It was almost exactly one moment after the fifth roll ended, the smell of asphalt all too fresh in my nose, my eyes filled with the sight of two red lights turning left and the right back door hanging off the car like a dog’s ear.
Exactly half a moment after I got off the phone with my friend, the other beat writer, who was left at the Mobil with obviously not stain-defending pants and a dollar in hand.
Where the hell was this in the job description?
I guess it’s important to start off from the beginning. I’m the Boston University women’s basketball beat writer for The Daily Free Press. All year long, the other beat writer, Matt Stout, and I have written about every turn in the women’s rollercoaster. With a sweet 19-11 record and even sweeter dispositions, they’ve been a great team to follow all year.
So, I cut short my Spring Break in wonderful Allentown, Penn. (all the violence of a big city without the charm!) to cover the America East Conference Tournament at the University of Hartford’s Chase Family Arena. Stout lives in East Haven, 45 minutes from Hartford, so he offered to shack me up from Friday to Sunday.
Taking the train north from Philly, I was able to gain a great vantage point and do a bit of meditating. The results of this were astounding. Connecticut is the rich man’s New Jersey! Jersey, never having wronged me, was sort of like that kid you like to have in your group to make fun of, even though you really like him.
So, Connecticut, Jersey’s good-looking brother, was going to be awesome. It was, on Friday night. Except for the charred car on the side of I-84 that had the jaws-of-life treatment and caused a mile backup that made us a bit late. We shook off the “bad journalists” looks of disapproval as we entered to write a killer 400-word brief on the women’s win against Northeastern.
Saturday, as we didn’t have a car to use, we bought a pair of round-trip train tickets for the scenic New Haven-to-Hartford-and-back swing.
The game’s at 4 p.m. Our train leaves at 1 p.m. So we get there at 2 p.m., after a cab ride to the arena and ride on the gravy train at the Media Hospitality (sandwich and cookie and Coke) room.
The game, however, was not so much a gravy train as a train wreck. Read the sports section for more information. We stay late to send the story. Our train leaves to go home at 8 p.m. We had forgotten to call cabs to get us to the station.
So, we resort to the last thing. Seriously now, what does your mom tell you about getting in cars with strangers? Especially when the driver is practically lying down in his seat. I think his head might’ve been in the trunk. Or my lap.
But, anyway, these two guys – the driver looked like Snoop Dogg – pick us up on the University of Hartford campus. They assure us they know where the train station is, so we hand them over a cool Andrew Jackson, after they inquire as to our willingness to be “straight up” with them. We were.
Five minutes later, they pull into a Mobil station. It’s 7:47. 13 minutes. Stout’s freaking out. I’m laughing. I am an idiot.
“Uh, guys, we’re kind of in a hurry,” Stout pleads.
“Yeah,” replied the passenger who was a bit larger than the driver but not altogether large. Or eloquent. But they were crafty buggers.
He gave Stouty a dollar to buy a drink at the Mobil. Stout looked at me. I assured him it was cool and he should stop resembling a female dog. The faster he picks up a bottle of Coke, the faster we can get back to East Haven.
And the faster they pull out of the lot. And the faster that Mock Dogg’s dawg could tell me that I wasn’t “going to no train stop.”
“Give me all your money,” he suggested, in a tone that seemed serious. However, I had to question the actual seriousness of the statement, considering the idea that my America East press pass would strike fear in the hearts of evildoers. He assured me that he was earnest in his suggestion. I then decided leaving the car would be the best option.
He disagreed. And told silent Snoop to lock the doors and step on it, as “he’s trying to get out.” Ah. Curses! He understood! He also understood that the $20 I gave him was not all I had in my wallet.
“I know that’s not all you have, man,” he said to me. Turning to the Doggy driver, he told him to “take him to [Keeney] park.” Well, having eaten already, I was not for the idea of joining in their late-night picnic. Frankly, I was so against it that I decided to leave their party without saying goodbye.
I flipped their magical lock and flung open the door. Hitting the pavement and rolling, I think I thought of how cool it was. Then the rolling stopped. Only scrapes and cuts. Success! Wallet and cell phone in pocket. Success! Stout’s bag on the street and my bag in the car. Bah!
A sweet lady picked me up and drove me to get Stout at the Mobil. You should’ve seen his face. Whiter than the neon sign. With the dollar in his hand. Technically, he robbed them. Got my back.
Two hours later, after going to the police station, where I was alerted to the fact that Hartford is the number-one city for murder in Connecticut, we were on a Peter Pan bus home.
The season was over. The day was over, 10 hours after it started. All in a day’s work for a beat writer.
We’ll be taking applications for next year’s women’s beat in the fall.
Kevin Scheitrum, a freshman in the College of Arts and Sciences, is the assistant sports editor for The Daily Free Press.