1. "Oh, we have a million things going on. First we have to, and then we have to to, and we have to get back in time to, and then Levi has to, and we have to take Haley..."
2. "Not much. I'm so exhausted, I can't wait to just stay home for once."
In either case, Mark will smugly reply, "I guess I'll just give away these Jazz tickets." Then he'll sit back and enjoy the show while I back-pedal, "Oh no! I'm sure we can work something out!"
Earlier this week he was able to score tickets to last night's game--Jazz versus San Antonio Spurs-- enough for Mark and me, Levi and a buddy, some of our favorite neighbors, and the entire teachers' quorum.
We love the Utah Jazz. The always-a bridesmaid team that's never won a championship but almost always makes the playoffs. The team that's all heart and hustle--no ball-hogging or show-boating. The team that's a team, not a star with sidekicks. And we love to hate the Spurs, in those snooty black jerseys. We even love our de rigeur nose-bleed seats up against the back wall.
The Jazz were behind for most of the game, but they held on. Mark and I (with Levi and our friends) snuck down to better seats while Logan and his buds stayed up in the nose-bleeds. As the famously raucous crowd roared the start of the fourth quarter, I looked up on the Jumbotron to see....Logan! My son shaking it gangman-style for all the world to see.
I feel can die happy knowing that Logan has fulfilled his destiny by being broadcast, larger-than life, being crazy, in front of thousands.
Then, with one second left, the score tied, this happened:
This video fails to capture the absolute tsunami of sound crashed across the room.
In a Jazz-love side note, Mo Williams had missed a three-point shot just moments earlier. But "Instead of getting grief from his coach, Williams got another green light. "Coach told me don't worry about it. You'll make the next one," Williams said." And he did.
*sigh* We love you, Jazz.