Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

It's the greatest basketball night of the year: Bulls-Lakers, March Madness, and the state high school boys championship game. All on TV at the same time. Free TV, too. Not cable. Even I can watch. Is life good, or what?

I'm flipping from game to game to game. Texas is beating Duke. Good. Can't stand Duke. Coach is a Republican -- `nuff said right there. And Chicago's Whitney Young High School is beating Waukegan High School. Go, Chi. Best of all, my Bulls are trouncing the Lakers -- up sixteen. That's double good cause, one, I love the Bulls, and, two, I can't stand the Lakers.

My Wife's out of town, so I get to clap as loud as I can for every Bulls rebound, bucket, steal and blocked shot.

My Younger Daughter and her friend, Brazil, sit at the computer, heads together, giggling. Oblivious to me and my noise.

Then it flips. Texas falls behind. Waukegan catches up. Worse, the Lakers catch fire.

I gotta talk about it -- can't get through this alone. I call my bowling buddy Norm. He doesn't pick up. Must be working. Call Johnny, the Black Forest Gump. He's driving to work -- can't talk.

The Bulls fall behind by seven. I can't bare to watch. I go back to the high school game. Young up seven. I sneak a look back at the Bulls. They're down 12. Back to high school. But I can't get into the game cause I'm too worried about the Bulls. I'm wondering: What's the score? Maybe they're on a roll? Maybe they've taken the lead! I start to change back to the game. I stop. No, I need a new approach -- something to change the Bulls luck. I know! I'll check the score on my computer. That might turn things around, like the game's outcome is, you know, predicated on how I follow it.

This theory, by the way, is not as nutty as it sounds. During the first great Bulls playoff run of the early 1990s, Big Mike, my dear friend and writing partner, used to leave the room to walk around the block during testy moments of close games. More than once, his walks ignited come backs by the Bulls. After awhile, we wouldn't even wait for him to leave. We'd just look at him and he knew: Time to walk. In an other example -- this one back in 1989 -- my neighbor, Janet, wandered into my house while a bunch of us were watching a Bulls-Pistons playoff game. When she took a seat at the far eastern corner of my couch, the Bulls were down about 15. Soon thereafter, they rallied and cut the lead to one. Oblivious to the game, much less her role in it, Janet rose to leave with less than a minute left to, and I'm not making this up, work in her garden. Oh, no you don't, we chorused -- you're the reason the Bulls came back. We made her sit in that same far eastern corner of the couch until the game was over -- won, as I recall, on a Michael Jordan bank shot.

So, anyway, I run up stairs and turn on my computer, hoping that I will be rewarded with good news. But, no. Bulls down 14. It didn't work.

I return to the TV and watch the high school game. The camera shows the cheerleaders. I see Taaj, Johnny's daughter. I call Johnny to break the news.

"Your daughter's getting more TV time than Oprah," I tell him.

He cracks up. "That's a good one...."

We hang up. I race upstairs to check the computer. Damn! Bulls lost. I call Norm. No answer. I leave a message: "I can't stand the Lakers. Can't stand their players, coaches, owner, stadium -- nothing. I don't even like their uniforms!"

I hang up. I watch the high school game. A few minutes pass. This is how desperate I am for some basketball conversation: "Yo, Ray; Zilly," I call out to my daughter and her friend. "C'mon watch your school win the state championship...."

To my utter astonishment, they leave the computer to watch the final moments -- a dunk, a steal, some free throws. The buzzer sounds. As Whitney Young's players pour on the court in jubilation, the camera shows the cheerleaders.

"Oh, my God," says my daughter. "It's Taaj...."

I repeat my killer line: "That girl's getting more TV time than Oprah...."

Total bomb. They ignore me.

The Young team lines up to get their first-place medals. Dr. Kenner, the school's principal, hands them out.

"Okay, Dr. Kenner," says my daughter. "I see you...."

The team manager steps up. "Oh, my God," says Brazil. "It's Preston...."

"That boy is too thirsty to get his medal," says my daughter.

The star scorer gets his medal. "That's the boy who keeps texting my sister," says Brazil.

"For real?" says my daughter.

"For real...."

Another player gets his medal. "Ugh, he's funny looking," says Brazil.

"Some of the girls think he's cute," I offer, eager to participate in the conversation.

"Not me," says Brazil.

She points to the next kid in line and says: "Now he's cute...."

"He's so obnoxious," says my daughter. "He's so full of himself...."

"I know, but he's cute," says Brazil.

One boy leans in to kiss the principal on her cheek, but she's looking the other way. And he backs away without a kiss.

"Ooh, treated," says my daughter.

When they finish giving out the medals, the girls go back to the computer. I put on my coat and hat and grab the leash. "I'm gonna walk the dog," I tell them.

They got their heads together and they're giggling. I wait for them to say something to me, but they don't. So I clip the leash to the dog's collar, step out of the house, pull out my phone and give Johnny another call. I figure we got another fifteen minutes of basketball to talk about -- at least.