On Sunday, I went to the Red Zone in Bakersfield to watch football.
The Red Zone is the kind of sports bar where every available section of wall has been assigned a television, a beer sign, or an object that requires someone behind the bar to explain it.
It has pretty good food. I do suspect the cook was probably thinking, “I’ll show this Vegas city boy what HOT is… CALIENTE Motherfu….!!!!”
While talking with the bartender, the subject somehow turned to cranberry White Claw and whether it could be considered preventative medicine for a urinary tract infection.
Cranberry is good for UTIs.
White Claw makes cranberry.
Therefore, cranberry White Claw is medicine.
That is how health science works inside a sports bar.
It also raised an important seasonal question: When are they going to make Pumpkin Spice White Claw?
Every other product in America becomes pumpkin spice by September. Coffee. Cookies. Candles. Dog treats. Products that should never have been invited to participate.
White Claw remains mysteriously excluded.
Maybe it needs Trader Joe’s approval.
Pumpkin Spice White Claw would taste like someone dropped a cinnamon stick into carbonated drywall, but that has never stopped autumn before.
This was the conversation I was having when I noticed a metal flask sitting above the bar.
There was a man’s face engraved on it.
His name was Michael Urioste.
Michael was a customer at the Red Zone. He died in 2020, and the people who knew him had his face engraved on a flask and placed it behind the bar.
That is a legacy.
Most of us spend our lives wondering whether we will be remembered. Michael does not have that problem.
He is still at the Red Zone.
He does not have to order anything. His heat tolerance will never be tested. He never has to close out his tab. He does not have to wait for a television to become available or politely ask whether someone can change one of the screens to his game.
He sits above the bar and watches everyone else get drunk.
Forever.
This should be a goal.
Live the kind of life that makes people want to engrave your face on a flask.
Not a plaque.
Plaques are for donors, retired principals, and people who successfully completed municipal infrastructure projects.
A flask means something different.
A flask says you were here. You were probably here often. People noticed when you stopped coming.
And instead of allowing your seat at the bar to become just another seat, they turned you into permanent drinkware and put you back where you belonged.
There are many ways to measure a life.
Career accomplishments.
Family.
Community service.
Whether the bartender believes your face belongs on something designed to conceal several ounces of liquor inside a jacket.
That last one feels unusually honest.
The flask sits among bottles, bobbleheads, and the accumulated evidence of other people’s Sundays. Nobody placed it beneath solemn lighting or behind museum glass.
It is simply part of the bar.
Still watching.
Still among friends.
Still seeing every football game without paying for Sunday Ticket.
Michael beat the system.
So live well. Be generous. Tip properly. Remember people’s names.
Become the kind of regular whose absence leaves enough of a hole that somebody eventually says:
“We should engrave his face on a flask.”
Then you will know you did it correctly.
Yesterday’s Autopsy
Yesterday’s mandatory one-pick California card went 1-0.
The Kansas City Chiefs -2.5 beat the Denver Broncos 31-10.
We needed Kansas City to win by three.
It won by twenty-one.
The Horsey rolled over and let Taylor Swift tickle its belly
Patrick Mahomes returned at Arrowhead and apparently found considerably more than the minimum amount of magic in that old hat Taylor Swift found.
After spending an entire column discussing restraint, regulatory limitations, and our lack of access to additional bad decisions, we produced the least stressful result of the trip.
Kansas City handled the assignment early enough that I did not need to calculate possessions, reconsider the offensive line or begin negotiating with a divisional-game god who has never previously answered my correspondence.
One game.
One pick.
One winner.
Perhaps California should supervise this operation more often.
The Giant Scoreboard
ALL SPORTS: 1,070-1,089-7 (19 away from being .500)
TENNIS: 1-1
Who the hell bets on tennis?
Today’s Picks
We are leaving the protection of California and immediately expanding from one pick to four.
The regulatory restraint was effective.
It was also temporary.
We begin with the Brewers moneyline, currently around -118.
Milwaukee offers the strongest combination of matchup, starting pitching, and reasonable price on today’s board. We are not receiving a bargain, but we are also not being asked to finance stadium improvements.
Next, we’re taking the Phillies -1.5 at approximately -125.
Philadelphia is expensive on the moneyline, so we are accepting the additional responsibility of a two-run victory in exchange for a price that still resembles a normal wager.
This is how gambling turns basic arithmetic into a contractual obligation.
The Dodgers -1.5 enter around -142.
That is approaching the upper end of what we should pay for a run line, but Los Angeles has the offensive advantage and the ability to turn a close game into something administratively complete in one inning.
It also has the ability to strand eleven runners and make me stare silently at the television.
Both versions remain available.
Finally, we’re taking the Rays -1.5 at approximately -105.
Tampa Bay gets the lowest confidence position on the card, which is still considerably more confidence than should be granted to any organization voluntarily associated with us.
The Four
Brewers ML
Phillies -1.5
Dodgers -1.5
Rays -1.5
Four games. Four picks. No anchors. No California supervision.
Yesterday, one pick was enough.
Today, success and geographical location have restored access to additional bad decisions.
If everything wins, perhaps someone will engrave the card on a flask. If everything loses, put my face on it instead.
I’ll be above the bar.
Watching everybody drink.
Possibly treating a UTI with cranberry White Claw while waiting for pumpkin spice season.
Bad Picks. Better Stories.
This isn’t called Pick What I Pick.
It’s called Don’t Pick What I Pick.
Please wager accordingly.
