It’s the night of June 10, 2019. I’m watching Game 5 of the NBA Finals on my phone as I board a plane to Paris with my Golden State Warriors cap on, absorbing all my anxious yet hopeful sweat.
Kevin Durant ruptured his Achilles in the second quarter of this very game. Not only is he out for the game and the rest of the series, he’s out next season as well. We’re down 6 with 2:31 left in the 4th. With the Raptors up 3-1 in the series, it’s win or lose the championship.
You can’t find more accurate words for this than “emotionally taxing”, other than “fucking emotionally taxing.” Probably.
If you’re a fan of the NBA you probably know the rest of the story – the Dubs find a way to pull out a win and force a Game 6 back in Oakland. The flight from San Francisco to Paris is approximately ten hours long. Suffice to say, a loss here would have made this the worst flight of my life. With the help of the Warriors, no one else was happier on that plane than me, cheesing harder than provolone sitting in seat 30D.
Well, no one except for the big burly man that took seat 30C, who laid his head ever so gently on my right shoulder and slept like a big ass baby well over half of the entire flight. Dude didn’t even buy me a dinner or a drink, or give me his name. He just Paul Anka’ed (1) himself and took my shoulder for his pillow. But I didn’t care. The Warriors won that night and was fully convinced we’d win Game 6 in Oakland, consequently forcing Game 7 back in Toronto to defend our NBA Championship and seal our 3-peat (we didn’t).
Let’s rewind some.
It’s the night of August 22, 2017. I’m on a business trip, and Minneapolis is a frequent destination. After back to back long days, I decided to take in a ballgame at Target Field with the Minnesota Twins hosting the Cleveland Indians. Granted, I’m a Giants fan, proudly being the only one in this house donning my black and orange baseball cap. But, I love baseball wholeheartedly, so I’m all for in any chance I can get to lay my eyes on live ballgame and my lips on a beer and a hotdog.
The stadium is a few thousand away from an officially packed house, with small patches of empty seats here and there. The seat to my left remained open for the entirety of the game, and to the right of me what I assumed to be either a Twins or Indians fan. He didn’t have a hat on to confirm this, nor did he react in a way where it was clear he was rooting for one over the other. I played a simple game of roulette – he was either going to be black or red.
“I can’t believe Bartolo Colon is still pitching in this league,” he says toward me, attempting to jumpstart a conversation.
“There’s always a market open for a former Cy Young winner (2),” I replied.
“Even if their weight is equivalent to a sumo wrestler?” he says. “His jersey is barely tucked in!”
“Look at it this way, he’ll stop all grounders up the middle with his gut. He can win a gold glove with that thing!” I said. We share a laugh. We exchange names, his is Jason.
Well, you know who I am.
“So you’re a Giants fan? Are you from here?” Jason asks me.
“I am, I’m actually here on a business trip. I live in SF. Just decided to catch a ballgame since I had the chance to.”
“Yeah I had to figure you weren’t a local. I live in Vegas,” Jason replies. “I’m also here on a business trip. Same, decided to catch the ballgame, except I’m a Dodgers fan.”
Remember that little roulette game I played in my head earlier? This is when the ball lands on 00… on a completely different roulette table from across the room next to the penny slot machines.
What are the odds that, out of 30,000 mid-westerners, two guys on a business trip from the west coast end up picking two seats next to each other and happen to be opposite fans of one of the most heated rivalries in baseball history? I’m actually sure Sabermetrics has this answer to the decimal, but I’ll make an educated guess that it’s not very high.
“No fucking way!” I say laughingly. This beer is well engaged with my system by now. “God, what are the odds? This is funny.”
You should understand that since I was a child, I’ve grown to feel within the fibers of my being that the Dodgers were the ultimate, hated enemy. The Joker against Batman. Thanos against the Avengers. The root of all things evil, like inserting mayonnaise in between your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The Dodgers are that mayonnaise and they ruin everything that is joyful and pure on God’s green earth. Why oh why, Jesus H. Christ, did this guy have to sit next to me?!
I’m totally kidding. This is a rivalry I respect and love. I’ve met highly savory Dodger fans in my life (like the Pantone294 crew [3]) and Jason is this description. He even bought me a round of beer, and I later returned the favor. We talked baseball for the rest of the game, hoping to see a line drive bounce off the stomach of an unfazed Bartolo Colon. We talked work, exchanged numbers with the chance of doing some business in the future.
Let’s rewind again, sometime in August 2011, when rideshare services did not yet exist.
On a similar type of business trip to Minneapolis, I called for a cab. The driver’s name was Muhammad (4). He ended up being one the most easiest guys I’ve ever talked to. He knew I was from out of town before I even explained the reason for my business from the Giants baseball cap I had on.
Every time I asked the hotel to call for a cab, by sheer luck Muhammad ended up being my driver. This happened for 3 days straight.
My ride was anywhere between 20-25 minutes to my destination, so it’s safe to say that I spent well over an hour of conversation with him in a span of a week. It’s worth noting that I was in my mid to late twenties, and was absolutely convinced I knew everything.
I didn’t know shit.
But in these conversations with Muhammad were some of the most insightful takes on life. Multiple windows were being revealed, and both oxygen and light were being absorbed for the first time from various angles of my mind that I never thought existed.
The truth is, I still don’t know shit. But I learned how to keep learning from Muhammad. On my last cab ride I paid him substantially more than the meter read, though I assure you he was worth way more than I could have given him.
This is not about having lucky caps, or meeting the most pleasant strangers in the Minneapolis. The point is this – you may be able to choose your own seats in life, but you’ll never be able to pick the people that end up sitting next to you. Them doing so – whomever they are – proves that they’re on the same boat. So do yourself, the people next to you, and the rest of the boat a favor – be Fonzie.
And you know what Fonzie (5) was like, yeah?
— – —-
Footnotes:
1 Put Your Head on my Shoulder – written and performed by Paul Anka (1959)
2 Bartolo Colon won the Cy Young award in the American League in 2005, with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim
4 The most common name in the world
PERFECT TIMING 