"Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues / In the middle of the pouring rain"
200 miles of "Music Highway" separates Tennessee's two largest cities -- Nashville, the king of country music, and Memphis, the king of blues and the birthplace of rock-and-roll. The drive feels every bit that long, especially in anticipation of a legendary weekend combining the best beer, bourbon, Beale, blues, and BBQ that Memphis has to offer. As you approach Memphis, however, you can't help but wonder happened to the neighborhoods on the outskirts of downtown -- power plants, housing projects, and abandoned storefronts litter the last 10 miles of the journey around the MLK Expressway as you make your way into town. But then, as if you stepped through a space-time portal into a preserved land still filled with Elvis, B.B. King, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Sam & Dave, there it is.
Beale Street.
I couldn't think of a better destination for my first Road to 592 field trip. Memphis is put together perfectly for the two things that I (and my friends) love the most: watching sports and drinking beer. We were traveling seven-deep for this excursion: me, my wife, and Pete in one car; Seamus, Fergus, Oleg, and Horwitz in the other car (all of these people, except for my wife, are in law school with me. I'll let you guess who behaved best this weekend). The plan was simple: stay at a hotel right across the street from the FedEx Forum, go to a Grizzlies game Friday and a Tigers game Saturday, and let Beale Street do the rest.
If you're looking for the perfect formula for an NBA city, Memphis has it all figured out. I haven't been to a lot of NBA arenas, but I have been to a lot of cities that have NBA arenas, and there's a few common issues that keep fans away and considerably reduce the enjoyment of those that do go. Sometimes the arena is in a weird part of town that you would never otherwise go to, making each trip a hike and having you wonder whether you might get murdered (Philadelphia). Sometimes the arena is in a decent part of town, but there are NO bars or restaurants that you would want to go to before/after the game, meaning you're in a dogfight to beat the traffic (Atlanta). Or sometimes the arena is in the right place, but the team is so miserably bad that fans just don't care (Washington).
Here's the Memphis formula: 1) Put the arena right near the best drinking/party district in the city, so that it becomes a destination for young people (Nashville gets this right too, albeit for hockey); 2) Be the only pro gig in town, so that people get legitimately excited for every game; 3) Have a good team; 4) Make sure you have a lot of hotels near the arena, so that the games become destinations for tourists. I can't think of a single other NBA city that checks off all four of these except for possibly San Antonio (and Beale Street kicks the crap out of the Riverwalk).
This Friday night, Memphis was hosting the Brooklyn Nets, or as Hawks fans know them, the "Iso Joes." After my wife, Pete and I checked in, we walked (literally) across the street to the FedEx Forum and up to our nosebleed seats (sadly, the Road to 592 does not yet have a corporate sponsor, but we'll work on that). Our friend Sarah, a Memphis native who tagged along with us, recommended the incredible BBQ pork nachos brought in from Rendezvous (more on this joint later). Remember the days when stadium food consisted solely of gray hotdogs, stale popcorn, and "soft" pretzels? Those days may live on in OVC arenas, but not in the state-of-the-art, luxury-box-laden arenas here in the 21st century, where everything is always edible and often delicious. Although to be fair, if you threw jalapeno peppers on top of Pau Gasol's shoe after a 3OT game and covered it in cheese, I would probably eat it.
The highlight of the first half was not the game itself, as Joe Johnson and Deron Williams were in rare coach-killing form -- Memphis led by 23 at the half -- but the three-on-three game between three dry-rub ribs and three random dudes they picked out of the stands. No, really:
Beale Street.
I couldn't think of a better destination for my first Road to 592 field trip. Memphis is put together perfectly for the two things that I (and my friends) love the most: watching sports and drinking beer. We were traveling seven-deep for this excursion: me, my wife, and Pete in one car; Seamus, Fergus, Oleg, and Horwitz in the other car (all of these people, except for my wife, are in law school with me. I'll let you guess who behaved best this weekend). The plan was simple: stay at a hotel right across the street from the FedEx Forum, go to a Grizzlies game Friday and a Tigers game Saturday, and let Beale Street do the rest.
If you're looking for the perfect formula for an NBA city, Memphis has it all figured out. I haven't been to a lot of NBA arenas, but I have been to a lot of cities that have NBA arenas, and there's a few common issues that keep fans away and considerably reduce the enjoyment of those that do go. Sometimes the arena is in a weird part of town that you would never otherwise go to, making each trip a hike and having you wonder whether you might get murdered (Philadelphia). Sometimes the arena is in a decent part of town, but there are NO bars or restaurants that you would want to go to before/after the game, meaning you're in a dogfight to beat the traffic (Atlanta). Or sometimes the arena is in the right place, but the team is so miserably bad that fans just don't care (Washington).
Here's the Memphis formula: 1) Put the arena right near the best drinking/party district in the city, so that it becomes a destination for young people (Nashville gets this right too, albeit for hockey); 2) Be the only pro gig in town, so that people get legitimately excited for every game; 3) Have a good team; 4) Make sure you have a lot of hotels near the arena, so that the games become destinations for tourists. I can't think of a single other NBA city that checks off all four of these except for possibly San Antonio (and Beale Street kicks the crap out of the Riverwalk).
This Friday night, Memphis was hosting the Brooklyn Nets, or as Hawks fans know them, the "Iso Joes." After my wife, Pete and I checked in, we walked (literally) across the street to the FedEx Forum and up to our nosebleed seats (sadly, the Road to 592 does not yet have a corporate sponsor, but we'll work on that). Our friend Sarah, a Memphis native who tagged along with us, recommended the incredible BBQ pork nachos brought in from Rendezvous (more on this joint later). Remember the days when stadium food consisted solely of gray hotdogs, stale popcorn, and "soft" pretzels? Those days may live on in OVC arenas, but not in the state-of-the-art, luxury-box-laden arenas here in the 21st century, where everything is always edible and often delicious. Although to be fair, if you threw jalapeno peppers on top of Pau Gasol's shoe after a 3OT game and covered it in cheese, I would probably eat it.
The highlight of the first half was not the game itself, as Joe Johnson and Deron Williams were in rare coach-killing form -- Memphis led by 23 at the half -- but the three-on-three game between three dry-rub ribs and three random dudes they picked out of the stands. No, really:
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| Doesn't the one in front kind of look like a bone is sticking out of skin, with blood dripping out? And you thought guarding Magic Johnson in the '90s was awkward. |
Our second car showed up late, just in time to see the Grizz pour it on in the second half, eventually winning by a score of 101-77. As Seamus described it, "It's a team I don't care about playing a sport that I don't care about." Well, then. To be fair, what would you really expect from a 5-foot-10 Irish guy from Philly? (Let's just say that, despite David Stern's insistence on European expansion, you won't see an NBA team known as the "Dublin Draught Stouts" anytime soon, though this logo would definitely be the best in the league)
"And they asked me if I would do a little number / And I sang with all my might"
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| They didn't just have PBR, either. One of the on-street beverages for sale was a six-foot tall, 100 oz. frozen Hurricane drink for $30. When I asked the bartender how many of those she'd ever sold, she replied, "we've already sold two today." It was 3:00 in the afternoon. |
Beale Street is technically a 1.8 mile stretch of road through downtown Memphis, stretching from the riverfront all the way to Myrtle Street near the medical center. But the part that matters is only about two blocks -- from 2nd to 4th, where traffic is blocked off during the party hours and drinking on the street is not only allowed, but encouraged. Where else can you get beers "to go"? At first glance, it really seems like every bar is the same -- live music, bright lights, a little karaoke, and a bevy of fried food basket options to soak up the booze. Walkerbyers stumble from one watering hole to the next, often oblivious as to where they just were, what song they just sang, or who they're even with. This is not unlike many major bar strips (Nashville, New Orleans, etc.) but there's a general feeling that the only rules in place are enforced not by the bouncers or the cops, but by the drinker. Yet it all works; you never feel unsafe at any time. Stay within these two blocks, and you can pretty much do whatever you want as long as you don't have a gun or fists of fury. You'd be laughed at for even suggesting that "public intoxication" is a real crime.
We started the night at our hotel bar, Bleu, which of course featured a live blues trio with a blue piano. Then Sarah said we had to go to the "goat bar" -- Silky O'Sullivan's, which was essentially a hybrid of an Irish bar, a pirate bar, a dueling piano bar, and a frat house. Despite a $5 cover, there were no goats in sight (although there were plenty of fishbowls and "Big Ass Beers"). Needless to say, our group was not happy:
Goddamn goat embarassing me infront of my friends.Told Seamus there was a goat out here.#Memphis592
— Ferg (@VandyILL) January 26, 2013
When the goat finally did emerge, though, it was worth the wait:
Lots of questions roll through your mind when you see a creature like that in a place like this. How much do they feed it? How much beer does it drink on a daily basis? Can it open a beer with its hoof? Can it play one of the pianos inside? And how often does it actually go down the slide in the corner (think Bernie Brewer-style)? There turned out to actually be two of these goats on the premises, fenced up on the outdoor patio purely for our enjoyment -- and it certainly looked like they had consumed a few too many of the fried-shrimp-and-chicken baskets served on the inside.
In downtown Nashville, all the karaoke seems to funnel into a few bars in Printer's Alley, headlined by Lonnie's Western Room, a hole-in-the-wall dive where cash is the only currency (both for your drinks and to move your name up the list), beer is the only beverage, and fake IDs are the favored form of entry. In Memphis, everything descends on Flynn's, where the bouncers get beat up by the bros (seriously, we saw this happen), the Big Ass Beers are par for the course, and Tina Turner sound-alikes take you into the midnight hour and beyond. It's a little different than Lonnie's; Flynn's is a place where Third-Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Life" doesn't exactly make the cut, if you know what I mean (this was my song of choice; I waited 2 hours and six no-shows before the emcee relunctantly called me to the stage. I'd like to think he wasn't disappointed, and also that none of my friends got a video of this performance). Luckily for Seamus and Pete, Miley Cyrus somehow made it through the "screening" process. Who knew that a 5-foot-10 Irish guy would fit in better than a ... 5-foot-9 Scotch-Italian-Polish guy (me)?
My wife smartly turns in around midnight. Pete and I, in a karaoke and goat-induced haze, follow suit about 2 hours later. As for the rest of them ... I don't really know. It's looking like our brunch reservations are in serious jeopardy...
"They've got catfish on the table / They've got gospel in the air"
7:05 AM: Pee
7:46 AM: Pee
8:51 AM: Text from Horwitz (how??)
9:30 AM: Alarm goes off
9:40 AM: Snooze
9:50 AM: Snooze
10:00 AM: Fuck. Do I really have to move now?
Somehow, we're all alive, though in varying states: fine (my wife), hungover and barely able to get out of bed (me and Pete), and still-drunk-possibly-with-no-sleep-at-all (seemingly everyone else). What's even more miraculous, we make our 11:15 brunch reservations at the Majestic Grille, a white-tablecloth upscale joint along the trolley tracks on Main Street (yes, similar to Houston, Memphis has public transit careening through the streets -- though with far fewer collisions with sign-ignoring idiots). You tell me why this bunch is ready for a round of Bloody Marys and Mimosas -- this could have been the worst decision of the weekend, but based on what happened last night, it's par for the course.
If there's three things that Memphis is known for (well, other than murders), they're Beale, food, and Elvis. All three of those things delivered everything that we could have asked for. The only Memphis restaurant I'd been to before this trip was a rib joint on Madison called the Bar-B-Q Shop, on my way back from Houston last summer (another brilliant recommendation from Sarah). The ribs were dry-rub, obviously, but the spicy sauce was equally fantastic -- I'm not usually one to put sauce on barbecue anything, simply because I think the smoke and marinate should speak for itself, but this was too good to pass up. So my expectations were high for Memphis food coming into the weekend. Majestic definitely delivered, with big screens showing old black-and-white cartoon movies overlooking an old style two-story dining room, and steak and biscuits dominating the menu. If there was anything we needed to soak up last night, the steak-and-eggs benedict definitely did the trick.
Oh, and we spotted a celebrity! Pete was fortunate enough to share an intimate moment -- and his Bloody Mary -- with none other than Lennay Kekua:
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| Be careful, Pete, Mant'i won't be happy. |
Game #2 at the FedEx Forum featured the Memphis Tigers against the Marshall Thundering Herd, who were coming off a 56-point loss to Southern Miss on Wednesday. The Tigers' crowd rivaled that of the Grizzlies, good for a soft Level 4 crowd in this Saturday afternoon tilt. Memphis is one of those rare teams that has a hard time getting up for conference games -- forgive fans for overlooking the likes of East Carolina, Tulane, and Rice -- but packs the place to the brim for the non-conference tilts against Tennessee, Louisville, and Georgetown. The Tigers are moving to the Big East (or what's left of it) next season, but they'll once against be near the top of a heap that includes Cincinnati, Connecticut, and then a slew of unknown up-and-comers. It will be interesting to see how the dynamics of fan interest change, if at all, with another Conference USA-like slew of overmatched opponents on a regular basis. For today, however, the crowd came alive during the last two minutes as Marshall cut a big Memphis lead down to two, with the Tigers eventually prevailing by just a single point, 73-72. While it wasn't Memphis-UT in 2008, there was an energy to the place that will fit in just fine when the Tigers are up against at least a few strong opponents in Big East play.
After a few Big Ass Beers and a couple dive bars (with one of our group shamelessly flirting with waitresses at no fewer than two bars, including the purchase of a $45 bottle of beer), we made our way to the most iconic rib joint in Memphis: Rendezvous. It may not be the best dry rub, it may not have the best drinks, and it may not -- okay, definitely does not -- have the best service, but there's something about the atmosphere of the place that makes you feel like it's been there for generations (if there's anything the Road to 592 is about, it's atmosphere). For all we know, Elvis could have signed his first recording contract at the table we were sitting in. Rendezvous doesn't take reservations -- it doesn't need to, and you don't need them, because there's a bar upstairs. What better time to break out the cards and class it up with some draft PBR?
(Note: when the cards come out, all bets are off. Fergus and I, along with two of his buddies, almost got kicked out of several VERY nice restaurants in downtown Denver for a very boisterous traveling game of euchre that "escalated quickly," as Ron Burgundy would say. Today's games of choice were "in and out" and blackjack.)
The card game continued when we reached our downstairs table. At one point right after we ordered, some dude in a vest who had to be the manager of the place came up to us and started wildly waving his arms. In my state, I was pretty sure we weren't attracting any attention whatsoever. But now we were. I swear, this exchange then took place:
Me: "No, it's okay, I swear we're not gambling!"
Him: (waving arms frantically and pointing) "CHUG!! YOU CAN'T CHUG! YOU GUYS ARE CHUGGING!!"
Me: "Huh?"
Seamus: (chugs)
Me: "But we're not GAMBLING! We're only playing for beer!!" -- as if this is any better
Tennessee fan: (butt-chugs)
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| What, you thought I wouldn't find a way to get in a potshot at Tennessee? |
Now came the real celebrity-sighting of the weekend (unless you're Mant'i Te'o, in which case Pete's phone number is 615-867-5309 and you can find him next to the Atlanta Falcons' last Lombardi Trophy). I'm not quite up to speed on facial recognition when it comes to all 30 NBA coaches, but when you see a group of six taller, mid-40s, well-dressed men sitting behind you, you start to wonder. One of our group notices that Monty Williams, the Hornets head coach, is indeed at the table. Before we wonder if it would be weird to hop up and ask for a picture, they get up and leave. So much for that.
And then we see them. Anthony Davis. Robin Lopez. Ryan Anderson. Austin Rivers. Okay, so it wasn't exactly the '98 Bulls strolling through Rendezvous after a delicious meal, but when you see an NBA team in real life, it's imposing -- you KNOW it's an NBA team. Think Ryan Anderson is short? You don't run into too many 6'10" guys in your day-to-day life. I did feel bad for Robin Lopez, though, that his brother Brook was no longer in town; can't we get these guys on the same team already so they'll have someone to hang out with on the road?
The next few hours devolved into a constant search for Hornets players, who it turns out were staying at our hotel. Who would be the most likely to break curfew and sing karaoke on Beale Street? (definitely Robin Lopez along with former Grizzly Greivis Vazquez). Would anyone dare serve Anthony Davis, even though we all know he's under 21? (I'm guessing that Beale Street is a little lax on the IDs). Would anyone actually recognize 6'4" Austin Rivers if he were walking around by himself? (I sure didn't). Sadly, the night passed without a player sighting, though I know what we would have bought the underage guys if they wanted to fit in...
As the saying goes, what happens in Memphis, stays in Memphis ... or something like that. I'll leave to your imagination much of what happened the rest of the night. But I can surely tell you how it ended. We were...
WAAAAAAALKIN' IN MEMPHIS!
"Walkin' with my feet ten feet off of Beale"
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| Yes, we were almost literally ten feet off of Beale. Note the proximity to the FedEx Forum. |
But do I really feel the way I feel?
NBA count: 3/30; College basketball count: 16/347; Total count: 46/592
--The Road to 592 is a pipe dream started by a diehard Atlanta fan with a sparse history of truly great sports atmospheres (being Atlanta and all). Read up on my unending pursuit here and check out the full list of venues here. For those sick of conference realignment, you can also relish in another pipe dream of mine -- the 28-team SEC. Follow me on Twitter @andrewhard592.
