Why We Love the Dive Bar

by John Gorman
Love of Sports Correspondent

It’s Friday night, 10 p.m.

You and your peeps weren’t hip enough to get invited to that chic club opening down at the corner of Seventh and Pretense, and you need someplace to go.

Time’s a-wastin’ and you need to get wasted. Your liver sighs a deep sigh.

It’s time to go diving.

The dive bar is like the ex-girlfriend you should’ve gotten over, but never really could. In other words, she ain’t much to look at, but once you’re inside, you feel pretty cozy.

The dive bar has drink specials that even affords the Coffee Can Mafia* an opportunity to get loaded in the comfort of an indoor facility. You want a shot and a beer for $3.50? Just make sure you tip, moneybags. They know you’re a hipster and not a hobo.

The dive bar has 27 televisions of varying degrees of size, and they’re all tuned to the game. Whatever game you want is up to you; the friendly staff will tune the TV to the channel of your choice. You want first round NHRA Grand National qualifying? You got it, buddy. This ain’t one of them tharr classy joints that shows interpretive electronica music videos on a 72-inch flat screen for the sake of “ambience.” Heck, at the dive bar nobody can even spell ambience without an O and a silent Q.

The dive bar is the ideal establishment for a late-night rendezvous with a “player to be named later.” If it’s late in the fourth quarter (up here that’s around 2:30 a.m.) and you can’t seem to find the end zone, there’s always somebody there who is more drunk than you are. Always.

The dive bar typically has the best food in the city - or at least it tastes that way when you’re holding onto the bar to prevent from falling off the face of the Earth. The dive bar will deep fry your stomach into a catatonic euphoria. Don’t forget to take enough to bring home, you stumbling warrior.

The dive bar’s dress code follows three distinct rules:

1. Wear something.
2. Don’t overdress.
3. As the night wears on, they lax up on the first two rules.

Ever walk into a dive bar at a quarter to close, and it appears Joe Francis and Snoop Dogg invaded the party? Girls in stilettos (and not much else) slipping in puddles of rum and coke? Your best friend making out with the plastic tree? This is one madhouse that makes me feel old just thinking about it.

After all, my late night days are just about over. I pretty much exhausted my quota of the dive bar in the last half of my college years. Now that I’m on the shady side of a quarter century age-wise, I am semi-inclined to sip on the cabernet and courvoisier while presenting a clean, professional image at clean, professional establishments. Most weeknights, I’m in bed or playing online scrabble by 10 p.m. Go ahead, call me gramps.

Except when the game’s on. I’m grabbing the boys. We’re piling in the rusted out Buick Century. We’re cruising for cheap drinks and fast women - or do I have that backwards?

The dive bar beckons, and it’s time to play Lord of the Losers once again for all the marbles.

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*GLOSSARY: Coffee Can Mafia - the clan of homeless panhandlers on Allen St. in Buffalo