What the stars tell Terry Gratuity: we're living in a miraculous time
A Requiem for the Nets
It's raining when I arrive at Connecticut's Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino. I check in, start drinking, drop some money at the $25 blackjack tables, decide to call it quits for the night and – after a few more drinks – retire to my suite on the 31st floor. I put the 'Not To Disturb' sign on the outside knob, lock up, turn the air-conditioning as high as it will go, wrap myself in a tangle of bedspread, blankets and sheets and with humming in my ears enter the land of Morpheus.
I wake up a little before 6:00 with what I assume is going to be the beginning of a rather nasty case of the dry heaves. Imagine my delight when it turns out just to be the hiccups! A glass of Alka-Seltzer, a cigarette and I'm as good as new! I throw on a pair of khakis, light another cigarette and head out to the elevator. It's now 6:15. Less than three hours until the Nets take the court for what will be their fourth (and I suspect final) game against Los Angeles.
The older I get the more I become convinced that one should savor the small moments in life, the unexpected pleasures. You think you're facing a solid hour on your knees retching phantom bile in the bathroom of a rented room in a mammoth Indian casino and instead you find yourself on the main floor, fresh as a daisy, explaining the rules of mini-baccarat to a curvaceous little blonde with an adorable Eastern European accent. Wallow in the moment.
Beginning of the season you pick the Nets to win – what? – 35 games, 40 at most? Maybe luck-out and get the seventh or eight seed before being knocked out in the first round of the Playoffs? Savor this remarkable run, this unprecedented foray to the Finals.
Normally, at this juncture, before a big game, I'd just go to Michael Jordan's 23 Sports Café, an all-American grill with large screen TVs, get a burger and begin drinking. But today is special – the Nets being on NBC in prime time, not having violent stomach convulsions – and I want to do something out of the ordinary. I make my way from the casino floor, not to the Jordan 23 Sports Café but rather to the ritzier Michael Jordan Steakhouse, "a famed eatery offering a blend of traditional and contemporary sophistication that reflects Jordan's own refined sense of style." A few extra bucks granted, but what the hey.
My porterhouse (medium-rare with a baked potato) hasn't even arrived when I feel a woman's hand on the back of my neck. I turn around and to my delight discover it's the bodacious blonde piece from the mini-baccarat table. Stammering, I invite her to join me.
She tells me her name is Gyöngyi. From Budapest she now lives in Schenectady, New York. She made the three hour drive that afternoon with a couple girlfriends who are off working the floor of the nearby Foxwoods. Twenty-eight years old.
I tell her about myself. I tell her about the Nets. I explain to her that win or lose I'm a generous, financially secure gambler and respected lecturer in the mood to celebrate all my team has accomplished this season, regardless of the ultimate outcome of one game. Finally, I confide that I want to buy my elderly mother a present and would really appreciate her help.
"What a good son you are!" Gyöngyi exclaims. "There are many places we can go. Tell me what does she like."
I refrain from answering with the first thing that comes to mind: Marlborough Reds and Jesus. "It's hard to say," I reply.
A half-hour later we're in Boccelli where Gyöngyi picks out a Kate Spade handbag for my ma. It's lovely and something I never would've thought of. "I can't thank you enough," I gush. "What would you like? What can I get you?"
Gyöngyi is torn between three handbags - two Kate Spades and a pricier Fendi. I insist on buying her all three. She protests, but I'm adamant. "It's okay," I assure her. "I can charge it to my Mohegan Sun Platinum-Plus Mastercard and what's more earn Wampum points in the Player's Club at the same time."
Ecstatic, she kisses me on the lips and then, laughing, persists in wearing all three bags along with the one she already has over her shoulder. It's a strange look, but she pulls it off.
"Time now," I announce. "Time to watch a basketball game of historic proportions." I light a cigarette, hand her ma's wrapped gift for safe keeping and we head off to The Bow and Arrow Sports Bar.
Despite an irksome habit of singing along with Sheryl Crow each and every time the 'I'm Gonna Soak Up the Sun' commercial comes on, Gyöngyi proves to be an otherwise wonderful companion. She quickly picks up on the basic rules and flow of the game and with an enthusiasm that doesn't seem feigned roots on Kenyon Martin as he takes the Nets to an early lead in the first. Then as she sips a solitary Rolling Rock and I go through a pitcher or two we witness the inevitable. The Lakers ride to victory on fine shooting and the awesome bludgeoning power of their notorious Center. When it's all over Gyöngyi tactfully gives me a moment or two to compose myself before she speaks.
"They were so brave, the Nets. Like I imagine the famous doomed October 23rd anti-Communist uprising of Imre Nagy in 1956 that was so brutally crushed by the Russians."
"What a fucking great analogy," I say, staggering to my feet. "Let's get drunk."
Gyöngyi pats my hand. "Should we go to The Taughannick Falls Bar? Or would the 55-foot indoor waterfall make you more sad, Terry?"
"Whatever."
"We don't have to go to the Taughannick. We could be more casual. I be happy just to enjoy one of Mohegan Sun's legendary micro-brews at the Mohegan Sun Brew Pub. Or we, we could simple back to your room and order up adult movie and room service! Would you like that? Would you like to take your sexy Gyöngyi up to your room?" Gyöngyi makes a purring sound and palms my crotch.
"Nah," I say. "We're here. Might as well see the sights."
Gyöngyi looks hurt, but it doesn't last. Say one thing for her: she's a gal who bounces back. "How about Fidelia's Leffingwells? Do you know? It is world famous martini bar, but not so formal."
"World famous?"
"Yes, we can choose from over 50 specialty martinis all created by Mohegan's Sun's own master-mixers. We go there?'"
"I'm," I say. "I'm trying to think what else we could do. What, what's that place? I'm trying to think."
"Not the Fred and Don Imus Body Express," Gyöngyi says with horror.
Perhaps I'm feeling a bit sadistic after the Nets loss, but for whatever reason I have an irrepressible urge to tease this little minx with the Danube River in her veins. "Indeed," I say. "Let's go there. I hear it's a really cool place." In truth I know nothing of it or of what such an establishment would mean to an upwardly-mobile semipro who suffered for decades under the aesthetic and moral bankruptcy of repressive Soviet totalitarianism.
"No, Terry," Gyöngyi says taking hold of me. "It is not a cool place. It is, it is an awful, awful place. The Fred and Don Imus Body Express. Full of horrible, evil people and jealous, ugly women eating disgusting, vomitty food like the Turquoise Buffalo Tortilla and, and, everywhere you go there are pictures of the Don Imus and, and everything costs – the cost of everything is whatever and then 57 cents. Every price of the sickening vomitty food it, it end in 57 cents because the Fred Imus he use to fix 57 Chevys! Six dollar fifty-seven! Eight dollar fifty-seven! Can you believe? Oh, it awful, Terry! Awful! "
"My God," I murmur.
"Please do not make me go to Fred and Don Imus Body Express, Terry! Anything, I do anything, I go anywhere but please not that!"
I want to kill myself. How could I have been so cruel, so thoughtless? "Listen," I tell her. "I would never do that to you. Do you understand? Never. It was all just a joke. A hideous misguided joke. I like you. I more than like you: I think you're wonderful. Oh, Gyöngyi, I feel terrible. Let me, let me buy you another Kate Spade bag."
"No! No! You don't have to. Two, two is enough."
"You sure? We could just run in."
"But thank you. You are very, very kind. You are."
"Take just a second."
"Maybe later. Now, now we drink more as you like. We drink and we celebrate the valiant effort of the basketball players. Bravo."
I trip over something, but Gyöngyi grabs hold of me before I can fall. We walk out, arm in arm.
"Isn't Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino the most wondrous?" she asks.
"Nowhere near as wondrous or surprising as you," I declare. Much less, I think to myself, the 2001-2002 New Jersey Nets.
We end up regrouping at The Cove where I down a couple more while we decide on our next move.
"You know," Gyöngyi says. "I be perfectly happy just going to The Wombi Rock, but you, you must be tired of it, I guess."
I confess I've never actually been inside the casino's most famed attraction. "I, I've been meaning to go," I lie.
"What – you mean you never been to Wombi Rock!"
"I mainly stick to the Casino of the Earth and then, when I am in the Casino of the Sky I tend to just, you know, concentrate on playing," I explain. "I haven't actually ever been in the Wombi Rock."
"You're teasing Gyöngyi again. Surely a professional gambler and teacher who is, too, a frequent visitor to Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino like you Terry you must have been to Wombi Rock. It is only the biggest planetarium dome in the entire world! And what's more they play techno music and there are video poker machines so you can bet under the stars." She rubs her leg against mine. "It is very, very romantic, the Wombi Rock."
"Is there," I ask, "is there a bar?"
"Many!" Gyöngyi's eyes light up. "We go there I give you special treat."
"Well," I tell her. "I should confess I'm not much of a dancer."
Next thing I know we're running through the complex like a couple giddy teen-agers in love. Gyöngyi teetering on two-inch heels, my ma's wrapped gift tucked under her arm football style, her own purses flapping behind like dying kites. Me, I'm huffing and puffing, desperately trying to keep up without spilling too much of what's now a Scotch & Soda. We make our way past Bamboo Forest and Chef's 'New York Style' Deli, past Starbucks and Johnny Rockets, past Yankee Candle Company, Brookstones, Kids Quest and Big Bubba's BBQ. We continue through the outer edges of the Casino of the Sky, past signs that read 'Welcome Wigwumman' and then 'Sorry, but no one under 21 is admitted in the dome' until, at last, we approach the immense structure of translucent faux-onyx and alabaster. We enter.
In my bleary-eyed state, it takes awhile to absorb, to assimilate it all. A bit of a freak-show, it must be said, but, really: it could be worse. Everywhere bright colored lights, many blinking. The fat and the middle-aged dance spastically in cordoned off clusters to the thump-thump of electronic music. Porky, sullen cocktail waitresses in quasi harem-girl outfits glide through the throngs with trays. Busloads worth of old women hover by pyramids of video slots.
"Look up, Terry!" Gyöngyi says, squeezing my hand with all her might. "Look up!"
I look to where the ceiling should be and, sure enough, I see what I had only vaguely glimpsed before from the Casino in the Sky floor. I see stars. Vast constellations of artificial stars. The world's largest planetarium dome. A structure perhaps worthy for contemplating the magnitude of the Nets' achievement this season.
Barely have I time to get us additional drinks before we're on the move again. "Follow, follow," Gyöngyi chirps as she leads me up a flight of stairs, around a corner, past bathrooms, up another flight and through a corridor that leads to an open door. "Do you have money for tip? Good tip for security guard?"
The security guard is a large, unattractive woman in a red casino blazer who seems to know Gyöngyi. I hand her a fifty-dollar chip. I don't bother to get it credited to my Mohegan Players Club account though Gyöngyi expresses the belief that I could.
"No one will bother you," the guard says and she closes the door.
Gyöngyi leads me across a dark room with some sofas and unplugged slots in the corner. She sits us down on a black leather couch off to the side. She runs a hand through my thinning hair. The other she sticks through my shirt, stroking circles on my chest with her long nails. We're alone. Above us -- the constellations in all their glory.
I gulp down my drink. "A great Irishman," I tell her. "A great Irishman once said 'All of us are in the gutter, but some of us – some of us are looking at the stars.'"
"Relax, sweetie," Gyöngyi implores. She stands up and begins taking off her purses one by one. "Look at the stars."
"Later," I continue. "Later he was destroyed by, by the English just, all because he was Irish and liked to, you know, he liked to pursue futile legal action." I snort with indignation. "That and engage in circle-jerks with upper-class London boys. Fucking Limey scum. Fucking Limey scum persecuting Oscar Wilde. Bastards."
Somehow in the course of my monologue Gyöngyi manages to yank off my shoes, unbutton my belt and pull my pants down.
"Shhhh, sweetie," she says. She kneels in front of me and reaches into my boxers. "Just relax," she tells me. "Lean back. Lean back and concentrate on your sexy Gyöngyi. How nice her warm mouth feels. And look, look at the beautiful, beautiful stars above."
"Fucking Oscar Wilde" I say, reaching for her drink now. "Hall of Fame Irish martyr. First round. First round Martyr Hall of Famer."
"Concentrate, sweetie." She pulls my boxers down, gently takes holds of me in her smooth hands and begins licking the underside like a St. Bernard puppy in an especially good mood.
"He, he wasn't Catholic," I explain.
Gyöngyi places me in her mouth. I have another sip of her Brandy Alexander. Gyöngyi's head bobs up and down beneath my belly.
"But, but he was Irish. He was Irish. Fucking Oscar." I start to cry. It's been such an emotional run – the Dr. J trade in 1976 that all but ruined the Bicentennial for Jersey basketball fans. Micheal Ray Richardson's tawdry drug habit. Endless years spent in the shadow of Madison Square Garden and the Patrick-Ewing-era Knicks. The character failings of the oddly charismatic Derrick Coleman ('Whoopdee-damn-do' was right). The shock and horror felt when we learned of Drazen Petrovic's death in a car accident thousands of miles away. Then, of course, came John Calipari with his G.Q. wardrobe, his Pitino-lite act and his inexplicable failure to grasp the simple fact that wealthy, incredibly gifted black men might resent being treated like plucky but lazy Little Leaguers. Choosing Kittles over Kobe in the draft. The suave good looks and lackadaisical offensive numbers put up by ostensible "shooting" guard Kendall Gill. New ownership and their noble, if somewhat patronizing, fantasies of transcending sport and saving Newark. Jayson Williams's labored yet endearing attempts to establish himself as a beloved media personality and comic raconteur. Making the Playoffs only to be swept in the first round. Nagging suspicion that the seemingly unlimited potential shown by rookie Van Horn might have been a sort of fool's gold. The shameful failure of any of us to truly appreciate Sam Cassell. The maximum contracts; had ownership fallen in love with some nice guys who, truth be told, were far from being superstars worthy of taking up so much space under a salary cap? The enigma that was interim coach Don Casey. Getting 'Dirty K-Mart' with the #1 draft pick. The ceaseless immaturity of Mama's Boy Stephon Marbury, best exemplified by – but by no means limited to – the appalling "33 all alone" sneaker incident. Broken leg after broken leg after broken leg. Was there something to The Curse after all? The much publicized arrival of G.M. Rod Thorn and then finally, finally the trade for Kidd. "Fucking Jason Kidd," I say now. "Fucking Jason Kid! What a man! Jason Kidd!" I take another gulp. "Imagine, imagine being one-half the man – one half the person – number 5 is! My God, just the way he stood up to that wife-beating thing, much less his brilliant play and, and on the court leadership. My Lord."
Gyöngyi turns it up a notch. Her mouth, tongue, throat and fingers not unlike a car-wash.
I continue free-associating out loud about the Nets – my long term ambivalence about the tandem of Keith Van Horn and Kerry Kittles (admitted talents, were they nonetheless too docile, too lacking in the killer instinct to be the first two scoring options on an Eastern Conference team). The tragic incident – so, so stupid! – with Jayson Williams, the Harlem Globetrotters and the shotgun. My having been totally 100% wrong about trading away Eddie Griffin to Houston for Collins, Jefferson and Armstrong. The modest delight that is Todd MacCulloch.
I don't know how many minutes go by. Ten? Fifteen? Thirty?
"Sweetie," Gyöngyi says, at last, coming up for air. "I don't think," she begins embarrassed. "It is not happening. Would you like me, should I stop?"
"Don't fret it," I tell her. "Not your fault." I give her a playful punch on the shoulder. "I got a lot on my mind these days. I'll bet you a million dollars you can't guess what I'm thinking about right, Gyöngyi, right at this exact moment. Go on. A million dollars. Go on. Want to guess?" She nods 'No'. "Lucious Harris," I tell her. "No one ever talks about Lucious Harris!"
I let the concept sink into her foreign psyche. My pants and underwear are around my ankles. My bare ass is sweating up a storm on the now sticky leather seat. A tear or two of joy streams down my face as I salute the unheralded bench-play of the 6'5" guard out of Long Beach State and by extension the whole franchise this season. "Lucious Harris. Sinking all those crazy mad threes. The plexiglas facemask he insisted on wearing for luck even after the bone in his cheek had healed. Lucious Harris. "You're my man, Lucious!" I belt out a "Lou!" into the faux-night air. Then two more. "Lou! Lou!" But before I can totally get into it Gyöngyi has placed her hand over my mouth.
"We try again later if you like, sweetie."
Her kindness and Slavic understanding melt my heart and for a short time I forget about the LA sweep and the real reason I'm here. "This fucking rocks," I tell her. "You know what? Just, just sit here and let me, let me savor you. Will you? Will you let me savor you?"
Gyöngyi smiles and settles herself down besides me on the couch. She rests her head against my jaw and shoulder. Her hair is stiff from spray and it makes a crinkly sound like footsteps on freshly frozen snow as she leans into me. She giggles and puts her leg over mine. I can smell her perfume, feel her weight and warmth.
"They are, indeed, beautiful," I say pointing up to the stars. "Just like you. Just like you darling, mysterious, glorious, wonderful Gyöngyi. Shining. Smoldering. Luminous while incandescent. Symbols of both eternity and the unobtainable. The ancients imagined they were Gods."
"You want I should still hold your balls?"
"Please."
I lean back and gaze at Orion. To the right is, I believe, Ursa Minor and below that may or may not be the Big Dipper. It doesn't really matter. The point is it's the stars. The stars that the Romans and Greeks, West African tribesmen and Carolina slaves, my Celt ancestors and the hippies of the 1960s all held in awe. The stars that Gailileo and Copernicus devoted their lives to studying. The stars that guided Columbus and Vasco De Gama, Lewis & Clark, Magellan, the Three Wise Men and, yes, countless generations of the Mohegan Tribe. Those very ones, only reproduced in Connecticut's premier gambling Mecca where no one under 21 is allowed. Think of it. The stars in a casino! The best of all worlds! Truly, we live in miraculous times! The commies have been defeated (their women set loose upon stronger societies); centuries after having their land stolen from them Native Americans have been given a veritable license to print money; and, yes, best of all, the Nets are the reigning Eastern Conference champs! Glorious days!
Even in my trashed state, I'm aware of the fact that I'm living through an extraordinary era. A time to be treasured and perhaps brought to the forefront of memory in the years and decades to come when things – for me, for the Nets, for the indigenous peoples of the Tri-state area, for all the freedom loving citizens of the earth and children yet to be born – might be considerably bleaker. With this in mind, I make the conscious decision to now take a few moments out to reflect back on the Nets' astounding season – all the while an incredibly hot girl (I'll never have to deal with after tomorrow!) snuggles against me, under brilliant stars, cradling my scrotum in her delicate hand.
So many memories, so many memories! Where to even begin? Well, how about the initial trade of Kidd for Marbury. Let's move right on to the 109-83 whomping of the Knicks. Don't forget the 'Who's sorry now?' game with the Suns. Or the 114-96 ass-kicking delivered to the Kings. What next, what next? Um, perhaps the OT victory against the T-Wolves - 33 points and the steal of the season from our M.V.P. The schooling of Jordan's Wizards in front of his carpetbagging fans. The ho-hum final regular-season game drubbing of, yet again, the Knicks. Then the post-season! We were in the post-season with the number one spot! The New Jersey Nets had the best record in the East! Oh, the stomach churning first series against Reggie Miller's Pacers climaxing in the already legendary double OT fifth game! The Charlotte cakewalk gave us all a chance to catch our breath after that one, eh? Then the hubris of Paul Pierce. (You think a guy who was lucky to be alive after a nightclub stabbing might be a bit more humble, wouldn't you?) The horrific meltdown in Boston followed by sturdy resolve and Conference Series triumph.
Reliving it all, my mind reels. I'm drunk with happiness. There's only one thing I'm craving. One that could make this magical trip down memory lane better and secure its place as the highspot of my not so young life. Fortunately, it's within reach. I kiss the top of Gyöngyi's head – a little peck – and light a cigarette.
What a season it's been.
- Terry Gratuity
Terry Gratuity's seminars on 'semi-skill' casino games earned him a devoted following in the 90s, which he retains to this day. Born in Union City, N.J., Mr. Gratuity is a man of many hats. He currently resides in Western Pennsylvania where he is at work on a study of Piston's legend Bill Laimbeer.
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