Mojos arrived in Las Vegas in small groups this year.
Ron and Joe brought Jerry Channel and a bottle of Grand Marnier with
them on Thursday. Rick McCoy arrived like a Saudi prince with his
entire family and, rumor has it, a couple of very nice goats. Peter
and his wife snuck in on Wednesday. Glenn, Lisa, and Jim Hilliker
arrived like sensible folk on Friday early. Again, the jungle drum
gave word that Dr. Don might be with them. I can only attest to any
of this secondhand.
I joined Lyle, Sharon, Roddy and Joanne at one end
of PDX while Eric and Mattakazi took up positions at the other. It
was midday Friday and our goal was to race planes to LV. We'd staked
our hopes on Alaska and The Durable Duo were flying America's West.
When the dust settled on the tarmac in LV, it was a win for Eric and
Matt who'd arrived far enough ahead of us that they'd reached baggage
claim by the time we were sorting ourselves out. Without further ado
we called Glenn for transport while the two couples picked up a rental
vehicle of their own.
Dusk found us checking in at Tuscany Suites, Cellblock
N. By six pm, we were convened in the third floor and beginning to
carve out our strategy. But, putting first things first, we brought
the Juju in and ensconced it in a prime place under the corner
lamp.
Everyone was in agreement that food was going to
be needed soon. And alcohol. Some dispute existed as to which should
come first, but that was quickly resolved with the agreement to send
an expeditionary force consisting of everyone to the nearest Quickie
Mart or similar establishment. Each person had their own objectives.
Eric, for example, was killing a viral thing and prescribed bourbon
and red meat followed by sleep as his goal. Together we marched in
jolly procession to the nearest intersection where one could purchase
anything from massage to liquor. Having acquired a supply of chips
and beverages of various sorts, we marched in even more jolly procession
back again. Imbibing occasionally shortened our journey.
Upon our return to the "N"otorious block we found
that others of our crew were in the bar waiting our return. The MOJOS
home base was established in my room, and arrangements for dinner
were quickly put on the table. I cannot testify to what happened to
the crowd that headed with high spirits off to the Japanese restaurant
down the road a piece. I can only imagine, based on the photographic
evidence of Dr. Makande using chopsticks on a rather sizable fish,
that it was not a great display of manners. As manager, I was concerned
about my responsibility to 'sign in' at the Tournament HQ before 10
pm. I joined Eric and Mattakazi in the restaurant of the Tuscany Suites
which allegedly featured Tuscan cuisine. Other members of the crew
departed under the leadership of Glenn and Lisa to endeavor to learn
the use of chopsticks and the five secret names of sushi. Having dispatched
our various critter based meals, three of us set off for Harrah's
where team check-in was scheduled. Jim Hilliker had returned from
a initial foray into the heart of gaming and was ready to have a little
constitutional. So he, I and Mattakazi walked to registration, a pleasant
experience compared to the previous year. I actually got the "manager
tee shirt".
Meanwhile, back at Cellblock N, arrangements were
being made for more arrivals. Rock and Scott Denis and his wife Marty
were due in just before the witching hour. A fair amount of alcohol
was sacrificed in the effort to fuel preparation for the morning's
big event, the match against Shamrocks. But uncharacteristically early,
Mojos sauntered off to their various abodes with the goal a sleep
before battle.
Dawn came early. Glenn and others were up in the twilight
looking for breakfast. Those of us not so hearty were pouring coffee
into our gullets and hoping we had at least two shin pads in our possession.
Confusion crept in as we attempted to assemble. Some thought we were
gathering at the parking area, cellblock N. Some thought we were assembling
at the lobby so our far flung comrades could find us. Some, Rock for
example, were sure that someone was coming to get them... soon. The
confusion became apparent as the horde of Mojos wandered through the
grounds of the Tuscany Suites. Roy (who'd arrived before anyone and
was 'staying with a client') called in to ask our GPS location. Peter
checked in from his luxury suite somewhere on the Strip and left hurriedly
in search of the Jockey Club and Rock. The rest of us piled into a
menagerie of vehicles and began issuing conflicting directions to
the fabled fields of the Washington-Buffalo complex.
So it was that vehicle after vehicle pulled into the
parking area and its occupants were heard to say, "Is this it? We're
really gonna play on these fields? Man, these are good fields." In
numerical order, eight, level, sizable, well-marked, lit fields with
a cushioned artificial grass surface descended in lovely terraces
through this complex which put anything we'd seen in Portland to shame.
Our field lay glistening and chemical green under the morning sun.
A slight breeze gave a fresh character to the early day. Mojos began
running about on the field with balls. Coach Juju, ever attentive,
was placed on the penalty spot at one end of the field. With a slight
sense of uncertainty, players asked each other, "Is this really our
field?" in that it exceeded anything we'd ever seen in the tournament
before.
The answer, though, was clear at the far end of the
field where a cluster of green jerseyed Shamrocks were assembling.
We'd seen them before. We'd see them again. The appointed moment for
the start of our match came and went. No officials presented themselves
on the scene. Casting our gaze over the distant landscape, we saw
a cluster of Ref uniforms, where they were apparently being briefed
on the tournament or having a religious ceremony. After a few minutes,
our pair of officials arrived. And so the 2006 Tournament began!
What became apparent within minutes was that this
Shamrocks team was not the one we had faced the previous year. True
there were some familiar faces, but there were also big rangy guys
who looked like they'd graduated from their college soccer careers
in the early Nineties. Shamrocks moved the ball well- guick and organized
passing of the sort we always tell ourselves we should do. Our strategy
of beating them with control broke down pretty quickly. Fair enough,
we were assertive, but they welcomed our physical play with their
own. Eric, who'd asserted that he was going to 'own the goalmouth'
was very assertive, coming out fast and hard against the waves of
attack. In one instance, though, the ball got loose and ended up in
the net. In another, a hard shot just under bar slammed through his
fingers. Our counterattacks were mounted more as stabs into enemy
turf than campaigns and the Shamrock defense handled most of the play
without much difficulty. On the sidelines, unbeknownst to us, Coach
JuJu was steaming! By the end of the game, he was hardly visible behind
the window of the juju shrine. As we gathered up to take a post game
picture, we were shaking our heads over the four - nil result,
but good cheer was the dominant emotion: we had survived our first
game as the neo-Mojos and were determined that a brighter future lay
ahead.
The next important question was whether to return
to the Tuscany Suites or to seek out nourishment somewhere close by.
Various Mojo contingents chose different options. Rick McCoy had yet
more family members arriving and needed to return to home base. Glenn,
Lisa and others felt that finding breakfast or some similar sustenance
in the area was desirable. Team manager Porter believed that a quick
trip to a nearby store was desirable: supplies for Mojos Central being
a looming critical issue. Thus it was that I found myself wandering
the aisles of K-Mart and piling sodas, juices, waters, chips, and
similar items of quick refreshment in a cart driven by Scott Denis
and Rick McCoy. Rick's son's plane was arriving imminently and so
we scooted through the aisles. At the least, we were better prepared
for the next phase of Mojos in Vegas. Martha Stewart didn't make an
appearance.
Back at the Tuscany I packed away the supplies knowing
that there would be a gathering later. As the day wore on, it became
clear that the logistics of reassembling the Mojos at the field was
going to be challenging. Despite the challenges, the gold and black
trickled back to the venue in the warm sunlight of the early afternoon.
Around us, games were being won and lost as the tournament progressed.
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In the hard midday light, though we were treated to
a sight seldom seen by soccer players anywhere. Sam Imperati,
legendary counsel to the movers and shakers of the world, arrived
to bolster Mojos' ranks. Attired in his power outfit which included
delicate black fairy wings and a cap adorned with bumblebee antennae,
Sam blew the illusions of the tournament wide open. This was about
the best costume! Forget passing, shooting, and trapping. After making
his respects to the Juju, Sam led the Mojos in revving up for the
next match. Our opponents? The Mongols from Tucson were up
next. I kept asking myself how that made sense. Mongols? Tucson? Are
they trying to mess with us? There aint no Mongols in Tucson. And
indeed the team trotting onto the field in the warm afternoon sun
were not direct descendants of Ghengis Khan. They were, however, decent
soccer players.
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Playing again on a decent, level, well marked, artificial
turf field, Mojos put their best foot forward. And all the indicators
were that we could win this thing until the Mongols scored, and then
scored again on a penalty kick. Despite putting the ball in front
of goal more than once, Mojos couldn't bring the bacon home, and the
penalty sealed the deal. [two - nil, Mongols]
We'd played the first round of King Cup and come home
emptyhanded. As the long light began to settle over the city that
never sleeps, we beelined back toward Tuscany and the soothing elements
of the Las Vegas night. Time to lick our wounds and gird ourselves
for battle the next day. Oh....and to go out and have a super Mojos
Dinner.
(The Following Just Posted
3/16/06!)
There was, however, a slice of time before the trek to dinner was
made. Some of the Mojos, resourcefully, bulled their way into the
hot tub where, as was noted in photo documentation, they cavorted
with juvenile dolphins. Other members of the entourage were simply
overwhelmed with the challenge of gathering their entire clan in order
to journey to the meal. Based on serious consultations with the Juju
and the analysis of the configuration of several pairs of discarded
soccer shorts, Mojos had decided that returning to the legendary Blondies
Sports Bar, in the narrow avenues of the Aladdin Casino was the best
of all possible worlds.So it was that the Mojos
began to make their way, by car and other transport, to Blondies.
SATURDAY NIGHT Coach Juju was the most inventive
in terms of transport. Using his charm, he talked his way into the
front basket of a Segway operated by a woman who may have been an
off duty showgirl. Reservations for twenty some on Blondie's 'outdoor'
plaza had been made by Rick McCoy who'd actually gotten through on
the phone. In order to insure that we nailed down the seating, cars
were dispatched to reach the Aladdin early and confirm. Alas, late
afternoon traffic interfered and we arrived at the pub to find that
they'd voided the reservation because our entire party was not present
on time. Scott Denis and his wife, Marty, had gotten there with some
relatives. And Rock had arrived from the Jockey Club, but they'd only
managed to grab a single table. As Mojos began to gather with some
frustration, we took matters into our own hands and began commandeering
all the empty tables into a coherent row. Manager Dave sweet-talked
a quartet of Canadian students into shifting to another table. Shortly,
a single long table accommodated the rowdy soccer crew. Orders of
food and beverage were made, and an atmosphere appropriate to the
occasion fell over the crowd. It was an exciting scene. Across the
way from our seats, a daring family of contortionists were giving
periodic samples of their show. It included the lithe young female
member bending a bow with her feet in order to shoot a golden arrow
up into the rafters. Hundreds of tourists out for the night in Vegas
ambled past us. The crowd inside the pub and many on the plaza were
transfixed with the NFL game on the telly.
But that was not the only entertainment on the evening's
agenda. Dr. Don and Sam had pledged to strut their stuff on the dance
pole in the bar. Once most of us had fortified ourselves appropriately
for such a spectacle, they made their way just inside and, with Don
in the lead, climbed to the bar. Don's style seemed to be primarily
vertical and embellished with thrusting motions, while Sam was all
over the place, including Don. Their jaw dropping display took the
bar by storm and other patrons rushed the bar, sticking green bills
into Sam's available orifices....er pockets. Gleefully, Sam dismounted
and ran around the plaza waving his loot. We returned to our dinners.
And beer. Somehow a stack of Guinness cans was assembled at midtable...like
an Irish commentary on the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
