I was driving the Panzer over to meet Old Jim at the not-Willow bar to shoot the shit and maybe watch the Preakness. It was a lovely day, low humidity and sunny, a splendid day to be alive.

By consensus, the old cathode ray tube televisions high atop the bar fixture at Willow was not going to present the proper high-def resolution I demand for my sporting sensibilities.

To meet the requirements, Jim suggested a slice of the excellent pies at Pizza Roma, across from the Ballston Metro stop and then some beers at The First Down next door.

I think I had been in the place years ago, most likely when I worked for a company that was conveniently located just up the block and patronized the Eat-And-Run shawarma shop that used to be there, two or three businesses ago. It is a modest looking place, just a single storefront, but surprisingly vast as it wrapped around the back of the other businesses on the block.

We agreed to meet at four; Jim was hungry and it would be two and a half hours, near enough, until post time for the Preakness. “That should be enough time to get your mind right for the Sport of Kings,” he growled on the phone, and I had to confirm that he was right.

Problem was the Canadiens v. Rangers game. There was too much not to like about the line-up, real Old School Hockey though with five minutes to go in the game on my television, I saw that I was cutting it close on being on time to Pizza Roma. The Habs were down by five goals, though, so despite my interest in sticking to the bitter end, I put down my first drink of the day and wandered down to the garage to drive over to Ballston.

The winter was not kind to our streets. I know the County intends to build a half-billion dollar trolley down on Columbia Pike that will do nothing for us in North Arlington, but I really wish they would allocate some of that money on fixing the pot holes that the Spring heave opened up to hinder my progress over to Willow during the week.

We are bike friendly here, so the streets are quite narrow now that the assertive bike lanes and curb-parking for the rental apartments and there is no alternative but to run right into the nasty holes. That might have got my front right tire last week- I don’t know.

I do know that the active hostility to motorists is one of the prime irritants in an otherwise militantly inoffensive municipality. I was surprised to see that some road repair was in progress on the weekend, and Henderson was closed to traffic.

I veered left on 4th to Carlin Springs, which tees into North Glebe at the world’s lamest mall and went left, intending to swerve right on Wilson to take Taylor up to Fairfax Drive and look for a place to park.

I was in the process of activating the turn-signal at Wilson when I saw Jon-without crossing the intersection. He was well turned out, as always, but in a white collared knit shirt, madras shorts, white socks and loafers. I rolled down the window and said: “Hey, Governor! Where you going?”

Jon-without looked at me affably. “Going downtown. TLB is engaged in some family business in Maryland, and I am at liberty this afternoon for a cocktail.”

“Just where I am headed. Going to meet Jim at not-Willow.”

“Where might not-Willow be?”

“Across from the Metro station- why don’t you come along? We don’t see enough of each other these days.”

He laughed and climbed into the passenger’s side as a motorist behind us helpfully leaned on the horn. We found a place to park at the curb almost directly in front of the bar. I was feeding a credit card into the parking kiosk when Jim called on the cell to say that the Pizza place was closed when he walked by and he was already at the bar.

I assured him he would be joined within the minute, and when the kiosk printed out my ticket I slipped on the dashboard and locked up the car and we entered The First Down. Televisions were affixed to nearly all the flat surfaces behind the bar and over the coat rack, mostly displaying Major League Baseball.

Jim was at exactly the same place at the corner of the bar that he occupies at Willow, and there were two places next to him, though the rest of the bar was lined with customers- a cute couple immediately to his right, which would have been my seat at Willow, and a very drunk Hispanic man, and some preppy types beyond.

Jim had ordered the three-slider plate, and we fortified ourselves with vodka and tonics from Trey the bartender, and introductions were made all around. “Did you see that the Canadiens got shelled in game one?”

The cute couple grimaced- it turned out they were from Greater Plattsburg in Upstate New York, which is one of the places Jon-without hails from, and that led to a discussion of traveling in Canada, and the fact that the guy had gone to McGill University in Montreal, and I had grown up in Detroit, a little town north of Canada, and from there it turned out that everyone at the bar (except Jose) hailed from an Original Six town from the NHL.

Bruins, Blackhawks, Canadians, Rangers and Red Wings were all represented at the bar, and five out of six isn’t bad. There was some general merriment, and the then the hockey crowd turned over to baseball fans, and two imposing African American ladies in full Redskins regalia appeared next to Jim, and watched baseball stoically.

Jon-without requested the Yankees game be played on the big screen in front of us, which caused several of us to shout out that we hated the damn Yankees, but Jon was brooking no opposition. We all became Pirates fans at that moment, at least situationally, and the drinks flowed as I marveled at being in a bar that wasn’t Willow.

It was fun- Trey’s shift came and went, and Anthony relieved him, and eventually there came a moment when it seemed like it might be time to cut from baseball to horse racing, and Anthony was kind enough to accommodate us. The bar filled up to near full as post time neared country music was blasting on the jukebox and the three trumpeters mutely sounded the call to post.

“So if California Chrome is a 1-2 favorite, you have to spend two bucks to win one? What’s up with that?”

At exactly 6:20 they managed to stuff the pretty ponies into the starting gate, and with the sound turned off we could not hear the bell, but the gates flew open and the two most interesting minutes in sports was on.

Despite the size of the television, I could not tell who was who, but the whole thing was colorful enough. The first six furlongs took just over a minute, and Victor Espinoza on California Chrome went for the lead as Social Inclusion made an early move entering the far turn. Chrome opened up a three-length lead at the top of the stretch and held off a late charge by Ride On Curlin.

I looked over at Jon-without and Jim. “Two minutes” I said. “That is all it took. And two legs toward the Triple Crown”

Jim looked at me phlegmatically. “Last time a horse did it was 1978, Affirmed, with Steve Cauthen up.”

“I remember him,” said Jon-without. “He was a gentleman from Kentucky.”

“And sportsman of the year in Sports Illustrated. Been a while since a jockey did that.”

“Pressure is going to be on. Can you imagine?”

“The Belmont Stakes is a mile and a half long. That means there is exactly two minutes and thirty seconds until we know.”

“But not today,” I said, looking at the level of the clear liquid in the glass in front of me. “How many more sports can we do today?”

“I think men’s lacrosse is coming up next,” said Jon-without, and he settled in to get comfortable. “That takes more than a couple minutes.”

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303