Who needs public transportation when there is Gregg, the Nets driver, and his spacious SUV, stocked with water and candy in case anyone gets hungry in the 20-minute journey from my house?
We clamber into the car — me, my friend Craig and a Times photographer, Hilary Swift — and glide down Atlantic Avenue. It turns out that there are three Barclays Center entrances: the democratic one, for fans with normal tickets; the Calvin Klein V.I.P. one, for fans with better-than-normal tickets; and the supersecret one around the back, for players, executives, talent, higher-class V.I.P.s and us.
Gregg drives us directly into the building and onto an elevator, which by some magical means descends to a lower floor without seeming to move at all. The Nets point guard Yogi Ferrell is also riding the elevator, though he is not in his car. We are too classy to ask for his autograph.
After Gregg drops us off in the players’ parking lot, we are met by a small but enthusiastic welcoming committee that includes two Brooklynettes dancers. This is not as exciting to me as it might be to some people, but we get our photographs taken with their arms around us. Girotti, who is serving as our concierge for the evening, leads us deep into the Barclays Center underbelly.
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