JazzBots...

So the official blog of the Utah Jazz put out a call for bloggers. They are having a contest, and the winners get to be official bloggers for the Jazz. I thought it might be a cool thing to do, so I entered this:

The Neighbors
by Matt McDaniel

I can still remember the first game in our new seats. Our season seats were off center, upper-bowl. Not too bad, but not good enough. Not for die-hard fans, anyway. We had season ticket holders on each side of us, both couples twice our age.

“Why on earth won’t these people shut up?!” I kept asking myself that same question. Were they drunk? Was I wearing some special uniform that said “Hey! Talk to me!”?

I guess since it was a Friday game and they wouldn’t have to get up the next day, they figured it was okay to drink a few. They were taking the bus home, of course. I’m not a drinker but I didn’t mind them drinking. It’s all fine and dandy, just as long as they didn’t spill it on my shoes when they walked by.

I looked over at the husband, trying my best to avoid eye contact, just so I wouldn’t have to engage in another ridiculous conversation about how this Blake Griffin character from Oklahoma was the best thing since corned beef. I do like a good corned beef, though. But I digress. Well anyway, it didn’t work. He grabbed my sleeve and seemed to try and squeeze some juice out of the fabric. I just bought that shirt. Now...tainted. Personal space was hard to come by up in the nose-bleeds.

Either way, I was there to see the Jazz. The Jazz. The one team I have loved since my childhood. Even my years in Florida going to the Magic games, seeing Shaq and Penny, Dennis Scott, Nick Anderson, even Horace Grant! Truth is, I only really wanted to go to see them play the Jazz.

Even though at every game we would sit by the same people, every game a different couple would show up. They showed up as the same semi-drunk loud mouths we first met, or tired, uninterested sour-pusses. When would I ever get an idea of what these people were really like? Maybe next year they would switch seats, or give up their tickets. One could only hope.

We stuck it out the whole season, though, even watched the playoffs next to these people. We shared some stories with them, we laughed, we cried (the Jazz will do that to you). By season’s end we had actually learned their names! October rolled around and it was time to go back to the games for a new season. During the off-season we had come to miss our fair-weather, beer-laced, season ticket neighbors. Would they return? Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

January 1, 2009. 3:03 a.m.. Our baby boy just missed being the first born in the hospital. He was born to be a Jazz fan! We missed several games, but when we returned we were greeted enthusiastically by our neighbors, who couldn’t wait to hear about our little boy. Did they genuinely care? I think they did.

After missing a few more games we sat down in our usual seats, not without passing the guy on the end of the row who was determined to give us crusties every time we arrived. Suddenly, a bag fell on my lap. A Fanzz logo strewn across the front. A big smile came across the face of the giver. Our season ticket neighbor said, “This is for your little guy!” I opened the bag to find a tiny blue onesie, with a Jazz logo and the words, My First Jazz Tee.

Boy, did I feel like an idiot. After all of that time, throughout all of those games, I never took the time to care about them. Here they were, drunk or not, listening to our stories, and taking the time to get our sweet baby a gift.

I guess I can handle a few more Blake Griffin conversations. Thanks you guys.