My new buddy Francisco

Here's the ending first: LeBron James scored the winning basket with 2.2 seconds left in overtime, and the 6'2," 230-pound man sitting next to me scooped Ricky and me up in his arms in one giant bear-hug. We had only just met this man about three hours earlier.

Now back to the beginning: Ricky sat on the aisle with me to his right in American Airlines Arena in Miami. It was almost time for the 8:30 p.m. Eastern Conference Finals Game 1 to start when six Hispanic men in their late 20s filed into the seats to my right, each holding a beer in his hand and looking pretty happy.They were talking and laughing and seemed to be led by the young Papa Bear that wound up in the seat right next to me.

It didn't take long for the beer vendor roaming the aisles to determine this was a profitable spot to visit. Each time he went by, Papa Bear -- decked out in a backwards cap saying NBA Champions 2012, a white-hot Heat jersey, and black-and-white plaid Bermuda shorts -- held up six fingers and passed a little wad of money past me, never forgetting to include a substantial tip.

"I love you, man!" said the beer seller after about the third round, and then he gave my seat neighbor an appreciative fist bump.

Papa Bear turned to me (not for the first time, since he'd been chatting about the game all along) to say, "I always give a good tip. I used to be a waiter way back. Before I was a teacher."

"You're a teacher?" I asked, tilting my head upward to look him full in the face for the first time.

"Not anymore. I used to be," he said, and he introduced himself as Francisco and smiled his big, round, dimply smile at me.

"I'm a teacher," I said.

"You're a teacher? What do you teach?" he asked.

"Journalism," I said.

He then made the slightly confused face everyone gives me when I say I teach journalism.

"I'm actually an English teacher," I always have to explain.

"I taught math," he said. "Algebra and Geometry for eight years at MacArthur alternative school. I was also a basketball coach. That's why I know all the rules. Where do you teach?"

"Cypress Bay High in Weston," I said.

"Weston?" He furrowed his brow. He thought about it. "Oh, that's in Fort Lauderdale, right?"

"It's west of Fort Lauderdale," I said, making a sweeping gesture with my arm as if to indicate westness. Keep in mind, this whole conversation was being shouted over the LOUD NOISE IN THE ARENA.

The exciting game continued with lead change after lead change. The Heat were ahead. The Pacers were ahead. Francisco and his friends kept drinking beer and getting up to use the bathroom.

"This one is Yoda," said Francisco as a short, bald buddy of his exited the row. "I know him since I'm 12. I know the other guys since we're born. If the Heat lose, I'm not bringing them to any more games."

He said this smiling and laughing while his current beer sloshed around in its cup. I started calculating costs. If he brought all these guys, then the seats must have cost him a total of about $1,200. He'd purchased at least $300 in beer in front of me. Who knows how much they had consumed before they got to their seats? These guys were drinking beer the way I breathe air.

Throughout the game, Francisco kept turning to his left to talk to Ricky and me instead of turning to his right to his buddies. After one big play, he twirled toward me, his palm high in the air waiting for a High 5. I am not a person who normally gets solicited for a High 5, so I was flummoxed for a second before swinging my arm up high above my head to give his palm a rather girlie slap. (By the end of the evening, I was doing jumping two-hand slaps with gusto.)

When the game went into overtime at 11 p.m. on this Wednesday night, Francisco declared: "That's okay with me! I don't have to work tomorrow."

So just what does a former waiter/former teacher do that enables him to spend gobs of money at a Heat game with his friends? He didn't say. And while our relationship status did reach bear-hug level by the end of the night, I wasn't about to ask.