Best place for the Jazz beat writer to spend a rare Saturday night off? At a Jazz game, of course
My oldest son, Ethan, sporting his No. 40 Junior Jazz jersey, enjoyed watching the game and thought it was cool when the other No. 40, Jeremy Evans, got a chance to play in the fourth quarter (admittedly, long after I thought we'd last).
He loved when DeMarre Carroll had a steal and slam, wondered why in the heck Cleveland's Kyrie Irving was wearing a mask (new Avenger!) and told me he wants a No. 20 jersey (presumably for Gordon Hayward, not Walter Bond or Quincy Lewis).
My daughter, Sydney, and son, Aidan, both clapped and cheered when the crowd did, even though they weren't quite sure what was going on, and were thoroughly entertained when Bear plastered fans with Silly String in the section next to ours (thankfully).
And Baby Jack? He somehow slept through it all — kinda like the Cavs after the second quarter.
My wife enjoyed chatting with behind-the-scenes Jazz employees I work with every day. She also got a good laugh by asking, "Now who's that?" after players passed us outside the pressroom following Utah's blowout win. (Apparently, Heather is too busy raising our family to read my articles or to watch Jazz games.)
The funniest interaction was with Al Jefferson.
Big Al often teases me about how I'm living it up on the road while my poor wife is left behind to take care of the newborn by herself — an inside joke that has Jefferson skyrocketing to the top of her all-time favorite players list, no doubt.
When the Jazz center walked by us after the game, Jefferson asked, "Is that your wife you take advantage of?" We all chuckled and, as he reached down to touch our baby, I retorted, "No. That's a different wife." (It's not, really.)
As Hayward saw my family while I showed them where I work, he joked about how my kids must've had something good to eat. Even an hour-and-a-half later, their pink-and-blue speckled faces had plenty of colorful and sticky evidence of a concession-stand purchase.
To that point, before writing this column Monday, I asked my three speaking children to describe their favorite part of the game.
No offense to the Jazz or Bear or the bucket-pounding drum players and tap dancers at halftime or to their favorite writer, but one by one, my kids each repeated the same answer.
In retrospect, it was also humorous when my editor, Kent Condon, walked by after the final buzzer and had a shocked smile on his face when he saw me at a Jazz game with my family.
"What in the heck are you doing here!?" he asked, incredulously.
It was a fair question. And I turned him down when he jokingly asked if I'd write a C.J. Miles sidebar story while I was there.
To my defense, where else in Salt Lake City sells cotton candy on a Saturday night?
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