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If I’m not on a job site or arguing about pick‑and‑roll coverage, I’m probably in one of these rooms, losing my voice. This is the circuit: concrete, cheap beer, sudden strangers yelling like family. Some of it is obvious—MSG, the big parks in the Bronx and Queens. Some of it is smaller: bars where the bartender knows exactly when to kill the sound and let the room breathe. None of this is theoretical. I’ve checked the sightlines, counted the exits, and timed the walk back to the nearest train at midnight.