It's difficult to describe the NBA All-Star experience in the city of sin. Forgive me if I piggyback off the words of another All-Star survivor, but I'm still speechless.
Bill Simmons sums it up well:
"LAS VEGAS -- Remember those parties in college when a drunk guy inadvertently kicked over the host's bong and spilled bong water onto the rug, only he never cleaned up the resulting mess, so the skunky water festered while the host of the party was passed out? And then, the following morning, the host awakened to a room that smelled like a cross between a stale bong and the seventh circle of hell?
That's what downtown Las Vegas smelled like on Sunday night. After four nights of what will eventually be remembered as the Hip-Hop Woodstock, the atrociously sloppy NBA All-Star Game made complete sense. You can't blame the groggy players for shattering the record of "Most Botched Alley-Oop Passes in a Single Exhibition Game." They were still battling a severe retroactive contact high. Hell, I'm battling it right now. The original text of the previous sentence looked like this: "Wrhrhrh jdkdlehj fgfjslelfhfhf sgfhgfkdldhjsd fjg agshshsk ahdjdkdksh Contact High."
What a strange weekend. There was gambling and partying and Vegas and basketball -- four of my favorite things -- with a fashion convention and Chinese New Year happening as well, which meant Vegas was throwing three blockbuster weekends at once. There were so many big-time celebrities in town, a rumored Michael Jackson cameo came and went without a single shrug. So many parties happened that it was impossible to keep track of everything. Unfortunately, the stifling gridlock made it impossible to hit multiple events in one night unless you could afford a limo or helicopter (or were robbing someone who could afford a limo or helicopter). So many gangbangers and troublemakers flooded the Strip that late-night gamblers willingly chose 75-minute cab lines over a 15-minute walk to their next casino. So many wild stories floated around about shootings, robberies and everything else that we never knew what to believe; still, every tale seemed reasonable because there were no cops to be seen. On Saturday night, one of my friends even joked that the city might have to declare martial law, only none of us laughed because we didn't realize he was joking.
I'm telling you, this was a f***ing free-for-all. This was every man for himself. This was Hunter S. Thompson's dream sports weekend. This was Vegas on steroids. This was Vegas' impression of Barry Bonds during spring training in 1998, only if he reeked like stale bong water. And now that it's over, I'm relieved that we finished the weekend without a single riot, that I made it home alive, that I'm still married, that I still have my wallet, that I spent 15 hours playing blackjack in each of four consecutive days and escaped dead-even, that I'm coherent enough to write with the stale smell of weed still trapped in my nostril hairs and my body battling the effects of 72 hours without a single REM cycle. Say what you want about the Hip-Hop Woodstock, but it was definitely memorable. Then again, so is an appendectomy."
For the full article: http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/070220
At the T-Mobile Rookie Challenge & Youth Jam where we brought in 6,000 kids to watch the game from the best seats in the house.
These few pics don't do the nine days I spent in Las Vegas justice. I went to more dinners and war rooms and games and events and parties and clubs than I care to remember. I averaged 4-5 hours of sleep each night, mainly because I worked 16 hour days, then blew off steam by staying out all night. I've never had more hotel food or coffee in my life. This was worse than cramming for that make-or-break final exam in college, worse than those all-nighters writing papers; this was a marathon exercise in endurance and will-power, and it was memorable to say the least.
That is, of course, except for the NBA All-Star game. I couldn't tell you what I thought of the All-Star game, because I was lulled into slumber by the dull sighs of the hungover crowd and lackluster showcase of athleticism...(those fumbling, tripping fools...). Another sportswriter summed up the All Star game as, "Finally a reason for the weary city to yawn." HEAR HEAR!
Hopefully these small specks of detail I'm flicking your way help paint the full picture of how truly f-ed up the entire city got during this long weekend. I'm purposely leaving out the pictures of those sleepless, stressful days and nights. No one wants to see a cranky, overworked, partied out team of disgruntled, exhausted, All-Star survivors. Besides.....what happens at NBA All-Star in Las Vegas, stays at NBA All-Star in Las Vegas.
GO BIG OR GO HOME!
