The Sports Book

"The man had reached the highest level anyone can achieve in sports: the perfect blend of sweat and pain and champagne, a weathered appreciation of everything that happened..."

The Sports Guy Bill Simmons on Bill Russel in The Book of Basketball 

I'm on the last chapter of quite possibly the most entertaining book I've ever read, and I couldn't be more bummed about it. The Book of Basketball; seven hundred pages of free-flowing wit about nothing and everything to do with sports. Although the book is essentially about one, Simmons touches on the pulse of what makes them all so great: entertainment in its purest form, or in other words, artistry.

I didn't grow up a sports fan, much to my father's disappointment I'm sure, but my younger brother did, so luckily I never had to feel guilty about it. I came to love sports merely three years ago*. I had just moved from Boulder to Denver, into a small, nondescript studio apartment on Capital Hill with no real intentions; other than getting buzzed, and getting laid.

I happened to live a few blocks from my good friend, and fellow poker enthusiast, John; who happens to possess one of the most captivating, intellectual minds you'll ever find. He also happened to have a sick TV with surround sound, and a kegerator tapped with good locals brews. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time there. My visits weren't entirely selfish though, it was his mind that I was most interested in, and at that time, it was keenly focused on sports.

We'd spend countless hours watching them, and with me being such a novice spectator (everything was foreign to me: names, places, rules, everything), John was able to fully realize his pent-up desire to share all that he knew. He'd wildly, and frantically break down every aspect of whatever game was on; the intricacies of it, the background of the players of it, the financial state of it; all of which became fascinating to me.

Over three years later, sports are all I can pay attention to, quite literally. I haven't watched a TV show to speak of, or a movie in its entirety since. Nothing scripted can come close to the athleticism and strategy of sports in my opinion. To witness, first hand, the physical and mental potential of a human is nothing short of awe inspiring, as much so as any other art form. I'm forever grateful to my buddy John for introducing me to it.

And now that I think of it, he was the one who turned me on to Bill Simmons' column, and subsequently, one of my favorite books ever. Which makes sense, they are kindred spirits, John and Bill. They both know more about sports than anyone I've ever encountered, and both have the admirable ability to share their thoughts about it with such passion that one could spend hours listening to them.

Sadly, the book is almost over, and ever since my girlfriend and I moved in together across town, John and I don't get to watch the game together very often. But I'll never forget those days we spent endlessly engaged in sports. Those moments have a special place in my heart, as does this book.

*I'm borrowing the footnote method from Bill Simmons here, part of what's makes his book so thoroughly entertaining is that there are at least two random, yet riveting footnotes on each page. Anyway, coincidentally, the very first football season I watched from start to finish, 2009, when my hometown team the New Orleans Saints won their very first Super Bowl. The entire city went nuts, people stopped their cars in the middle of the highway to celebrate; my mom got stuck on the other side of the river and couldn't get home. My dad, who watched the game by himself in their quaint French Quarter apartment, said the Quarter sounded like nothing he'd ever heard in his life, "like we had won the war". Unfortunately, I was here in Colorado, comfortably slouched on my boy John's couch. But I'd like to think I played my fair-weathered part in their victory, the one last fan they needed so to speak. By the by, my friends here hated me for this sentiment.

"The Rooftop of America..."

Kerouac coined the phrase in reference to the Rocky Mountains, and it has stuck with me ever since I read it -- as do the majestic mountains themselves every time I see them.

In fact, I deeply and constantly miss them; so much so that I fall into a state of depression upon returning to the city. I sometimes think it best to never visit them again, lest their hold of me begins to have a serious, negative impact on my day to day responsibilities: earning a living, being social and whatnot.

But I love the Rocky Mountains, and could never imagine not being near them. Each unfathomably formed formation is so unique, towering with such personality. They humbly provide an imposing, yet comforting companionship that's as hard to describe as it is to ignore. (I'm reminded of a thought from Thoreau "...to the traveler, a mountain outline varies with every step and it has an infinite number of profiles, though absolutely but one form...")

The best way I can convey the feeling would be to say it's like visiting the gods, and casually kicking it with them for a bit, or, what I imagine it would be like to grab a beer with the Dalai Lama...

post camping on Keebler's Pass outside of Crested Butte, Colorado; and hiking to Copper Lake

A Soft Shining Growing Light...

A zen garden tucked into an urban oasis; in the desolate plains between the traffic-packed grey silhouette of I-70, and the quiet bustle of downtown Denver; a few hundred yards from both an abandoned taxi hub turned neon-conceptual-property-development, and the lonely, rusty midwestern railroad tracks that once transferred bums and poets alike across the country.  

The garden belongs to one of my favorite restaurants in the city, and my girlfriend and I were attending a charity event there on a cool summer evening last week, coincidentally annoyed with one another, as couples in love often can be. 

The event was benefiting a new urban farming initiative here in Denver, one that harvests fruits and vegetables from the front lawns of well-to-do residents who care enough to plant food-bearing plants on their property for looks, but not enough to use them for their actual purpose in life. The nonprofit group then shares their uncultivated crop with those in need of food rather than decor.

We spent most of our time meandering in the garden though; a peaceful reflective time. And we acquiesced to make up under the subtle glow from its Buddha nature.

The Queen of Five Points Jazz Festival...

I was hanging out at the Five Points Jazz Festival on a windy, overcast spring afternoon, slightly disappointed in the lack of food...

In previous years, the festival saw a plethora of authentic street food courtesy of local businesses and families, and it was the perfect accompaniment to the good tunes. Sadly, there was but one lonely bbq stand this year, punctuated by a long line of people, and it didn't look that great.

I settled down on the curb nearest the main stage on an empty stomach and listened to a very talented older woman sing and skat through the standards, putting on quite a show. The breeze had died down in the waning afternoon, the weather became pleasant, and in between songs the people passed my path and my attention. Its one of the best festivals I've been to and while the food was certainly one of the reason why (and sorely missed), the people make it what it is. One can get a true glimpse of Denver in Five Points from its residents, the old Western-bound spirit runs though its streets and through their veins.

Once the main stage set was over, I got up and began the short walk home for a bite to eat and a beer (something the Five Points Jazz Fest has always severely lacked). On my way, I noticed a makeshift sidewalk sign in front of a small chapel facing Welton Street. It was handwritten, and read Jam Session in Here.

The invitation was too enticing to pass up, so I went in and grabbed a seat amongst a crowd of about fifteen others, all of whom gave me the impression that they frequented the spot regularly on Sunday mornings. I smelt good food cooking in the back, and was relieved to know that people were still eating well at Jazz Fest, even though I knew it would be rude of me to ask for some.

The aforementioned jam session consisted of four old dudes: an old hippie on drums, an old pro on stand up bass, an old soul on congo drums (who I recognized from a drum circle I watched not that long ago. I wonder if they were practicing for the fest...), and a very old, broad shouldered general pounding old school tunes into an antique piano. They were playing my kind of jazz, 50's and 60's kind of stuff, and playing it raw and gritty, the way it should be in my opinion.

After a few sweaty songs, I happened to look away from the music towards the doorway and was pleasantly surprised to see a beautiful young woman's silhouette standing in it, her feminine curves bold against the setting sun behind her. She came in and smiled and I saw how truly beautiful she was. Her hair was done up in a big carefree afro that moved half a second after she did, giving her movements a slow-motion-like feel as she greeted everyone there but me. Her body was that of a dancer's, strong and womanly, and her kind smile lit up the room. She was sexy, she embodied American sexuality, and everyone was affected by it.

Despite the commotion she created, the Old General never looked away from his piano. But she had made her presence known to him in some other way, and he acknowledged it by calling out the next piece, a lively Latin jazz number. The beautiful young girl immediately stopped what she was doing and focused on the beat. She began to shake her shoulders to it, and the crowd started to cheer her on. She laughed and became shy, but with more and more encouragement from congregation, she gave in and kicked off her shoes and joined the band.

Before doing anything else though, she went up to each player and gave them a deep bow to the floor, all the while the samba beat droned on in anticipation. Her respects paid, she made way to center stage and let herself go, completely offering up her beautiful body to the mercy of the music and its players.

What followed was one of the most inspired improvised acts I've ever witnessed. She was a professional dancer, of this there was quickly no doubt, but her choices of movement, her reactions to the music and the crowd (which was, by this point, going nuts) was nothing short of a miracle. She frantically infused ballet, hip hop, latin, tribal; anything that seemingly came to her mind was effortlessly and expertly displayed through her body. Her energy radiated and It took my breath away, and in that brief moment, I fell in love with her. I wanted to anoint her the Queen of Five Points and shower her with all of life's riches.

The song came to a long and drawn out end though, and when the music finally stopped, amidst the still loud and boisterous cheering from the small crowd of which I was a part of, the Queen broke down in tears and left the small chapel emotionally and spiritually spent. She had given herself to us out of duty and now, she needed to rest.

I got up, and followed her on to the street, my heart still aching, and tapped her shoulder, not really knowing what to say. She turned to me with a welcoming smile that by then I had come to expect, tears still in hers eyes.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I managed to say, but it didn't even come close to what I was feeling.

She wiped away her tears and smiled, even larger than before which I didn't think possible, and we embraced.

I held her tightly as she gently sobbed against my chest. Once she stopped crying, we looked into each other's eyes and said farewell. She knew and I knew that I had been knighted by her majesty that evening, and that I had to leave her, so I could go out into the world and fight for her.

Drum Circles on Welton St.

I've noticed lately, on warmer weekend afternoons in Five Points, some pick up drum circles on Welton St. and it brings a smile to my face every time I hear them. The other day, on my way to the store to pick up a jar of sweet relish (I like it in my tuna salad these days), I heard what must have been two or three groups playing, the effect of which was beautiful to me. The sound of so many drums resonated throughout the whole block in all directions, echoing and turning in on itself, creating new rhythms and time signatures literally out of thin air. It had a bass-like drone that I could almost feel and it created a wonderful soundtrack to the neighborhood.

Halfway walking in the direction of the store and halfway following the sounds, I came across one of the groups, tucked away in a small open garage and for a brief moment stood and watched. They were three older gentlemen, one playing three high pitched drums, one playing four slightly deeper drums and one holding, but not playing a single bass drum. I assumed the latter was the leader since he wore a whistle and an old school jumpsuit, the other two being dressed much more casually. And once the leader, who was clearly the oldest of the old group, noticed my presence, he banged his drum twice, signaling the other two into frantic solos.

While they impressively showed off their skills, the leader, his movements slow with age and deliberate with experience, pulled out his tuning tool and tweaked his instrument, chiming in every once in a measure with a tap or two. Then, suddenly with one loud bang he signaled the end of the performance; and the group was visibly pleased with the session, as was I.

I hope to see them again, and maybe then I'll ask to join in (I'm no pro, but I can keep up), or maybe I'll just bring a sixer to share with them and sit and listen. Either way, I definitely appreciate some tunes on Welton St., one of the hippest places in the country to hear jazz back in the day, it is sadly silent these days...safe for a few drum circles on a sunny afternoon.

Moderation in all but Moderation...

Eating a moderate amount of good food, drinking a moderate amount of good drink and walking moderate distances in the meantime is an affordable and agreeable lifestyle if done on a regular basis.

A Hung Over Thought...

"No one has ever been able to explain why the Doric Temple of Paestum is more beautiful than a glass of cold beer except by bringing in considerations that have nothing to do with beauty." W. Somerset Maugham

I stayed up very late last night drinking very strong beers and awoke this morning somewhat hung over. I regret nothing however, I find that good beer is beautiful and very much worth the trouble.