The prospect of American commercialism and excess began to make its feeling felt, so Tom and I decided to follow our hearts to the Promised Land: Orlando. We set ourselves up in a motel on a major arterial, where the receptionist claimed that while we were unusual, “Australia isn’t the weirdest place we’ve had people from: one guy was from somewhere in the Middle East…uhhm, oh yeah, Belgium! Yeah, he was walking across the country. Nice guy!”
It was here that we knew we could find a place where dreams are made (or, rather, reconstructed according undoubtedly stringent authorial guidelines and obeying copyright regulations): The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Yes, rides were ridden, Butterbeer was drank and sorting was carried out. Although we were initially apprehensive about being two six-foot-plus Australian grown men with beards setting foot in a theme park to do with children’s books, we reconciled this by reassuring ourselves that we were the ones who grew up with the books, and these kids wouldn’t know a Dementor if it gave them a kiss of death on their arse, and besides, who are they to be here anyway? We have first editions of, like, all the books and can relate to Harry’s foibles, and….
Ahem.
We spent the rest of the day within the bounds of Islands of Adventure, attempting to keep the Butterbeer down whilst riding the Hulk rollercoaster, and seriously regressing on the Jurassic Park ride because we were the ones who grew up with the movies, and these kids wouldn’t know a Brachiosaur if it…
Ahem.
The other reason for being in Orlando was the possibility of fulfilling another childhood fantasy – attending an NBA game. The Lachlan of the mid-nineties was quite the basketball fan, as his basketball card collection – retained all these years in the unerring certainty that they will soon be valuable again – will attest, with its gold Mookie Blaylock Upper Deck contained within the plastic pages. Orlando was more of a concept to me then – I knew nothing of the city from whence the Magic came…and here I found myself in the middle of a home playoff-cum-entertainment extravaganza at the Amway Center, after spending the afternoon organising our next couple of weeks’ travel.
Can't hardly tell the difference...
Soon enough, the entertainment began in the definition of earnestness: deep-voiced announcers; huge HD screens showing various montages full of dramatic music that gave me a few chills of anticipation, even despite myself. Eventually, it was National Anthem Time, and a small girl with enormous lungs treated us to one hell of a rendition, during which I noticed that our American friends do not actually sing along. Instead, they stay stony-silent until, at the evidently-predetermined, learned-via-osmosis-whilst-growing-up Big Notes, they whoop, holler and cheer.
Peachy keen
The game itself? A little forgettable…but the fun was in fulfilling a long-held desire, and I can now say that I’ve Been To The NBA Playoffs. Tick.
Tip-off
climbingatree 