A couple of weekends ago we had a nasty March Nor'Easter in these parts, winds gusting into the 60 mph range, driving rains for nearly 48 hours and chilly temps. All the guests for the weekend canceled except a couple coming in from Brooklyn, normally a 2 1/2-hour drive. They braved the storm, but it was nearly 7 p.m. before they splashed across my parking lot.
They toweled off and then went back out into the deluge for dinner. As I was preparing to turn in at 11:30, the lights suddenly went out. After shutting down the fire alarm system, which emits a piercing warning tone when power is interrupted, I set my watch alarm for 7 a.m. Breakfast wasn't until 9:30 and that gave me time to deal with storm damage. With Seely out of town, I had my work cut out for me.
I awoke to a still blacked out household, with 4 inches of water in the basement because sump pumps run on electricity. Porch furniture was on the lawn and trash can lids were two houses up the street. Still, I was better off than my neighbors, who had a tree limb crush a parked car belonging to their tenants. I straightened up as best I could, then turned my thoughts to making breakfast without a coffee maker, oven, toaster, broiler or lights.
The baked apples with oven-browned orange french toast and grilled bacon were no longer possible. At least I could manually light the burners on the gas range, so I improvised a grapefruit, pan-fried bacon and griddle-cooked french toast menu and set to work in a hoodie. Because the thermostats that tell the furnace when to heat up the rooms are electric, temps inside were dipping fast.
I was startled to get a knock on the kitchen door at 8:45 with breakfast only half cooked. I had been so totally focused on the power failure I had forgotten that the clocks changed to daylight saving time the night before. It was actually 9:45 and I was late providing sustenance. After apologizing, I got the couple started on the grapefruit, threw the toast on the griddle and pondered the beverage problem.
I had a kettle boiling for tea, but coffee was a greater challenge. I decided to try pouring boiling water through the grounds in the filter to see if I could make something strong enough to pass for drinkable. It was awful, but I got kind words for trying. Managed to get breakfast on the table by 10 and kept my fingers crossed that I wouldn't have to refund the cost of the second night's stay.
In a similar situation -- awful weather, no guarantee of lights, heat, or other creature comforts, an innkeeper struggling with his basic duties -- most guests would have packed it in, demanded a refund and I couldn't have blamed them. But Brad and Amy turned out to be two of those exceptional people I mentioned earlier.
After breakfast they pulled out the laptop and discussed what might be open on Sunday and how they could check who had power before leaving. Thank heaven for laptops and cell phones that can be charged with car batteries. They spent the day in Newport touring mansions with generators and ran up to Providence for dinner.
By the time they returned, power had been restored and the inn was back operating as close to normally as possible. I truly appreciated their spirit and patience. I hope they will come back to see us again when they can discover all that our area has to offer -- including sunny weather and beautiful beaches.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Unfortunately Bob Morris is out of gas and Nova scores the first six to take control. With less than two minutes to go the Richmond fans returns with two hot dogs. I see him coming and am in the aisle before he gets to my seat.
"I see you learned some manners," he smirks.
"No real fans goes for a dog with a team inbounding under it's own basket with .9 seconds left to win the game."
"I don't give a crap about either of these teams."
"Exactly my point."
Whereupon a guy behind us shouts "Sit down you morons!" Richmond fan's friend grabbed his elbow and dragged him back to his seat averting further ugliness. The Bobs fought back and got the ball with 9 second to play, down three, but a desperation trifecta clanked off the back rim. Three games to go.
Clutching my NCAA bag, I decided to move a few rows back to avoid further confrontation with angry Spider-fan. But I must admit I took a perverse joy in watching his team get eviscerated by a well-coached group of Gaels. I'm a shallow, shallow man. In the first half St. Mary's center Omar Samhan put on a low-post clinic: He scored turning to the baseline, fading away, bulling into the paint, off the Kevin McHale up and under move. When they double-teamed him, he found cutters and spot-up shooters for open looks. He had 17 points in 13 minutes before picking up his third foul and sitting out the half.
He added 10 more before getting No. 4 midway throught the second stanza with the Gaels up eight. But then St. Mary's really impressed me. With the big man sitting, they completely changed their game to an open post, motion offense with back picks for baseline shooters. They nailed three after three and had the lead up to 18 before my nemesis slunk out with his tail between his legs. Omar the hoopmaker finished with 29 points and 12 boards in 28 minutes of work. Anybody who plays the Gaels is going to have to earn a W.
Because of the OT game we had a little over an hour before the evening session. Nipped over to Murphy's Irish Pub (a dive two blocks from the Journal). I was still belching hot dog so I went light with a turkey club and passed on the fries. By now I was tired of lugging the bag, so I pulled the Bob Morris T-shirt over my rugby. My seats for Session II were on the opposite side of the court, seven rows up in the second tier across from the top of the key.
I decide five minutes into the game that there's no way these small, skinny Ohio kids could hang for 40 minutes with the beefy future pros from Georgetown. I was not moved when they built a 12-point lead late in the first half. I'd been burned in my 2.5 hour relationship with Robert Morris and I wasn't ready to commit again. I did notice, however, that Ohio did have the one thing that marks a classic tournament sleeper: spectacular guard play. Their backcourt was beating the Hoyas off the dribble at will.
We were seated right above the Ohio rooting section, which meant I got a good look at the best pep squad of this regional by far. Tennessee's cheerleaders were hotter, but the Ohio girls were cute, perky and terrific at what they do. The dance routines were simple, but flawless. Everybody on beat, no wobbly knees on the pyramids, and they cheered every second except when free throws were being shot. I'll be hearing O-H-I-O in my sleep for weeks. Even the band was outstanding. By the middle of the second half I wanted to wrap them up and take them back to the inn. Wouldn't chores be more fun with a spirit squad: "Trim that hedge . . . Fold those towels . . . Flip that pancake!"
Back at the game Georgetown made a brief run to close to within eight, but back-to-back threes from Ohio's dynamic duo opened it up. Could the Bobcats do what Bob Morris couldn't? Slay the Big East behemoth? You betcha Mrs. Palin. The Bobcat backcourt (DJ Cooper and Armond Bassett) combined for 55 points on 18-29 from the field, 10-18 from three-point land. The Final was 97-83. With Notre Dame and Marquette also losing it was tough day in the Big Least.
By the time the final game started I'd had six people congratulate on how well my team (based on the T-shirt) played and how badly were were screwed by the refs. I decided to be gracious in defeat to shed the best light possible on this school I'd barely heard of until they made the tournament last year. I had a big, hot soft pretzel between games and the salt scorched my raw throat, so it was back to the lozenges before Tennessee tipped off with San Diego State. The building was close to a sellout by now, though many folks would drift away in the second half.
The game was ragged and sloppy, which is pretty much the way the Vols play. Pump up the pace and don't worry about the turnovers and airballs. They seem to take shots based on degree of difficulty. Why go straight up and release at the apex if you can double pump, contort your body and release off your left ear. But Tennessee offered one great moment moment of low comedy. Bruce Pearl coaches the Vols and his son is on the team. He plays about four minutes a half and was by far the worst player I saw on the floor yesterday. His teammates won't pass him the ball and he loves to make the false hustle play. By the middle of the second half two guys in front of me were nudging each other when he walked to the scorer's table. "Heee's baaaack."
At halftime, I check my bracket. Not too bad considering all the upsets. I had Old Dominion over ND and Murray over Vandy, and eveybody missed GTown, so no need to crumple yet. I was pissed that Marquette blew a 16-point lead. Back in my seat I had to keep checking the scoreboard. It seemed like the Vols should be up at least 10, but SDS was only down three. Too many whistles. But Tennessee's J. P. Prince won the playing possum award after he collapsed, rolled over and feigned death after being barely bumped by an Aztec. SDS kept hanging around but couldn't get over the hump. Vols 62-59.
As I hobbled across town to the car at 12:35, I reflected on the day. I had seen the biggest upset (Ohio over Georgetown), a near miss in OT (Bob Morris), dozens of alluring cheerleaders, a low post clinic, great fans (Ohio and Bob Morris), an insufferable jerk (Spider-fan), two games that went to the final possession (Villanova and Tennessee), great guard play (Ohio) and nepotism at its funniest (Steven Pearl). Not bad for $150.
Your Hoops reporter