The Summer League Diaries – Part 1

The first thing I notice about Las Vegas isn’t the lights, although they’re bright, or the heat, although its 120 degrees — it’s the noise. The incessant jangling of slots, the music thumping from invisible speakers, and the din of excited conversation. Not only was this my first trip to NBA Summer League; it was my first trip to Vegas ever.

It’s July 11th, I’ve just landed flying in from Pittsburgh by way of Denver. As my silent cab driver drops me off at Planet Hollywood, I’m officially in Las Vegas. If you know nothing about me, which I imagine is almost everyone reading this, this trip wasn’t just about going to Summer League. It was also about meeting with my podcast co-hosts from our pod First to the Floor. I think one differentiating factor of our show separating it amongst the plethora of Celtics and basketball pods, is that we do it from opposite corners of the world, none of which are Boston, or even New England. I’m stationed in West Virginia, while Ben and Jake are Australians. And they aren’t just “from” Australia. They currently live there.

Suffice to say, we don’t get a lot of opportunities to meet, even Ben and Jake live in different parts of Australia (apparently, they have states too, who knew?). In fact, I’d only ever met Ben in person once, when we went to the 2022 NBA Finals together, and Jake I’d never met. There’s a unique feeling that comes with meeting two people in-person that you’ve spoken to endlessly over the internet. A giddy excitement to see two people that I would consider very good friends at this point, mixed with a tinge of anxiety around seeing them in 3 dimensions instead of 2. I never thought a highlight of my 37th year on Earth would be meeting my internet friends, but welcome to 2024.

After I drop my bags off at my hotel room (incurring a $28.00 early check-in fee, welcome to Vegas), I start the search for somewhere to wait. Ben’s just landed after a 20+ hour journey and needs time to gather himself before meeting with me. Jake’s due to land around 6 pm. It’s this set of circumstances that leads me to Cabo Wabo.

Apparently, Cabo Wabo is a tequila brand. The bar feels like somewhere sunburned middle-aged folks would congregate at Myrtle Beach, a scene I’m not unfamiliar with. The bartender is pierced and tattooed, chatty, but not overly. We bond over mouthing the lyrics to Rage Against the Machine’s “Guerilla Radio” at the same time, a head nod of respect.