On a scale of one to basketball: Vegas Summer League diary

Soccer. Football. The royal sport of feet. Can you believe it? And it all happened.

Anyhoo, back to basketball. I’m sorry this went up so late. I like to be timely, but I also like sleep, and this has been a very busy week.

I wanted to start by saying this — I’m like you. I was once interested in heading out to Las Vegas to do the whole summer league blogger hangout festival. That’s where all the people who use Twitter to talk about basketball go to meet in person to hold a draft for potential hot takes and exchange GIFs for the upcoming NBA season. First overall pick in the hot take draft this year was Jeff Siegel taking “Jordan would have never made it in a league where salaries were this large.” Just wonderful. Vegas is a magical place of promise and prostitutes, and I wanted to be a part of that.

Well, this year I finally got my helicopter. My lovely bosses at my lovely day job understood that 31 is not too young to have a mid-life crisis, and they granted me a couple vacation days so that I’d get out of the way and stop complaining and affecting company morale. They said “Go to Vegas, Matthew,” (because I’m a -thew there) “and bring back with you a new sense of personal pride that you can imbue into the company newsletter.” And I was all “k.”

Airports are airports. You go there, and planes happen, and then you’re somewhere else. When I landed in Las Vegas, gravity felt about the same, but it seemed to be at a strange diagonal. You have to lean to the right a slight bit to keep yourself from falling over. It’s strange, and you barely notice it unless you’re drunk and stand up real fast. It’s annoying at best, but you have things to do so you get on with it.

Baggage claim was pretty much what you’d expect. The only real difference is that baggage is not sorted by flights but rather color of the luggage. Black was extremely crowded, with red a distant second. There are slot machines that are placed right in the center of the carousel. I couldn’t figure out how to get to them, but there were people playing them so either there was a way or they were actors. I didn’t have time to figure that out because I called a Lyft, and they were there with my name and my destination before I even finished dialing the number. Creepy, but convenient.

This was my first time taking a Lyft as well. The dude gave me this weird game that was literally this:

The story goes like this: there is a bad guy in a chair. He hit a corgi puppy earlier. You are allowed to punish him.

So you hit him, and then the game says “Congrats! You Win!”

But you can keep hitting him. And hitting him. You can dual-wield as well. I did most of my work with the flail and the corn. Eventually his face starts starting to wipe off and get fuzzy and float off the screen. There is maybe blood at the bottom of the screen, but it’s tough to tell because it’s just a blackish-grey line like everything else is.

I did this for about 40 minutes while my driver took me to The Strip.

I learned that this is a bit of a rite of passage for Vegas newbies. There are multiple “The Strips.” Most people think of the one with all the pretty lights and gambling. Well, there are various others, and if you’re not specific to your driver with which one you want to go to, you could end up at:

A strip club
A strip of scotch tape cleaved to a pole at a rest stop 20 minutes outside of town
An abandoned airfield that smells a bit like radioactivity
A stump next to a dry forest where Bill Watterson may or may not have written a Spaceman Spiff comic
A long line of corn

I got to go hang out with the scotch tape. This was not the Las Vegas I was expecting, but I didn’t do a ton of research, and I was told that “the strip” is much smaller in person than one expects. I didn’t know any better, so I started tweeting about how happy I was to be there while taking selfies with the tape and looking for familiar faces.

This carried on for about 20 minutes until the guy who drove me there tapped me on the shoulder and said with a smile “Come on, Mark, let’s get going.”

Lyft drivers will not leave you at these false locations, thankfully, but they will congregate with other Lyft drivers to laugh at you while you try and figure out exactly what you got yourself into.

It wasn’t funny at the time, but looking back I can see the charm.

After taking all those pictures of scotch tape, I was exhausted. I wanted to get to my hotel room and sleep it off. I was supposed to meet with Brandon Jefferson to go over my new idea for a web series about basketball and things that remind me of basketball, but I was tuckered out and jet-lagged. Luckily he understood I wouldn’t be there after I hadn’t shown up for an hour and 40 minutes.

That’s Vegas, baby.

In Las Vegas, most people have dreams of Jeff Van Gundy. When you head to breakfast, the only two topics of conversation are “What was your Van Gundy dream like?” and “Why didn’t you have a Van Gundy dream?” Dreams of Stan Van Gundy do not count. Trying to pass off an SVG dream as a JVG dream can get your media credentials revoked for a day. I saw it happen to Keith Parish. He was not happy, but he deserved it.

We walked in a big dumb group over to the Thomas and Mack Center. The cool kids went to their designated media credentialed places with the buffet and free drinks. The rejects, burnouts, and drunks went with me to the other seats.

You scored points by being the first person to announce a Woj tweet to the group. Peter Nygaard kept a tally. The person with the most Woj tweet announcements at the end of the day got to wear the Adam Morrison jersey to the blackjack tables that night.

I don’t remember much about the games. Apparently they happened. I didn’t see Andre Drummond there, so it was hard to pay attention.

At one point The Starters of Canada did a show in the mezzanine. I attempted to photo bomb it, but in Vegas, I was only allowed to be 4-foot-8, so I couldn’t quite make it to camera level. The lights were very bright. At one point Leigh Ellis gave me a hug, and suddenly it was a day later. I was still in Leigh Ellis’ arms when I looked at my phone. It had somehow gone from July 6 to July 7 without my realizing it.

No one had any memory of seeing me in the intervening time. The hotel had no record of me returning to my room. I had 11 missed calls, three garbled voicemails, and multiple texts from my fiance that just read as this:

W̶̨͎̪̞̬͙̰͗h̶̨̙͖̝̪̖̮̻͐̿̉̅̂̀̍͘̚ȩ̵̛̛͚̰͇̮͙̓͊͂̍̓ͅr̷̯̲̮͈͌̅̿̔̽̆͠͠e̷͇̗̯̘̭̘̘̍͆̀̚ͅ ̶̫̰̾́͌́̉̐͊̐͝a̴̡̲͙̫̳͔̞̦̙̿r̶̨̛͖͔̎̀̾̋̌͠͠e̷̠͊͋̈́ ̴̜̦̪̫͌̃̏͝y̶̮̼̤̌̔̾̋̐͋̂͜͠o̸̹̰͉̟̮̻̖̎̀̐͒̐̕ṵ̸̡̨̨̤̭̘̀̄͜?̶̨̢͕̼̲͗͒̿̈ ̸͈̲̿̿͋̂̐̎͘͝I̵̗͉̝̒̈́̍̿̓͌̃͝ ̷̢͙̞̯̫̻͒̔̀̐̚m̶͚̰̹͖̝̗̒́̂̚͘i̸̠͍̭̟͉͖͒̾̈́͊̈́̚ŝ̷̢̰̠̪̖͖͍͓̿̒͂̽͋͜͝s̷̛͎̼͕͕͙̿̀͗͊̎͘͝ ̶̡͎͓̥̜̀̈̔̍̈͝ÿ̸̢̟̻̠͚̥͖̻́̎̒͊̃̊̐ͅó̶̦̳͔̼͔̞̟̏͋u̶̧̻̪͊̃.̸͖̎̾̽̒̍̔ ̷͎͍̀̽͝Ĭ̴̛̙̳̣̌̚ ̸͓͎͇̂̌̿̕m̷̛̩͎̲͙͛ȋ̵̜̱͎̌̓̓s̸̭̻̲͔̘̼̖̲̀s̷̢̼͎̻̼̈́̀̌͆̓͘͠ ̸̧̜̙̜̜̮̬̓̋̃̽̍y̶͚̻̳͛̏̇̾͠͠ͅơ̶͖̋̏́̾̿͌̀̅u̷̥̐̆̂͊͋̐͂͘.̶̦̮̺͙̠͓̫͖̟̊͛̎̌̈̈́̓ ̴̗̂̂̆̓̊̃̕Į̸̢̞̲͍̘̈̂͝ͅ ̸̹̺͉͈͓͚̇̐͊͝ṃ̸̇̐̅̾͛̏i̶̛̯̮̫̓͑̏̓̇͆͗̕ș̵̘͖̠̩̯̣̖̚̕s̷̢͚̲͈͚͍͋ ̶̬̃̂͆̈́̚ẏ̴̧̼̎̀o̵̺̰̗͉̻͍͗̈́̍̓͂̕͝u̵͍̓̇͠.̶̠̺̤͙̤̾͐̂̐̓ ̴̢̙͙̻̺͕̠̿̋̈̂̿͝ͅW̸̮͙̭̯̳͒̄͗̇͐͝͝h̵̛̺͎̻͒e̴̥̯̍̐̅̓́̑̕͠͝r̷̢͇̞̟̣͚͋̅̈́͊͘͠ͅe̵̬̜̥̻͕̖͔̱͊̌̕͝ ̶̼͎͖̖̼͕͇͊̓ͅȁ̵̜̫̮͙̤̙̯͒̈́̂́̒͋͝r̶̡͉͓͎͙̩͐̾̈e̴̺̘̤̗̟̭̙͔̽̉̾́́͊̃̕͜͝ ̵̨̜̗͗͐̄̄̎̔ẙ̷͓͓͚̂̆̓̓̅̄o̶͖͍͕͚̫̖͋̆̎͐͗̋̽͌̽ͅu̴̡̻͕̞͎̲̺̙̅̉͑̾̀͆͐͊͝?̷̰̈͐̊̆̏̌̈͘

I tried asking Leigh for an explanation, but before I could get a word out of my mouth, he winked and returned to the camera. It was one of those Medusa’s Face Winks that Leigh is famous for. I stood there with my mouth hanging open until a passerby shoved a breadstick in it. At that point I decided to live in the moment, stop asking questions, and get some more breadsticks because that one was good.

During halftime of one of the second day games, LeBron James came out in a Lakers jersey to try and do the Red Panda routine. It went about as well as you’d expect, if you’d expect him to nail it. He is the GOAT after all.

I think he got about seven bowls in before Kobe came out on a horse trying to steal the attention. The crowd booed, Kobe assumed they were booing LeBron because he’s Kobe, so he smiled over at LeBron like “this is my town,” and then someone hit him in the head with a brick.

That’s Vegas, baby.

Day 3 was when things got weird. By this point, all the writers had banked enough material to spend the remainder of the week “smashing cattle” and not writing, researching, or doing anything of value. These were my people.

A bunch of people from SBNation had rented a house for all the bloggers and blogger groupies to go hang out and discuss basketball and play NBA Jam Tournament Edition on the SNES. I mean, it was a house when they rented it. It’s hard to describe what it turned into by the third night. I don’t have a before and after pic, but I can kind of break down what happened.

It’s hard to believe they’ll get their security deposit back, but I don’t know Vegas well enough to say that with certainty.

Anyhoo, after the day’s games when I realized I was the only person actually still in the crowd, I wandered by the house to see what was going on. Someone recognized me and beckoned me inside. I was led through a door into a makeshift basement they had dug themselves.

It was a room about 8 x 12 x 8 with some of those fold out chairs that come in bags that soccer parents take to sit on the sides of the field. The walls were mostly dirt with a bit of clay and some bones. On these walls were some nailed posters of the Starters and a fathead of Magic Johnson. There were white Christmas lights illuminating the room, but most people just had their phones out video taping everything and the lights from the cameras were doing a good job filling in the gaps.

It was hard to see who everyone was because they were mostly wearing masks of Doris Burke. The one wearing both the Doris Burke mask and Doris Burke wig approached me and asked “Did Ellis touch you too?” I assumed he had referred to my sudden passage of time near the Starters set, so I responded “I think so.”

The Doris Burke nodded, and said “that is all.” I think he smiled, but it was hard to tell because he was wearing a mask. He then handed me this book:

“Read it before you leave Nevada. We’ll be in touch. Help yourself to pizza and beer on your way out. If you wanna stick around, we’ll be playing charades at 9.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Oh, well we have to-go boxes for the pizza. It was nice meeting you, Mitch.”

And like that, I was back on my own again, but this time with assigned reading and that made it worse. I couldn’t tell what the book was made of, but it was heavier than most books I’d encountered in my life up to that point. I thought that was weird, but not weird enough to investigate.

Back at the hotel, I decided to stop by the penny slots. I don’t like gambling, don’t know blackjack strategies, know enough about poker to be a danger to myself, and think craps is too vulgar a name to be enjoyable. Penny slots it was.

My buddy from back in my slamball days, Jerry Slam, joined me. He’s still covering the slamball beat. He asked if I’d heard about LeBron being traded to the Lakers. I said no, so he started telling me all about it. After about seven minutes of that, I realized he would never pick up that I was being sarcastic, and he wouldn’t stop talking. I left. I looked back when I reached the elevator, and he was still talking to an empty chair. Kyrie Irving then took my seat so he could pretend someone was paying attention to him.

I had a lot of nightmares that night, but most of them weren’t basketball related. In one, JVG was dressed as a Minion and followed me around my apartment criticizing the fact I had security cameras and how replay wouldn’t help me get my stuff back if someone broke in. Sure I could watch it happen, but then what? Back in his day, home security was a baseball bat and an emergency line of cocaine.

I woke up sweating with a small amount of blood on my pillow. I may have bled out of my ears a bit.

That’s Vegas, baby.

My flight out was 5:38 that evening, so I only had a bit of time to hit the remaining bits of Vegas that compelled me.

First was the sports book. I laid down a hefty $20 bet on LeBron as MVP, and another $10 bet on Poland winning the world cup. They were already eliminated at that point, but I have pride. I enjoyed the sports book because there were a lot of TV’s, cheap potato skins, and at least a few different people who believed I was important because I wore the right color shirt. It was difficult to leave.

However, I still needed to visit the Guy Fieri engraving outside of UNLV and make a mess on it.

Unfortunately, once I got there I couldn’t bring myself to do it. That was mostly because I could see Guy Fieri himself hiding behind some bushes making sure his face remained dry and undamaged. Every once in a while, you could see him standing up and readying himself for attack if people lingered at the engraving for too long or started laughing, but it never got to that point. He was still in the bushes with a few hot dogs when I left.

My final stop was meant to be back to the SBNation house, but in looking at Twitter I discovered that wouldn’t be possible because the house was now on stilts 23 feet above the ground. There were ziplines, and bouncy castles, and a couple of those blow-up slides that are on planes in case of emergency landings that you could use to slide out of the death window or the front door. But I figured while I would find some fun, I wouldn’t find anything that wasn’t in some small way criminal. I decided to head to the airport to play some slots there.

Next: Miles Bridges is here to dunk on every single one of you

Unfortunately, I was stopped in the security line. That Leigh Ellis book that was too heavy? There was an external hard drive in it along with specific instructions to plug it in to a certain computer at a certain time on a certain day. Unfortunately that computer was in Florida, and the date was three years ago.

The flight back was unremarkable. I sat next Luke Kennard. We exchanged phone numbers, but I gave him a fake.

That’s Vegas, baby.

Hope to see you there next year!

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