The drive up to the wooded house on this Saturday afternoon couldn’t have been any more tranquil and unknowingly not an indicator of what was to come. I was already excited to tell the homeowner what a nice drive it was to his hideout after a long day of work in the steamy Arkansas River Valley. (He later slurs to tell me that it’s even better when they get lucky and it ices or snows. I am right there with you!)
The Arkansas River was in view behind us a couple of miles away as we drove in the red SUV up the mountain. Who’s driving back tonight? I asked as we teetered up the hill. Guess whoever drinks the least was the common reply.
The Final Four games would be tipping off soon from the desert in Phoenix and James has a 70 inch TV I’ve been told. North Carolina was the only traditional basketball school in the semifinals and they were the least interesting to me. The Gonzaga Zig Zags, South Carolina Cocks, and the Oregon Ducks had the better stories.
Luckily plenty of parking was available in the yard, as the party had begun well before we made it. The hillbillies god bless them like to day drink much like this professional journalist who does his best work buzzed in the daylight. The smell of cigarettes and cheap beer lofted in the air as we approached the party deck.
I said hello to everyone, introduced myself to any strangers and eyed what drink I could offer to help dispose of later in the night when everyone was in a happy stupor and I was just beginning my ascent. I opened the door to the house and let myself breeze over to the kitchen counters to check the bark on the brisket. We may have been late to the drinking but right on time as the meat was getting sliced.
The Zig Zags and Cocks had just started their game and the Polish center for Gonzaga had in one play missed a short jumper, got the miss only to have his dunk attempt rejected by a 5 foot 6 guard and somehow the ball bounced in with no help from either player. This game was early, BBQ and bourbon called my name and I saw a spot on the deck that had a clear view of the TV from the windows.
Then the amps got turned on. There was already music being played but a microphone, a Fender guitar, an electric bass, and this cat with a pocket full of harmonicas was about to rambunctiously join in. I was excited and kept getting asked if I was going to sing. I said give me a couple of more beers and I’ll play a little something on the guitar. I wasn’t going to get out of this one tonight.
I brought a six pack of Ozark Beer Co.’s APA out of Rogers not to far from my compound on Beaver Lake. Fellow partygoers of all ages liked the design on my beer but didn’t recognize it, as it wasn’t Miller, Busch, or Natty etc. Only among a bunch of rednecks will a $7.99 six-pack be fancy. I was hoping in an hour or two my six-pack would be done with and I could move on to theirs.
At my table the lady beside me kept passing me shots of Jim Beam Red Stag, her new favorite, as it doesn’t have carbs she says. What a hoot of a reason as any to switch from wine to whiskey! I can’t complain as she was only filling me up with brown liquor to get me to pick the guitar for her family.
Uncle Carlos, a badass now in his 80’s once robbed a bank and is the one calling me over to relieve him on the six string. His wife is celebrating a birthday today, requesting countless Bob Seger songs. I’m hoping they have ran through his repertoire by the time I mosey on over to the corner of the deck.
By my fifth shot it is time to go on stage. This party needs some Creedence Clearwater Revival and I tell the rest of the hillbilly band to get ready for some Proud Mary; and not Tina Turner’s version! They smile like they’ve been waiting on this all night. I might earn a smoke break out back by the trucks, Bobby the harmonica player whispers to me. Bobby may have just hit the right chord.
After Proud Mary, Folsom Prison, and an impromptu blues jam, it was time to let Carlos have his seat back and I needed to check the score of the game. By this time Gonzaga had been edged out by South Carolina by 4 and the last semifinal game would start soon after the talking heads wasted everybody’s mental capacity that wasn’t lucky enough to be at this party; I was currently stumbling around at.
The Oregon-North Carolina game had its chance to grab America’s attention, or at least my attention, but I needed action and the slow pace of the first half would seal the deal for this party’s interaction with the game as it was time to pick a few Elvis and Charlie Daniels’ songs on the deck.
The Final Four is a special event in America. It’s the first big sporting event after the Super Bowl that people can rally behind. However, Spring has begun to sprung in the South, the booze, and live unrehearsed rockabilly music would take center stage in these woods.
TD
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