Charger Blackout Makes for a Dark Day

Lawrence Taylor and Harry Carson did this to us. They (a) let the air out of the balloon or (b) burst the bubble or (c) both. And so last Thursday came and went with tickets available to the Chargers’ game with the Washington Redskins.

Blackout. Ugh.

Thus, a relaxing Sunday afternoon would be not so relaxing. Dens and living rooms throughout San Diego County were emptied by folks in search of a satellite dish.

Folks like me.

Here I had a new television perched above the new bar and a new refrigerator filled with presumably new cold drinks. I was ready to spend the whole day with my shoes off, maybe venturing as far as the yard to do nothing more energetic than move the sprinkler.

No such luck.

“Where you going to watch the game?” a colleague asked.

My usual inclination is to visit the Beachcomber in South Mission. I care little for architectural masterpieces or even carpeting. An establishment need only offer a television set (or two), cool beverages and good fellowship. I knew the Beachcomber would meet my standards for football viewing, conversation and beverage.

I suggested this to my colleague, and he frowned.

“I have a better idea,” he said. “How about Rocky’s Balboa?”

I shrugged. It was fine with me. I had never been to the place, but I’ve always been one for expanding my cultural horizons.

I found Rocky’s in an alley off Balboa, perched atop a knoll between I-5 and Mission Bay Drive. There was no discernable parking, but a sign indicated a valet would do the deed. This service is rarely associated with places I patronize. This was not a plus.

Driving past Rocky’s and curving down a hill, I found a place to park under a freeway overpass. It was a hike back up the hill, but I knew my car would be cool when I returned. I presumed a valet could not make that assurance.

This idea of watching the game at Rocky’s Balboa hardly proved to be original. The place was jammed. It reminded me of a joke about a legendary saloon in Minneapolis: “No one goes there. . . . Too crowded.”

It was too early for the Chargers, so the televisions were all tuned to the Atlanta Falcon game. This seemed peculiar to me, since the Falcons play in the National Football Conference’s Ennui Division. I didn’t notice who they were playing, but the multitudes thundered each time the Falcons did something worthwhile.

After futilely searching for my chum, I discovered there was an upstairs as well. I ascended the carpeted--ugh--steps and found my colleague squeezed between a potted plant--ugh--and the wall. He had been there for an hour, grabbing a chair at a table with three strangers. I found an unused and unreserved chair across the room and set it in a sort of a no-man’s-land with no table to call my own.

All this would be fine, because surely a waitress would tend to my thirst. And the Chargers would soon displace Miami and New York, who were featured on the upstairs televisions.

“If you’re thirsty,” I was advised by my colleague, “you better order two beers. It takes a while.”

The waitress was Charlie Joiner. At least that’s what it said on her jersey. She was blond and beleaguered. Poor Charlie had more ground to cover than a free safety, and she had no help.

And so this afternoon would become an exercise in patience.

In more ways than one.

Satellite dishes can be temperamental, I guess. And so can fans, especially when they have been displaced from the comforts of their homes by this dastardly blackout.

When the clock hit 1 o’clock, the customers began to stir. It was time to hit whatever buttons had to be hit to banish the Falcons/Whomever (downstairs) and Jets/Dolphins (upstairs) from the screens. These people had come to see the local heroes.

It started as an anxious sense of excitement, escalated to a chant, reverted to grumbles and finally settled into an oooooooing that had nothing to do with Looouuuie. The sets were being clicked from channel to channel, flickering past 49ers, Saints, Chiefs, Oilers, Raiders, Giants and even Cubs.

No Chargers.

These people were not pleased, but they seemed patient. They had learned patience while waiting for drinks. It did sound a bit more unruly downstairs, but I did not care to investigate. I just sat and watched as the television flickered from wrong game to wrong game with occasional screens full of snow or test patterns.

Meanwhile, a line was forming outside. The folks inside were anxious because they were not watching the game and the folks outside were anxious because they thought the folks inside were watching the game.

Finally, the planets must have aligned themselves in the proper order, for there was Gary Anderson skittering down the right side. One play later, Buford McGee was in the end zone with a Charger touchdown.

The crowd was cheering, because the game was finally on and the Chargers had put the ball into the end zone so quickly. It seemed to happen at once.

The score was Chargers 14, Washington 3, and all of 47 seconds remained in what the announcers would later advise us was a very exciting first quarter. I thought that was rather sadistic of them.

It is not necessary, of course, to recite the details of the game itself, especially since so many people saw so much more of it than I did.

When the Redskins scored with 1:16 to play to take the lead, a collective groan reverberated off the walls. These people were hopeful, however, and did not give up until Dan Fouts had thrown an interception on a desperation fourth-down play.

At that point, with a few seconds left on the clock, Rocky’s Balboa emptied. Dan Fouts cannot release a pass any faster than these people were out the door.

“You know what really bothers me about this game?” my colleague said as we hit the curb. “Losing like this means there will be a lot more blackouts before the year is over.”

“Yeh,” I said. “I wonder if I can hide a satellite dish on my expense account.”