Our seats were great, seven or eight rows behind the Lakers bench. Troy and I made a little small talk as the game began, but he didn’t seem that into it, as if he regretted making plans with me. Finally, after an uncomfortable silence that lasted for minutes (who actually comes for the game?), he looked down glumly and said, “When I was at Zephyr I had their seats whenever I wanted, right on the floor.”

“I think these seats are great,” I chirped, trying to be easygoing.

He made some sort of sound of acknowledgement, but I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed that I was impressed. “I share these with a buddy. They’re fine, I guess.”

He really seemed sad about the seats. I was working on my light beer and he had a Coke. When I went for a second drink I asked him if he wanted an Amstel. “I don’t really care for beer,” he said, sipping his Coke. “I’m just really into wine right now. I’ve been working on filling my cellar over the last couple of years.”

Okay, but no beer at a basketball game? I asked myself. This guy was really down.

In the second quarter, I tried to cheer him up. “You know, I hear that Vivid, the company that makes all those porno movies, has its own box.”

Now I had his attention. “Really? Where?”

“I’m not sure what box it is, but it can’t be that tough to find, if it’s filled with porn stars.”

His eyes started scanning the boxes that lined the rim of the Staples Center. Now that I’d given him something to be excited about, he couldn’t have been less interested in our date.

During halftime he bolted from his seat and headed for the mezzanine. I was practically running to keep up with him. Halftime at a Lakers game was prime time for the scene, crawling with people you’d expect to find loitering around a VIP bar at a professional sporting event: The men, the “Masters of the Universe,” were getting payback for all those years growing up as the nerdy smart kid. A lot of the guys were as well groomed as the women, with waxed eyebrows, lots of product in their hair, and just a touch of Botox around the eyes to give them that little lift. The women were plastic blonds in too-tight jeans and tummy-baring tops with spray on tans. Any guy who got lucky tonight would wake up in the morning with his sheets looking like he’d wrestled a bag of Cheetos all night. The guys downed manly drinks, and the girls sipped Cosmos out of plastic cups.

“Yo, dog, how are you?”

Troy and a supergroomed studio exec type, who had better highlights and whiter teeth than me, shared some sort of soul handshake, which looked really stupid between these two very white