Scruffy Duffy's
THESE ARE HARDLY halcyon days to be an Ohioan. As if the election boondoggle didn't cement our reputation as numbskulled Godfuckers, we must suffer the ignominy of sub-par professional sports. I'm talking football. And I'm crying about the Bengals.
The last decade of Cincinnati Bengals football has been trying. During the 90s, they were the losingest team in all of professional sports. All. Of. Professional. Sports. That's some bitter gum to chew. I've chomped it all.
Am I a glutton for punishment? Hardly. I'm vehemently opposed to defeat, and Sunday evening's black-and-blue knuckle marks are testament to my frustration. Yet still I root on, partly out of habit, partly because every Sunday afternoon I can drink socially approved daylight beer.
This past Sunday, the Bengals battled the Pittsburgh Steelers. My friend Alex is a diehard Steelers supporter. The teams meet twice a year, and each time he tries coaxing me into watching the game with him.
"It's a helluva battle this week," he said, which he'd say even if the contest mattered as much as Hawaii's electoral vote. "Want to watch?" He waved his yellow Steelers towel for emphasis.
Sports-watching with Alex is sadomasochistic. When his team does well, he taunts and berates, performing a jig I like to call "Riverdance for the Differently Abled." However, when his team loses, there's no greater pleasure than watching his face crumble with crushed hope. I'm a hopeful, schadenfreude-loving motherfucker, so of course I agreed.
"Awesome. Let's go to Scruffy Duffy's. Sunday. 1 p.m."
"O...kay," I said, a Bengal about to enter a lion's den of a different sort.
At Scruffy Duffy's, men with hairier bellies than heads flock for basketball, baseball, hockey, football-anything thrown, kicked or smacked is broadcast on a Circuit City's-worth of flat-screens. You can't spin 45 degrees without glimpsing an athletic endeavor. Or smacking into someone. Scruffy Duffy's, skying ceilings aside, is little more than a cramped, Guinness-and-Yuengling-sign-covered corridor. It's made doubly claustrophobic by girthy patrons inhaling 50-piece bowls of messy chicken wings.
On this Sunday, Alex and I enter a de facto packed house. I have abstained from sporting Bengals orange. It's a wise decision. In this Hell's Kitchen hang (located next to adult-friendly Xtremes: "Your visit to a happy ending"), about 50 percent of the bar wears Pittsburgh's black and gold colors.
"Looks like Ohio's on the losing side again," Alex says.
I need a drink. I survey a surprising selection of beer. While most sweatshirt-wearing Sunday drinkers down light domestic swill, Scruffy's offers about-five-buck draft Boddington's, Newcastle and locally brewed Chelsea Blonde, among the standbys. I order a Guinness and wait. And wait. A few minutes later, I retrieve a milkshake-thick Guinness sporting a half-and-half head. If nothing else, Scruffy's pours a proper pint.
I sit on the covered pool table and sip. After the barrel-armed bartender announces the heartbreaking news of a couple spending today, their ninth wedding anniversary, at Scruffy Duffy's, he flips on flashing lights and ratchets up "Let's Get Ready to Rumble."
"Boo-yaa!" Alex shouts as the football is booted across a screen.
"How many Bengals fans do we have in the house today?" the bartender shouts into a microphone.
I raise my hand.
I am alone.
"Well," the bartender says, laughing, "I'll buy the only Bengals fan a beer if they score a touchdown or field goal on their first drive."
Though I lose the free brew, the game starts with promise. The Bengals momentarily have the lead, but Pittsburgh scores, and flashing lights, a fog machine and "Who Let the Dogs Out?" simultaneously start up. It's a Luddite's nightmare. Alex breaks out the Riverdance. My spirit is bruised, so I order consolation chicken wings ($10.50 for 24). They're singe-the-nostrils tangy, and finger-licking delicious.
To dampen the wing fire, I order-and down-another pint. With a swimmy, 2 p.m. buzz, Duffy's is, dare I say, not bad. Sure, the bar is packed with USDA-approved meatheads and a few tagalong women, and conversation consists of high-fives and hoots. But, hey, what do you expect in a bar where foam hats in the shape of cheese fall within the dress code?
Certainly not a kind heart to the opposing team. As the game trudges onward and the Bengals falter, my anguished "No!"s draw finger-pointing and covered-mouth laughter. The Steelers get a safety. 19-14 is their lead. Two minutes to play. James Brown's "I Feel Good" blares, and Alex performs Riverdance redux. I search for solace in dark Guinness, but find little comfort in yet another Ohio letdown.