If I ever do decide to write a book about last weekend, they'll probably call it something like, "Fall From Grace: How a Good Mormon Boy Just Wanted to Watch a Little Basketball, But Ended Up Drinkin', Smokin' and Gamblin' the Weekend Away."
I blame March Madness.
The annual NCAA basketball tournament opened last weekend, and let's face it, some of us go a little crazy this time of year.
Opening weekend alone features 48 games. Forty-eight. I did the math, and that many 40-minute games works out to 1,920 minutes -- a whopping 32 hours -- of basketball.
And that's not even counting the overtimes.
Not only that, but if you factor in how long it actually takes to get through one of those 40-minute contests -- pregame and postgame comments, halftime reports, timeouts, whistles for fouls and other clock stoppages -- we're talking more in the neighborhood of three hours per game. That's close to 150 guy-hours of basketball, in one great and glorious four-day weekend.
And they say religion is dead ...
So then, how exactly does one take in all of those games? What you really need is a place with multiple big-screen, high-definition televisions; a place where you can have more than one game on at the same time. Which is how Mike, Andy and I ended up spending four days in a casino in West Wendover, Nev.
Gamblin'
There was, of course, a price to pay. Unless you're willing to put down a little money on the games, casino sports books don't appreciate you taking up their valuable table space, watching their televisions and sipping their free watered-down drinks.
Maybe it's just rationalizing that whole Mormon guilt thing, but I saw the occasional $5 bet less as gambling and more as paying a reasonable rental fee on our own sweet spot in front of the very large television array.
Drinkin'
Did I mention the free drinks? That's another perk of betting on games.
OK, so it's more of a perk for guys like Mike and Andy, who actually drink. But at one point I did ask the barmaid to bring me an orange juice.
I took a sip. It was the worst orange juice I'd ever tasted, and I said as much. I stirred it a bit, thinking maybe the juice had settled. I took another drink. If anything, it tasted even worse.
"Lemme see that," Andy said, grabbing the glass and taking a drink. He laughed. "No wonder. It's a screwdriver."
Huh?
Mike reached for the glass, and took a drink. Same laugh.
"Yup, it's a screwdriver."
So, who do you suppose was more surprised: the guy who just got his first taste of liquor as a 51-year-old, or the poor guy who ordered a screwdriver and ended up with orange juice? ("Hey! There's O.J. in my vodka!")
Smokin'
OK, so technically, I've never put a cigarette to my lips, but I must've inhaled the equivalent of half-a-dozen packs of smokes over the weekend.
Indeed, if there is a fly in the ointment of our March Madness plan, this is it. Four days of secondhand casino smoke left the three of us sounding like a Selma Diamond impersonators act. Seriously, if someone wanted to lure even more Mormons across the state line, they might think about opening a smoke-free casino.
Speaking of Mormons, being the only LDS adherent in our little Wendover group, I was subjected to the endless "Why shouldn't you ever take just one Mormon fishing?" jokes from Mike and Andy.
Or this one: "Jews don't recognize Jesus Christ, Protestants don't recognize the Pope, and Mormons don't recognize each other in Wendover."
Which isn't quite true, because a fellow Mormon and I recognized each other during the BYU-Gonzaga game.
Andy and I were stretching our legs near a big projection-screen TV when a guy sitting at the bar says, "Mark! How you doin'?"
We walk over, and it's another active Mormon I know; he and a friend were there watching the game. We all had a good laugh about a couple of Mormons hanging out in Wendover.
Right about then, this Mormon guy's friend casually reaches over and ever-so-quickly slides something that was in front of the Mormon over in front of himself.
"These are both mine, by the way," he deadpans, nodding toward the two bottles of beer now directly in front of him.
Awkward.
Well, you know what they say: What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but what happens in Wendover makes for some pretty darned amusing anecdotes.
Tattle to Mark Saal's bishop at 801-625-4272 or msaal@standard.net.
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