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The People in the Next Seat Over

By |
illustration by Ryan Sinook

My wife and I bought a half-season ticket package for the Dallas Mavericks’ 2003–04 season. The seats we could (barely) afford were in the corner of the upper deck of the American Airlines Center, Section 319. That’s where we met the two guys who would become our best friends in the entire world—but only at Mavs games. I’ll call them Lando and Han.

It took us the better part of that first season to learn their names. Lando was black and always wore a Mavs visor and a Michael Finley jersey (until he switched to Josh Howard at the end of the 2004–05 season). He kept up a steady stream of trash talk and sang along with whatever came on the P.A. during timeouts. Han was white, and always dressed like he’d just gotten off work, mostly because he’d just gotten off work. He was a close talker after he’d had a few beers, even more so if he and Lando had a chance to hit the Old No. 7 Club pre-game. Lando and Han had a standing over-under bet on how long it would take Shawn Bradley to fall down awkwardly once he checked into the game. They were lively and fun game-watching company.


Over the next two seasons, the four of us grew closer, always threatening to take the friendship beyond its Section 319 confines, but never following up with a call or an e-mail. We learned that Lando and Han met at a restaurant where Han was a regular and Lando was the manager. We learned that a white family had adopted Lando, and he grew up not far from where my wife did. We learned Han didn’t open up much. Lando showed us photos of his toddler daughter and, eventually, his newborn son. We showed him photos of our own newborn son. We exchanged parenting stories and bought each other beers.


Then the Mavericks buckled like a belt against the Miami Heat in the 2006 Finals, and everything changed.


The next season, Lando was a ghost. While the Mavericks were winning a team-record 67 games, Lando was barely there to enjoy it. He’d lost his job at the restaurant where he met Han and was now waiting tables at the high-dollar buffet downstairs at the AAC. If he watched the game at all, he wouldn’t arrive in his seat until halftime. We could tell that his relationship with Han had changed. There was a tension there now, something unspoken but also undeniable. When the Golden State Warriors knocked out the Mavs in the first round, it seemed a fitting end.


When we showed up for the beginning of last season, Han was there. Lando wasn’t. In his place was someone who, based on his appearance and demeanor, I took for Han’s brother. We never found out for sure. Han didn’t come to games as much anymore, and when he did, he wasn’t very happy, no matter what was happening on the court. Near the end of the season, my wife finally asked: Where is Lando? What happened?


Over the course of that game, the drama of the previous season came out in short narrative bursts, delivered about a centimeter from my wife’s face. Lando’s wife had kicked him out of the house. He stayed with Han for a time, and was the dictionary definition of a bad house guest—he had people over and left a mess everywhere he went. Lando borrowed money from Han, and then some more. Han ended up kicking him out, too. On top of all that, as it turned out, Han had purchased tickets for the both of them for the past two seasons, and Lando didn’t pay him for that either. Their friendship had been permanently torn asunder. The only unsurprising revelation: Han added that he was done as a season ticket holder.


So now I guess my wife and I will have to get closer with someone else in Section 319, the ad hoc family we’ve had for the past five years. It’s a microcosm of humanity—black, white, young, old, hip, square, annoying, endearing—united only by our love for the Mavericks and unadulterated hatred for Chris Arnold’s periodic interruptions in the proceedings. Maybe the guy who has sat behind us since the beginning, along with his young son. We call the guy “Brick Brick,” since he yells, “Brickbrickbrick—that’s ours, that’s ours,” whenever someone on the opposing team takes a shot. This time around, though, we won’t ask too many personal questions.  

Write to [email protected].

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