The Bay Area survives through crimson, gold, Too Short and one deeply unwell speaker.
The Riff
The bar I like to frequent has become a San Francisco 49ers bar.
This was not a gradual transition.
One day it was a regular neighborhood bar with beer, televisions and the quiet understanding that everyone was there to avoid accomplishing something. The next day, crimson and gold had spread across every available surface like the bar had been annexed by the Bay Area.
Flags on the walls. Banners over the televisions. Jerseys hanging everywhere. On game day, you no longer walk into the bar.
You enter 49ers territory.
San Francisco fans are a unique breed. They consider themselves more intellectual than other football fans, which may be true. Most fans simply scream, “RUN THE BALL!”
A 49ers fan screams, “RUN THE BALL!” and then immediately checks his phone for a statistic proving it would have been the analytically correct decision.
They do not merely disagree with the coach.
They arrive with supporting documentation.
Kyle Shanahan can spend the entire week studying film, meeting with coordinators, building a game plan around personnel groupings and playing bumper cars. But somewhere in Las Vegas, a man sitting on a bar stool has opened an app and discovered that Christian McCaffrey averages 5.2 yards per carry on second-and-seven when Mercury is in retrograde.
The phone goes up.
The glasses come down.
“Shanahan is overthinking this.”
This analysis is then delivered to a television mounted twelve feet away, which has yet to acknowledge any of the previous recommendations.
The bar has also hired a DJ for 49ers games.
“DJ” may be overstating the technical nature of the position.
She is a middle-aged woman wearing enough gold chains to be appointed regional manager of a midlevel record label in 1987. She arrives with one speaker and a playlist consisting largely of Too Short and other Bay Area artists.
There is no mixing.
One song almost ends.
Another song almost begins.
It’s like a train wreck without the trains.
This is less DJing and more operating the auxiliary cord with confidence.
The speaker also has a problem.
Every few seconds, it produces a low distorted burst that makes it sound as though Too Short is being accompanied by an occasional fart.
The beat drops.
The bass hits.
Then somewhere inside the speaker:
Pfffft.
Nobody reacts.
Perhaps this is part of the Bay Area sound and I am not culturally sophisticated enough to understand it.
I lived there. I don’t remember that.
However, I did unleash a few unearthly ones after eating at Flint’s Barbecue in Oakland.
Flint’s was on Shattuck Avenue and operated like the Soup Nazi of barbecue restaurants. You did not casually approach the counter and begin exploring your options.
You arrived prepared.
The first time I went, I made the mistake of reaching the counter without knowing exactly what I wanted. The woman looked at me and said:
“Hey, you. Back of the line.”
There was no appeal process.
I returned to the end of the line, reviewed the menu and reconsidered the series of decisions that had brought me there. By the time I reached the counter again, I was ready to deliver my order with the speed and confidence of someone defusing a bomb.
The meat was cooked inside a large brick thingy.
That may not be the official culinary term, but this was not a place where you asked unnecessary questions.
A man would reach deep inside it with a very long pole, retrieve whatever piece of meat you had successfully ordered and bring it to the counter. Then he would cut it dramatically in front of you with a butcher knife large enough to settle a property dispute.
Flint’s offered three barbecue sauces.
Mild.
Medium.
And what we called WILL TAKE THE PAINT OFF THE WALLS.
The third sauce didn’t complement the meat as much as challenge your central nervous system. It was delicious, painful and capable of producing consequences that could not be contained by a properly functioning speaker.
Flint’s is gone now.
RIP.
I miss it—not just the food, but the entire environment. The line. The pressure. The brick thingy. The long pole. The possibility of being publicly demoted for hesitating near the counter.
Some food is tied to a place so completely that you cannot recreate it somewhere else. You could make the same barbecue, use the same sauce and hand me the same giant butcher knife, but without the woman ordering me to the back of the line, it wouldn’t taste right.
Maybe the broken speaker at the 49ers bar is not malfunctioning.
Maybe it remembers Flint’s too.
The 49ers gain four yards.
Pfffft.
A fan looks at his phone.
“Actually, their success rate out of 21 personnel is twelve percent higher when they use pre-snap motion.”
Pfffft.
The DJ reaches toward her equipment, which suggests she may be preparing to fix the problem. Instead, she selects another Too Short song.
This continues throughout the game.
“Blow the Whistle.”
Football.
Statistics.
Gold chains.
Intermittent speaker flatulence.
It creates an atmosphere you can’t replicate anywhere else, though several failing car stereos and one extinct Oakland barbecue restaurant have come close.
Tonight, the 49ers play the Rams in Australia, which means the bar will be operating at full intellectual capacity. San Francisco arrived more than a week early to adjust to the time difference. The Rams arrived roughly one day before the game because they apparently believe sleep science can defeat geography.
Naturally, we’re taking the 49ers +3.5.
This means I might be surrounded by San Francisco fans while financially aligned with their interests, a dangerous arrangement that may result in temporary acceptance.
I watched the Patriots lose there last night, so I’m not sure I’m ready to return unless I can find my MC Hammer parachute pants.
If I’m going back into 49ers territory, I should at least respect the dress code.
If the 49ers cover, everyone will celebrate.
If they lose by three, I will celebrate slightly differently and probably keep that information to myself.
I do not need an entire bar turning toward me while one hundred people simultaneously check their phones for the statistical definition of betrayal.
I will simply nod, raise my drink and enjoy the music.
Pfffft.
Yesterday’s Autopsy
Yesterday went 3-1, which is dangerously close to suggesting we know what we’re doing.
The Patriots +3.5 covered in a 13-10 loss to Seattle.
The Patriots lost.
The Patriots pick won.
This is what responsible fandom looks like, and I hate it.
New England kept the game close enough to reward our restraint, which means taking the points instead of the moneyline was technically the correct decision. Please do not expect this maturity to become a recurring feature.
The Cardinals moneyline lost 7-6 after carrying a 6-1 lead into the eighth inning.
St. Louis was five outs away from winning when San Francisco scored six runs, all with two outs. This was less a bullpen collapse and more the destruction of evidence.
The Cardinals did not merely lose the game.
They waited until we felt safe.
Then the Yankees -1.5 won 6-1. New York handled the Rockies without requiring negotiations, emergency relief pitching or a handwritten apology from the ninth inning.
Finally, the Dodgers -1.5 won 14-1.
After spending two consecutive days winning by exactly one run, Los Angeles finally located the extra run.
Then they found twelve more.
Apparently, the Dodgers had been storing them.
Three winners. One loser.
The round robin produced three winning pairs, and the Cardinals will be questioned separately about what happened in the eighth inning.
The Giant Scoreboard
ALL SPORTS: 1,057-1,081-7
TENNIS: 1-1
Who the hell bets on tennis?
Today’s Picks
Today’s card begins in Australia with the 49ers +3.5 against the Rams.
San Francisco arrived more than a week early to acclimate. Los Angeles arrived just over a day before kickoff while attempting to maintain its American body clock, which feels ambitious when the game is being played approximately tomorrow.
The sportsbooks do not appear impressed by the travel disparity. The Rams remain favored by three and a half.
That is fine.
We will take the points and trust that geography eventually notices what has happened.
Nick Bosa expects to play, George Kittle has made the trip and the half point gives us protection if the 49ers lose by a field goal.
It also gives me something to quietly celebrate at the bar while everyone else begins constructing a statistical case against Kyle Shanahan.
Next, we’re taking the Rays moneyline behind Nick Martinez against Martin Perez.
Martinez enters at 14-4 with a 3.04 ERA, while Perez is 8-9 with a 3.25 ERA. Tampa Bay has also gone 47-25 on the road, apparently finding other people’s ballparks more relaxing than its own.
At roughly even money, we do not need the Rays to demonstrate dominance.
We simply need them to score one more run than the other team, a modest request that baseball has repeatedly treated as unreasonable.
The Phillies -1.5 make the card behind Zack Wheeler against Cristian Javier.
Wheeler enters at 12-5 with a 3.23 ERA. Javier is 2-5 with a 5.98 ERA, which creates the kind of starting-pitching gap that attracts our attention and immediately makes us suspicious of how easy everything looks.
Philadelphia’s moneyline is hovering near -200.
That is not a price.
That is a warning label.
We move to the run line and ask the Phillies to win with paperwork.
Finally, we’re taking the Yankees -1.5 for the third consecutive day because apparently repeated success is the fastest way to eliminate whatever restraint I had left.
Max Fried brings a 2.73 ERA against Ryan Feltner and his 5.91. The Yankees’ moneyline has reached approximately -330, which means the sportsbook would like us to risk a functioning automobile for the opportunity to win a moderately priced toaster.
We decline.
The run line has covered twice in this series, and we are climbing back onto it before anyone can explain regression to us.
49ers +3.5
Rays ML
Phillies -1.5
Yankees -1.5
Four picks. One round robin. No ceremonial fifth.
The 49ers are not on the card because I want to fit in at the bar.
That would require gold chains, intellectual confidence and a working knowledge of Christian McCaffrey’s production during unusual astrological conditions.
I only have the parachute pants.
Bad Picks. Better Stories.
This isn’t called Pick What I Pick.
It’s called Don’t Pick What I Pick.
Please wager accordingly.
Pfffft.
