by Dan Jenkins
"I feel like I already have."
Shake couldn't have thought Kathy was that ordinary. The winner of the Nordic combined?
"You don't think she's better-looking than your average homewrecker?" I said.
"Yeah, she's a killer, but there's a lot of that going around."
An Elroy Blunt song came up on the jukebox. We stopped talking to listen, to pay homage to our old friend.
Life don't owe me a living
But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.
I could do without dope and women
But Beverly Hills would be sad.
I stole this song from Willie.
I guess I've made him mad:
He said Life don't owe me a living
But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.
Elroy had been dead three years. He was a high-rolling friend of ours who had once played ball with us and had then made it big as a country-and-Western singer and songwriter.
The world had been a safer place without Elroy in it. The year we went to the Super Bowl in Los Angeles, Elroy rented an estate in Beverly Hills and threw a party that lasted a week and almost cost us the game. He didn't invite anyone who wasn't from Peru, Nashville, Austin, or didn't have tits.
Elroy was anti-sleep. I don't think chemicals let him sleep the last five years of his life.
He had said, "What's the good of havin' a wet dream if you're not awake to enjoy it?"
Elroy was only thirty-one when he spun out, which means he out-lived his hero, Hank Williams, by four years. Elroy and all five members of his band were killed when their bus hurtled off a bridge and dropped into a valley about two miles below Aspen. Apparently, the groupies on the bus had been giving everyone a blowjob at the same time and unfortunately this had included the driver.
Life don't owe me a living
But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.
They've sure made it easy
To have all the fun I've had.
If I can't find Willie to thank him
I guess I'll take out an ad.
He said Life don't owe me a living
But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.
When the song was over, I said to Shake, "Maybe everything's okay like it is. If Kathy throws me down in the back seat of a rent car some night, fine. It'll be self-defense. If she doesn't...on with television."
Shake said, "Stop being a starry-eyed 'good friend.' If you don't, she'll drive you nuts and break up your home, man. Then she won't even respect you. Do one of those Jim Tom lines on her and fuck her, get it over with."
"What kind of Jim Tom line?"
Shake said, "Some night when you're with her in a bar, make a confession. Tell her you always have to sit down when you take a piss, the doctor doesn't want you to lift anything heavy."
THIRTEEN
The distressing news from Fort Worth in early December was that Tonsillitis Johnson's mind had been warped by an East Indian swami—and T. J. Lambert's whole future was heaving in a sea of disaster.
Just when T. J. and Big Ed Bookman had been so sure that everything was under control, that Tonsillitis was as good as theirs—TCU's, actually—Darnell Johnson had brought them word of this sudden and unforeseen complication.
Tonsillitis, it seems, had fallen under the spell of Swami Muktamananda, and the blue-chipper was seriously thinking about giving up football. Swami Muktamananda, also known as Haba, had all but convinced Tonsillitis that he should move to New Delhi, live in a ditch, and seek life's fulfillment by washing down elephants.
"Mooka banana who?"
I had asked the question sleepily because T.J.'s phone call had awakened me in the dead of night at the Westwood Marquis.
"I don't know how you say it," T.J. said, "but the sum-bitch is about to ruin my life."
The point of T.J.'s call was to beg me to come to Fort Worth as soon as possible. Shake Tiller was already on the way. There would be a meeting between me, Shake, T. J., Big Ed, and Darnell to try to figure out what to do about reclaiming Tonsillitis' mind.
Going to Fort Worth wasn't all that much of an inconvenience for me, as it happened. My last telecast of the regular NFL season was scheduled for Dec. 12 in Dallas—
Cowboys against the Giants, my old team. All it meant was going to Texas a few days early.
On the phone that night, T. J. told me some of the sordid details of what had happened to Tonsillitis.
Because of the swami, Tonsillitis had refused to play in his last high school football game, Boakum's annual bloodbath against archrival Eula. Swami Muktamananda had passed through town and had given a lecture at Boakum High. Tonsillitis, being president of the student body, had met the swami. They had talked about "the value of life." And the next thing anyone knew, Tonsillitis had been in a trance before the Eula game and wouldn't move from the bench.
Boakum's coach, Mutt Turnbull, had pleaded with his star to go out on the field and defend the honor of Boakum. Tonsillitis had only mumbled, "What I be wearin' a helmet for? What I be doin' on this planet?"
Darnell, Tonsillitis' older brother, was more frustrated than anybody Darnell had been at the game and he had reminded the running back that big money was at stake, never mind the natural hatred that one had been born with for Eula.
Tonsillitis had said to Darnell, "Folks be hittin' one another for no reason. I wants to quit football and grow my own food."
Darnell had said, "Hey, baby, we're talkin' gusto here, you understand? Mucho Dolores."
"Swami say life don't be measured by numbers," Tonsillitis said. "Swami say happiness don't be livin' in no end zone."
Darnell had almost lost his temper.
He had said, "Yeah, well, swamis be fuckin' with incense and shit. Get your ass off that bench!"
Nothing had worked. Tonsillitis hadn't played in the game, and, as of now, he wasn't planning to play for TCU or any other college. He was meditating and eating rice and lentils.
Neither T. J. nor Big Ed had seen Swami Muktamananda.
Darnell had been in contact with him, however, and was trying to work out an economic solution.
For enough money, Swami Muktamananda might be tempted to persuade Tonsillitis to play football again.
"I ain't sure you can buy swamis," T. J. said.
T. J. sounded very low on the phone.
He said, "It's a hell of a thing, ain't it, son? Here I got me the greatest football player in captivity and somebody's done jacked with his brain. What does that tell you about our God-damn educational system?"
I asked if there was anything new on the Artis Toothis front.
"Looks like we're okay there," T. J. said. "Artis Toothis is an ambitious young man with a good business head on his shoulders. He's the kind of person America can be proud of."
Artis Toothis was ready to wear the purple-and-white and look after his real estate investments. Only the nuts and bolts of his contract were yet to be worked out. For example, he was insisting on a guarantee that he would play the same number of minutes and carry the ball the same number of times as Tonsillitis.
T.J. returned to the mournful subject of Tonsillitis by saying, "Can you believe TCU's luck? I just wish somebody would tell me how a robe-wearin', meditatin' cocksucker can get a nigger worried about the value of life!"
T. J. was badly in need of friends around him.
He said, "I'll tell you the truth, Billy Clyde. I feel like I been eat by a coyote and shit off a cliff!"
With one week of regular-season games left in the NFL, everything was working out splendidly for Dreamer Tatum and the Players Association. There wasn't a team in the league with a record you could sell to a junk dealer.
The best won-lost record in pro football was 8-7.
This record was shared by twelve teams. San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New Orleans were tied at 8-7 in the National West. Green Bay, Minnesota, and Detroit were tied at 8-7 in the National Central. Miami and Buffalo were tied at 8-7 in the American East. Seattle and Denver were tied at 8-7 in the American
West. And Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Cincinnati were tied at 8-7 in the American Central.
As for my old division, the National East, the standings were funnier than a society column.
NATIONAL EAST W L T
Dallas Cowboys 7 8 0
Philadelphia Eagles 7 8 0
St. Louis Cardinals 7 8 0
Washington Redskins 5 10 0
New York Giants
0
15
0
Two things about the standings were unique. The winner of the division, Dallas in all likelihood, would be going into the playoffs with no better than a .500 record, and the Giants were having their worst season ever.
Washington's season had been a big disappointment, but not to Dreamer Tatum. He said the Players' Association could be justly proud of its Redskin members. Having begun the year as favorites in the division, the Redskins had crushed the hearts of fans all over D.C.
Dreamer had boasted to me that the union had never been in a stronger position. Mediocrity was rampant throughout the league.
Against the brunt of this mediocrity, the Commissioner's office was strenuously trying to sell the myth that parity was a blessing. Through the TV and radio broadcasters and the few journalists they controlled, the Commissioner and his staff peddled the propaganda that America's fans were excited about the closeness of the divisional races, that the country was ecstatic over the fact that 21 out of the 28 teams still had a mathematical chance to make the playoffs after 15 long weeks.
Most sportswriters knew better and said so. They were attacking the league for killing a great sport.
As of late November, nobody had dropped more napalm on the NFL than Jim Tom Pinch, but of course Shake's article in Playboy had yet to appear. It was due out the week we would be in Texas.
One of Jim Tom's columns hit harder than most.
PINCH'S PALAVER by Jim Tom Pinch
Here is a list of things I would rather do than watch a football game in the NFL:
1. Buy a condo in Lebanon.
2. Go to a rock concert.
3. See a movie with special effects in it.
4. Join a religious cult.
5. Sit in the no-smoking area of a restaurant.
6. Discuss wine.
7. Watch a marathon.
8. Talk to a swimmer.
9. Eat a fishhead.
10. Get married again.
Here is a list of people I would rather spend an evening with than any coach, general manager or owner in the NFL:
1. Bert Parks
2. Minnie Pearl
3. Renee Richards
4. Boy George
5. Jerry Lewis
6. Michael Jackson
7. Liberace
8. Andy Warhol
9. Sonny Bono
10.
10.The Dukes of Hazzard.
10.
Here is a list of franchise moves that would improve the quality of play in the NFL:
1. Dallas to Bogota.
2. Giants to New York.
3. The Raiders to Vegas.
4. Miami to Cuba.
5. Rams to Warner Brothers.
6. Green Bay to Tahiti.
7. Houston to the Bermuda Triangle.
8. Jets off the board.
9. Natchez to Mobile.
10. Memphis to St. Joe.
Wake me up when the Super Bowl's over, but don't bother to tell me who won. I already know.
CBS.
The Script Committee of the Players Association had been composed of six players, one of whom was Dreamer Tatum. The others were Tom Buckner, a center for the 49ers; Randy Hall, a quarterback for the Eagles; J.D. Sealy, a linebacker for the Raiders; Harold Coleclaw, a defensive end for the Dolphins; and Tommy Crouch, a wide receiver for the Patriots.
The scripts for all of the games had been placed in the hands of trustworthy union members. The scripts couldn't always be followed precisely because of the zebra factor, but Dreamer said the Players Association had been more than satisfied with the results.
Personally, I thought the Script Committee paid too much attention to plot.
In a San Diego-Seattle game, the Chargers blew a 39- point lead and lost a close one to the Seahawks. The Chargers couldn't have pulled it off without the artistry of their quarterback, Scott Thirsk. A loyal union man, Thirsk threw seven interceptions in the second half.
A punter for the Cleveland Browns, Parker Knowles, lost a game to the Steelers in the final minute by missing the ball with his foot.
The old Statue of Liberty play was resurrected in a Buffalo-Chicago game. A1 Donahue, the Buffalo quarterback, held the ball long enough for Willie Hughes, a Chicago Bear linebacker, to pluck it out of his hand and gallop 57 yards for a decisive touchdown.
On a field-goal effort from Atlanta's 5-yard line, the 49ers' Tom Buckner snapped the ball 40 yards over the place- kicker's head, which in turn led to a game-winning touchdown for the Falcons.
Harold Coleclaw and Tommy Crouch made a real show of it in a Miami-New England game. Coleclaw intercepted a pass and rumbled 50 yards for what looked like a touchdown, but he absent-mindedly spiked the ball before he crossed the goal. Tommy Crouch picked up the ball and ran it out to mid-field before he fumbled it back to the Dolphins, who then drove to a winning field goal.
This was the Cowboys' first season under John Smith, the longtime assistant who had replaced the retired Tom Landry, but Dallas still sent in the plays from the sideline. Temple Stark, the Cowboys' tight end and a staunch union man, shuttled in the wrong plays all day in a game against the Eagles. Nothing came of it because no one with the Cowboys, including the new head coach, knew the difference. And in any case, the Cowboys couldn't outfumble the Eagles' Randy Hall.
"We have some dedicated people," Dreamer said.
Now it was December and I had gone to Fort Worth.
I checked into the Hyatt Regency again. Later in the week, after Kathy and the CBS gang came in for the Cowboys-Giants game, I would move to the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas. TV crews needed to stay together.
Shake had left word at the Hyatt for me to meet him at Mommie's Trust Fund. Jim Tom and the Junior League would be there.
Before slipping into my combat clothes for the evening—jeans, sport coat, golf shirt, loafers—I called Barbara Jane, as I always did, to let her know the plane hadn't been hijacked to Cameroon.
Someone at the studio gave me a number where she could be reached.
I put through a call to that number and an Oriental answered.
"Who's this?" I said.
"Ying."
"Could I speak to Mrs. Puckett, please?"
"No Miz Pluckett."
"Is Barbara Jane Bookman there?"
"Babla Blookman?"
"Yes. Very pretty lady."
"She here, no can talk."
"Why?"
"Miz Blookman on tennis court."
"Is this Mr. Sullivan's residence?"
"Yes, Mr. Sullivan house. No can talk. Velly busy on tennis court."
I left a message for Barbara Jane: "We'll always have Paris."
"Who message flom?" Ying asked.
"Martina," I said.
Mommie's Trust Fund was packed with the predictable array of debutantes and entrepreneurs.
I pushed my way up to the bar, where Shake and Jim Tom had staked out some turf. Shake greeted me by saying, "Order us another drink, Billy Clyde. I'll go ask those girls what color cars they want."
Jim Tom was already trying to break up an argument between Vivian and Dexter.
I was hardly there long enough to order my first youngster when Jim Tom made a recruiting move on a blonde adorable with a fearsome set of homegrowns inside a T-shirt that said: ORDER A LA CARTE.
"Hold it!" Jim Tom said, as he grabbed the girl's arm. "You from a foreign country?"
"If you count Hurst-Euless," said the girl. "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Jim Tom Dexter. Who're you?"
"Somebody wh
o ain't got time for your bullshit."
The adorable tried to remove his hand from her arm.
Jim said, "What's that say on your shirt, darlin'? I had to drop out of school to fight a war."
"It says you can't afford the full-course dinner."
"Want a drink?"
"I have a drink on the other side of the bar, thank you."
Jim Tom said, "I want you to meet my celebrity friends." He nodded toward Shake and me.
"Hi," the girl said.
Shake and I both stuck out our hands.
"Hello," I said. "My name's Fat Chance."
"I'm Raw Deal," Shake said.
"We got some dope," Jim Tom said to the girl.
"You don't have enough," she sneered.
"Seriously, darlin', what's your name?"
"Flo."
"Cash Flo?"
"You got it!" The girl sprang free and dissolved into the crowd.
"I love these places," I said to Shake.
"It's the most fun I've ever had," he smiled.
Two hours later the three of us were standing outside The Blessed Virgin, admiring the marquee, which now said:
Appearing Nightly:
KIMCOOZE
44-22-38
and
SIX ALL NUDE CAMPFIRE GIRLS!
Our wrists were stamped at the door by a 6-5, 250-pound psycho. We moved into the darkness of The Blessed Virgin.
From the jukebox came the sound of an old Dixieland rendition of "Baby, Won't You Please Come Home?" Kim Cooze was performing on the stage.
