The brewpub where I was meeting Sam Purdy beyond the eastern boundary of the Mall was a location I would have bet good money he had never visited unless he was on the job. I'd seen Mountain
Sun dozens of times from my car, or passing by on the sidewalk on Pearl, but I'd never walked inside.
"What are you drinking?" I asked, as I scooted into the booth across from Sam. His
eyes were locked on a big flat screen. The Mavs at the Lakers. His glass was almost empty.
The open room wasn't empty. Despite the economy, the crowd was lively, and energetic, and young.
Not at all Sam's kind of place. He liked to sup beer undisturbed by any backbeat. Especially if the backbeat had any acquaintance to hip hop.