The First Four are not a reference to the play-in games for those on-the-bubble teams, hidden Cinderella gem type stories to be told. Nah, there was a time when it was just, Scotty “G-Money” Gruenich, “Tall Jason” Escherich, Charrina “West Coast Playa (WCP)” Bayne, and yours truly, ‘los with the most.

In 2009, WCP and I were rocking a kick-ass flat (NOT an apartment) with a great room, sporting a gorgeous view of the Issaquah / I-90 valley in a wrap around tall windows when on a clear day you can literally see the Seattle skyline, and follow it over to the Bellevue skyline. It was the place to be.

At any rate, I invited over my bros because I had started the process of recovery, and healing from a bitter divorce months before. Now that I had watched only a year ago, Scott had mentioned that I’ve “graduated” to filling out a bracket.

“A what?” I questioned.

“A bracket, ‘los,” WCP clarified. “G, will you please coach him.”

This is, ALSO, when we started a dollar bet on when T.J. would arrive. To be clear, it was gonna be “late”, but in time for tip off at 10 a.m. Thursday morning is always the start.

WCP is wonderful cook, but I have lock-down on breakfast making for the Brew Crew. And that’s what I did. As I recall, I won the first dollar bet on Tall Jason’s arrival.

That’s when we handed the T.V. remote control, aka The Force, to G-Money. We wanted to learn, because the action was spread over 4 channels, and various times for the 4 different play location in 4 different time zones.

Yes, y’all, there was a ticker / bug in the top right of the broadcast but …

that doesn’t tell us anything but the score. Sometimes it was a blow out like an ACL tear, 20-point lead for a #1 Seed over a #16 Seed, or a barn-burner 72-73 with 1:13 remaining in the 2nd half. Scotty G had a pulse on which matchups would be exciting. Then the Blood Marys were stirred up by our resident bartender, once again, G-Money. Beer afterwards, more revelant dollar bets on the basketball action, laughter, jokes, trash talk.

About lunch time there would be a lull in the action. WCP is a grip of a basketball star, so she still had a basketball. To develop an appetite for lunch, we would play H-O-R-S-E at the nearby basketball court. For some reason, and the grace of weather gods, it was sunny in March, in Issaquah! We played until G thought it was time to dial up more games.

Finally, sunset cloaked the city and Great Room in darkness, so it was time for the prime time match ups. And it would continue into the night. By now, after the drinking some of us were smashed ahem, me

Friday was a repeat, Jason late but shows up with food, usually donuts. Los made breaky. Scotty G Blood Mary’s. WCP’s handcrafted lunch, and dinner. By Sunday night, and we were cleaning up the Great Room (or our broken brackets)

I asked, “So we’re doing this again next year. Yeah?” “HELL YEAH!” they answered in stereo. I smirked. This was the start of something. This would be a legacy run.

Bracketology 101 (and Dollar Bets)

Here’s the truth I’ve never hidden:

I was never elite at brackets.

Solid. Respectable.
A dependable 6–7 out of 10.

Fantasy football? Different story.
But March Madness? Chaos rules.

Where I did shine was the side action.

Dollar bets.
Game-to-game confidence picks.
Gut calls made during commercial breaks.

By the end of the tournament, I usually walked away having made more money on the dollar bets than the actual bracket pool — a humble but consistent victory that felt perfectly on brand.

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You Had To Be There

You Had To Be There (Inside Jokes)

Every March has its soundtrack.

One particular courtside reporter had a gratuitous addiction to three words:
Onion. Splash. Big fella!

Every made three? Onion.
Every clean jumper? Splash.
Every post move? Big fella!

It didn’t matter who was playing. Guards, forwards, centers — everybody was somebody’s big fella.

And once you hear something like that for twelve straight hours a day, it becomes folklore.

Then there was our resident loud Texan — one of the later Brew Crew additions. Great dude. Big energy. Questionable grasp of officiating nuance.

Now, I grew up with a built-in referee.

My little sister was the family basketball star, which meant I spent countless evenings on hardwood bleachers learning the difference between:

• A charge and a block
• Verticality
• A foul versus a really good defensive effort

So when whistles blew, I had context.

Scott, meanwhile, loved the phrase:

“The hoop… and the harm.”

Translation: bucket goes in, whistle blows, count it — and one more at the line. It rolled off his tongue like he’d trademarked it.

One particular sequence changed everything. Hard contact at the rim. Whistle. Bodies on the floor.

Our Texan, at full volume, erupted:

“… AND THE FOUL!”

The rest of us stayed silent.

No ball through the net.
No continuation.
Just contact.

We let the replay confirm what we already knew.

“Sorry, Tex,” someone finally said.
“It was simply the foul. No basket awarded.”

And that was it.

From that moment forward, anytime one of us made an obviously incorrect call — in basketball or life — someone would chime in:

“AND the foul!”

It became shorthand for:

• Confidently wrong
• Loudly incorrect
• Beautifully mistaken

Which, frankly, describes half of bracket season anyway.

You probably had to be there.

But every March, when the whistle blows and someone overreacts, we look at each other and say it again — like muscle memory.

“AND the foul!”

Some traditions are written in brackets. Others are written in laughter.

Diner Speak

One year at the Issaquah flat — yes, fine, apartment — I was in the kitchen assembling sandwiches for the Brew Crew like I was running the line at a short-order joint off Route 66.

Plates slid across the counter to the “expediter” (WCP), who was managing flow and vibes.

And somewhere between mustard application and bread alignment, I wondered out loud:

“I wonder what a ham sandwich is in diner speak?”

Now, if you’ve never gone down that rabbit hole, diner lingo is a wonderfully chaotic slice of Americana — a verbal shorthand cooks and waitstaff used in old-school diners to fire orders fast and keep things lively. Oral tradition. Regional flavor. Equal parts mnemonic device and stand-up comedy routine.

Scott immediately fired up my desktop computer — because yes, this was peak desktop era — and located an online glossary of diner lingo.

There were 55 phrases.

He didn’t just read them.

He belted them.

My all-time favorite:

“Gimme a pig on wheels and drag it through the garden!”

Translation: ham sandwich to go, with everything on it.

Poetry.

Scotty G’s favorite was more adaptable:

“[Insert menu item] and put it on a leash!”

Meaning: make it to go.

You could slap that on anything and sound like you’d been working the griddle since 1947.

A Brief History (Because We’re Nerds Like That)

The origins of diner lingo are fuzzy, but there’s evidence it dates back to the 1870s and 1880s. It peaked from the 1920s through the 1970s in diners and luncheonettes across America.

The phrases were:

• Lighthearted
• Slightly ribald at times
• Easy to remember under pressure

They weren’t just jokes — they were workflow tools for short-order cooks managing chaos.

Honestly? That sounds suspiciously like March Madness.

Why It Stuck

There’s something about:

• Basketball on four channels
• Dollar bets flying
• Brackets quietly disintegrating

…that pairs perfectly with someone yelling from the kitchen:

“Pig on wheels!”

Or Scott shouting from the couch:

“Put it on a leash!”

Every once in a while — and only during March Madness — we break it out.

Because tradition isn’t just about the games.

It’s about the language.

And for a few days every March, our Great Room turns into:

• A sportsbook
• A sports bar
• And a 1950s roadside diner all at once

You probably had to be there.

But if you ever hear someone yell “drag it through the garden!” while a 12-seed hits a three?

Now you know.

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