourteenth correct answer.  Ari’s celebrations are context-independent; he celebrates with the same level of enthusiasm in an airport that he does in a ballpark.  People stared.

Our flight was fun.  As we boarded, the man in line ahead of us opened his wallet to pull out his boarding pass.  Inside we saw a badge.  The theories began.  He was a police officer.  He was Secret Service.  He was a federal marshal transporting a prisoner (admittedly, this theory had a small hole: he was not traveling with a prisoner or, for that matter, anyone).  We boarded the plane and, because it wasn’t full, we chose the row right in front of the marshal.  I nodded to him so that he knew we were ready to assist him in the event of an emergency.  He showed absolutely no response to my nod.  I interpreted this to mean I had been deputized. 

The passenger seated next to me was a five-year-old named Dejohn.  His mother warned me not to speak to or engage Dejohn because, if I did, Dejohn would not leave me alone.  A few minutes after takeoff, the flight attendant came by with small, biscotti-like snacks.  Dejohn wanted some.  His mother had dozed off.  So the flight attendant asked me if Dejohn was allowed to have the cookies.  I hesitated.  On the one hand, I wasn’t his parent or guardian.  On the other hand, I had been deputized by a federal marshal transporting a hidden prisoner.  I gave the okay.  Dejohn rejoiced.

This proved to be an error.  Dejohn did not leave me alone for the entire 80-minute flight.  He tapped me on the arm.  He threw biscotti on my shorts.  He made silly noises and silly faces at me.  I tried everything.  I ignored him, but Dejohn just raised his game.  I threatened to tell his mother, but Dejohn soon realized this was a bluff.  I said sternly, “No,” but Dejohn was immune to rejection.  He wanted to play.  Then I made another, costlier error.  I complained to Ari, who was seated across the aisle.  Ari began making noises and faces at Dejohn, which only encouraged the behavior:

Once we landed, I hurried from the plane.  We had booked transportation from the Kansas City Airport to Avis.  Mike met us outside the gate:

This was the first time anyone had met me at the airport with my name on a piece of paper.  It was a special moment, so I asked for a photo.  Mike hid it well, but I think he was just as thrilled as I was.

Avis tried to give us this car but we said no:

As soon as we saw it in the lot, Ari predicted that this would be our assigned car.  
"I bet they try to give us that blue, shitty one," he said.

Instead we got this car, a Ford Focus.  [Spoiler Alert: During our drive to St. Louis the next day, we would discover that the Ford Focus carries certain drawbacks.]

First stop: Oklahoma Joe’s, the best barbecue I’ve ever had.  It’s located inside a gas station.  The ribs, brisket, baked beans, spicy coleslaw, and bbq sauce have no equals.  The Z-man sandwich – brisket, onion ring, sauce, and cheese on a bun – is a hall of fame sandwich.  The pulled pork, dirty rice, and French fries were merely outstanding.  And the pitcher of cold Boulevard beer (a local pride) was only $9.  If someone -- most likely a genie or warden -- said, "You can have one meal consisting of whatever you want," my meal would include the ribs from Oklahoma Joe's (among many other items).  

Aerial view

Clockwise from right: pulled pork sandwich, some stray pickles, baked beans, fries, dirty rice

Z-Man sandwich and spicy slaw

The full slab, accompanied by pickles and Texas toast

Ari's first bite of the pulled pork.  You never forget your first. 

And it's inside a gas station!  

We purchased an unnecessary quantity of barbecue sauce.  Later in the trip, we hope to run a mailbag on this blog.  As an incentive to send questions to us by email or Facebook, the person who asks the best question gets a bottle of Oklahoma Joe’s Original Sauce (which cannot be ordered on the restaurant’s website). 

We felt smarter.

After our light lunch, we checked into the Holiday Inn Express and then headed to Kauffman Stadium for the Royals game against the White Sox.  It’s a small, beautiful ballpark that is more fan-friendly than any we’ve seen. 

They had free Playstation baseball -- "MLB 2K12" -- for fans of all ages.  Ari is a great video game player.  Not even knowing the controls, he took a 4-0 lead in one inning.  My results are not important.

Little kids can take batting practice inside the stadium.  

Kauffman Stadium is known for its spectacular waterfalls and outfield fountains.  The waterfalls run all game.  The fountains shoot between innings (and before and after the game).

We came on Dollar Night, which meant four hot dogs, two sodas, and peanuts for $7.

I don’t know if our seats were any good because we never sat in them.  We snuck down to the area behind home plate and made friends with a couple who’d lived in Kansas City since Richard Nixon was president.  The crowd was thin but pretty excited to cheer for a team ten games under 0.500.  The home team prevailed.  More importantly, star hitter Bill Butler homered for the Royals and Ari's fantasy team, "Miami Metro Homicide."  Ari's team is in the first place.  The Royals are not.

Billy's nickname is "Country Breakfast."  He is a large man.  I assume these facts are not unrelated.

Ari was representing NYU.  I was representing the Anteaters of UC Irvine.

As much meat as we had at Oklahoma Joe’s, and as much fun as we had at the game, neither was the main event.  After the ballgame, we went back to our hotel, which shares a parking lot with the Flea Market, a local bar known for its burgers and its atmosphere.  While others karaoked, Ari and I spotted a collection of five bar games.  

I proposed a best-of-five Bar Olympics.  Our Bernstein Bar Olympics were actually a lot like the real Olympics.  Most events were activities that would not generally be classified as sports.  NBC wasn't showing much.  And Americans were almost certain to win the medal count.  

The first event was shuffleboard.  You slide your pucks down a wooden board, trying to get your pucks closest to the back edge without going over.  You can also knock the other person’s puck off the board, which unofficially entitles you to whoop and trash talk.  We played to 21.  Ari jumped to a commanding 9-0 lead.  I rallied to make it 9-7.  But then Ari pulled away.  He won the first event and displayed his usual graciousness in victory:

  

The second event was Pop-A-Shot, or as they call it in Kansas City, “Hoop Fever.”  You have sixty seconds to make as many baskets as possible.  I shot fairly well, scoring 47.  Ari set the house record, with 67.  This gave him a 2-0 lead in our pentathlon and license to pose obnoxiously.

The third event was foosball.  For the unfamiliar, it’s basically table soccer.  I am not good at many things, especially things that require any sort of hand-eye coordination, but I am an excellent foosball player.  Our match was one-sided.  My defenders scored.  My midfielders scored.  And of course my forwards scored.  In fact, my forwards scored so often that they achieved celebrity status.  My left forward was Javier, a gifted passer.  My center forward was Fred, a striker with prodigious power.  The right forward was Bob, who had an off-game but is among the most complete players in foosball.  I won 8-1 and staved off pentathlon elimination.

The yellow player closest to the bottom left of the photo is Javier.  With 3 assists and 2 goals, he was named Most Valuable Player.  When interviewed after the game, Javier was humble.  "I want to thank my teammates and the fans.  I play for them."  

The fourth event was billiards.  I am a poor pool player.  Fortunately, Ari is much worse.  On this night, he brought his A game but it wasn't enough.  With only the eight ball left on the table, I sunk it in the corner to even the pentathlon at two events apiece.

The deciding event was skeeball.  [Ari’s Note: If you’re wondering why air hockey wasn’t included in the Bar Olympics, it’s because air hockey is part of Bar Winter Olympics.]  Skeeball is uphill, miniature bowling.  Instead of aiming for pins, you aim for specific holes of varying point values.  This event was over before it started.  I should never have suggested that skeeball be included among the events.  Ari is a world-class player.  He begins a PhD program this fall but his true calling is skeeball.  When he skees, crowds form; birds sing; children believe in themselves.  I, however, might be the world’s worst skeeball player.  [Ari’s Note: Shima is somehow even worse.  It is a cruel joke that the world’s best skeeball player is somehow the brother and boyfriend of the world’s two worst skeeball players.]  I can’t throw straight and I can’t aim whatsoever, both of which appear to be critical skills for skeeball success.  The only salvation for me is that Ari won as the bar closed and we were shooed out before he could pose in celebration. 

Nonetheless, I congratulate Ari on a well-deserved gold medal at the Bar Olympics.  I won’t mention that I won our extra game of shuffleboard.  Nor will I mention that I won our extra game of pool.  Thus, there’s no reason to do the math and observe that I won four games and Ari won three.  [Ari’s Note: Those were exhibitions, yo]

Next up: St. Louis.