On a windy Sunday morning in October I found myself biking through sparse, hungover NY traffic toward Midtown. Big, impersonal, tourist-trap Midtown, lined with fratty sports bars, generic comedy clubs, and seemingly the highest Olive Garden concentration on the planet.

Tourists are just inconvenient, they get in the way, but sports fans really and truly scare me. I don't understand them, and while I'm walking past the roaring and the booing emanating from a bar on my own block, on my way to something totally relevant and obscure, my greatest fear is that one of these bro-fans will make eye contact and then maybe approach me for a chest bump. But this one particular Sunday morning, I was one of them. I was a sports fan, a mega bro. I was on my way to watch some StarCraft.

My destination was Legends, a huge, impersonal sports bar, situated literally in the shadow of the Empire State Building on 33rd St. Imagine a ski lodge outfitted with extreme brass accents and overshined wood, decorated with shrines to sports and beers. I approached my very first “BarCraft” much like a first date. I arrived early, hair overly shiny due to a recent shower, wearing wool pants and my favorite plaid shirt — I was probably overdressed, given the occasion, but I wanted to look my best. In a bar designed to hold hundreds of sweaty, beer-soaked men, there were probably five or six of us nerds (my soon-to-be bros?) on the main floor, surrounded by dozens of too-loud-for-this-time-of-morning TVs and two projector screens streaming a game of StarCraft II live from the MLG Orlando tournament. Meanwhile, in two adjacent rooms I could hear the screams and groans of soccer hooligans.