by Dan Jenkins
We arrived in Texas on Feb. 7, the day before Tonsillitis Johnson was supposed to sign his letter of intent, the document that would deliver him to T. J. and the Horned Frogs for the next four years.
That evening, we went to dinner at Herb's Cafe with T. J. and his wife, Donna. It became a night to celebrate because T.J. let us in on the news that Tonsillitis had already signed his letter of intent with TCU.
The ceremony the next day would only be for the media, for the publicity splash.
"It's not legal, is it?" I said to T.J. "It doesn't bind him to anything if he signs before Feb. 8."
"It binds him to Big Ed's ass," said the coach.
I found out about the alumni award that night. T.J. couldn't keep the secret. His good friends Barbara Jane Bookman and Billy Clyde Puckett had been named co-winners of the first annual Horny Toad trophy, an honor to be cherished as the years go by.
"The what?"
TCU's trustees had been wanting to find a way to honor old grads who had distinguished themselves in life its ownself. They had come up with the Horny Toad Award—toad being a frog, as in Horned Frog, and horny being a toad with horns, as opposed to the other kind, a toad with a hard-on.
T.J. said, "The committee voted you and Barbara Jane the co-recipients because they couldn't decide between the two."
"Who's on the committee?"
"The chancellor and the trustees. Big Ed and them."
"It's a classy name."
"You're the first Horny Toad, son."
"I'm deeply moved."
Donna Lambert said, "You should be proud, Billy Clyde. They could have given it to some poetry freak."
While the announcement of the award would be forthcoming in the spring, the presentation wouldn't be made until the fall. Barbara Jane and I would receive our plaques at halftime of the opening game against Auburn in early September.
"Maybe we'll be speaking by then," I said.
T. J. apologized to Shake Tiller.
He said, "They wanted to honor you, too, hoss, but I guess they's folks around here who think you hadn't ought to have put so many shits in your book."
"I still have my art," said Shake.
"How's art doing?" I smiled.
"He's been tired lately," Shake said.
"Still play the sax?"
"Piano."
Donna Lambert said, "What are y'all talkin' about?"
We were talking about Shake's new novel, I said. The Past.
"What's it about?" T. J. didn't really care. He was being polite. The only book T. J. Lambert had ever read was Darrell Royal Talks Football.
Shake answered the question by saying, "It's about everything that's happened."
"To people?" Donna wondered.
"That's part of it."
"I like James Michener," she said.
Shake said, "Well, this is kind of what Michener would write if he'd gone to Paschal."
I put another youngster down my neck and made a suggestion. "I'd like to go around the table and ask everybody how to get my God-damn wife back," I said.
"Stop fuckin' that blonde," said T.J.
"I haven't fucked her."
"Sad but true," Shake said.
Donna said, "Billy Clyde, if you were smart, you'd go to Barbara Jane on bended knees."
"She wouldn't respect me."
"She would, too. If you open up your heart to her, she'll take you back in a redhot minute."
"Not till he stops fuckin' that blonde," T.J. said.
"I'm not fucking her," I said, forcefully.
Shake said, "People ought to get married on water skis. You wouldn't hear all the vows. You'd never know you fucked up."
This was a softer line on marriage. Shake had once said people should only get married in burning buildings. With luck, a guy could catch on fire and never have to go to a school carnival.
I looked squarely at T.J. and said, "I haven't fucked Kathy Montgomery, okay? Maybe I thought for one stupid night I wanted to fuck her, but I didn't, and now I don't, and I won't, and we're just friends, and that's all the fuck there is to it—and it's not worth breaking up my fucking home!"
Donna Lambert said, "Y'all feel free to say fuck any time you want to. It don't make a shit there's a lady present."
Tonsillitis Johnson signed his letter of intent at noon on Feb. 8.
The ceremony was held in the Lettermen's Lounge at TCU. It was attended by Jim Tom and two dozen writers and radio and TV reporters, who formed a half-circle around a table at which all of us were seated: me, Shake, T. J., Big Ed.
At a given signal from Big Ed, Tonsillitis was led into the room by Darnell, and the two of them were accompanied by Artis Toothis.
As they entered, flash attachments popped on Nikons, and hand-held TV cameramen scurried about.
Darnell Johnson looked extremely prosperous and dignified in his gray three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses, almost as prosperous and dignified as Artis Toothis in his three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses.
Tonsillitis again wore his maroon satin warmups and yellow mirrored sunglasses, but he had added a white headband.
T.J. stood up at the table and introduced Darnell.
Addressing the media, Darnell said:
"This is a great day for TCU. As you know, Artis Toothis has announced his plans to be playin' football here. Today, we are deliverin' to this university the other bes' football player in humanity."
Big Ed handed Darnell a gold pen. Darnell handed the gold pen to Tonsillitis.
"Sign your name, baby," Darnell said to his brother.
"Ratch ear?"
"Right there where it say."
I watched as Tonsillitis signed his name on the letter of intent, just on the odd chance that he might spell it "booley." No, he spelled it clearly and correctly. Tonsorrell Baines Johnson.
Everybody shook Tonsillitis' hand, Darnell's hand, T. J.'s hand, Big Ed's hand, Artis Toothis' hand. Pictures were taken of Tonsillitis with everyone, in twos, in threes, in groups.
T.J. then spoke to the press.
"Men, I don't need to tell you what this means to me. A coach wins football games with them horny old boys who want to eat the crotch out of a end zone. I got me two of 'em now. TCU's on the way back! Around this conference, they been sayin' you couldn't melt us down and pour us into a fight, but were gonna show 'em next fall! With Tonsillitis and Artis wearin' that purple, were gonna be jacked-off like a housecat."
In the press conference that followed, Tonsillitis was asked what he planned to study in college.
"Joggaphy," he said. "Joggaphy be tellin' you what's Eas' and Wes'. I like to look at pictures and maps and shit."
T.J. was asked if he would allow Tonsillitis to wear his headband at TCU. The reporter pointed out to T. J. that many black athletes wear headbands. It gave them a sense of pride in their ancestry.
"I got no problem with that," said T.J. "He can wear his headband... or his helmet."
When the proceedings were over, Big Ed took me aside.
"What are you going to do about my daughter?" he said.
The answer was that I would wait and hope she came to her senses, realize she was still in love with me, and make some overture about getting back together.
"She says you're having an affair. You say you're not. Who do I believe?"
"Ask Shake."
Big Ed chuckled. "Shake Tiller hasn't answered a question seriously since he was ten!"
"I'm not having an affair, Ed. The girl's good-looking, that's the problem. That's why nobody believes me. We're just friends."
"Some friend. She broke up your home."
"Kathy didn't break up my home. Barbara Jane broke up my home. What about that director your daughter's always with: does he bother you?"
"The faggot?"
"Jack Sullivan's not a fag. I wish he was."
"He could fool me at a costume party."
"Does Barb talk about him?"
"She says he's considerate."
/> "That's trouble."
"I know," said Big Ed. "Between you and me, Billy Clyde, that's the worst God-damn word women ever learned the meaning of."
"I've got supportive up there."
Big Ed lit a Sherman. "The director's a faggot whether he knows it or not. At least you been going around with a normal person."
"There is that," I said, looking away. "What do you hear from the swami, Ed?"
It was more than an effort to change the subject. I wondered if Big Ed realized, or cared to admit, that Darnell and Tonsillitis had worked a scam on him.
"Gone," he said. "If I had to guess, I'd say the Hindu son-of-a-bitch has moved on to the Big Eight or the Pac-10."
So Big Ed didn't know. Maybe I'd tell him someday after Tonsillitis made All-America, or won the conference for him, or scored so many touchdowns he turned white.
"By the way, thanks for the Horny Toad," I said. "T.J. told me."
"It's a real fine award. The trustees wanted to give it to me. I said naw, they didn't. They wanted to trade it to me for some more of my dinosaur wine. Go on and build your new library, I said. I'll pay for the damn thing."
"Tell your daughter I love her," I said.
On the way to the airport, Shake and I stopped off for a drink with Jim Tom Pinch at Herb's. Jim Tom wanted us to stay over another night so he could take us to Honey Bun's, Fort Worth's newest tit joint.
"Can't do it," Shake said. "Fun's about worn my ass out."
On the flight back to New York, Shake made literary notes to himself. I listened to tapes on my Aiwa recorder and thought about crawling to Los Angeles on my elbows and knees. Happily for my wardrobe, I had rejected the idea by the time the plane landed.
NINETEEN
A simple smile from Barbara Jane and my whole life was a highlight film. For a moment, I was nine years old and we were back in elementary school together. Then I was joking with her in a hallway at Paschal. In another instant, we were sitting under a tree outside a dorm at TCU. Finally it was that night in New York when we had kissed like sex-starved teenagers and fallen into love its ownself.
All this happened because our eyes met in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf before the Emmy Awards began.
Kathy and I had walked in and were looking for our CBS friends and suddenly there was Barb. She was sitting at the Rita table with Jack Sullivan, Carolyn Barnes, Sheldon Gurtz, Kitty Feldman, and a handful of bicoastals.
Because there had been a sweetness in Barbara Jane's smile, I ushered Kathy over to my wife's table. Barb stood up and gave me a hug and a friendly kiss. Just the touch and smell of her would have shattered me if I hadn't been an all- pro.
"You're handsome in a tux," Barb said.
"I had to go for the slick."
"You should wear it more often."
"Well," I said, "the band doesn't play that many formal dances."
Barbara Jane and Kathy were both wearing plunging gowns. They looked sensational. Standing between them, I felt like the emcee of the Miss Universe contest.
"Hello, Kathy," Barb said, nicely.
"Hi," Kathy replied. "God, you look neat!"
Kathy smiled at me and said, "There's our table. I'll go on."
Kathy walked away to the CBS table where Richard Marks was seated with Larry Hoage, Teddy Cole, Mike Rash, Brent Musburger, others.
Feeling the stares of the gang at the Rita table, I nodded a hello at everyone.
Jack Sullivan said, "Billy Clyde, you're excellent on the air. Don't let them change your style."
I thanked him.
"Are you going to win an Emmy?" I said to Barbara Jane.
"No," she said. "We hear Shirley Foster's a mortal lock for best actress."
"Who's Shirley Foster?"
"The star of Cruds.'"
"Call me Biff," I said.
I lit a cigarette for Barbara Jane and said, "I'm not with Kathy, Barb. I mean, we came together tonight, but... she's involved with someone."
"A lawyer," Barb said. "Shake told me."
"I would have told you but I never get to talk to anybody but Ying."
"We'd better take our seats."
"I want you back, Barb. We can work it out. Can I see you tomorrow?"
"We're going back to L.A. in the morning. I'll be busy all summer. I'm renting a house in Santa Monica. Our ratings are through the roof. They've ordered twenty-six shows for next year. And... there's some movie talk."
"My wife, the movie star. Who would have thought in the fifth grade that—"
"Ex-wife."
"We're still married."
"It's a state of mind, isn't it?"
I let that slide and said, "They want me to do golf tournaments."
"That'll be fun for you."
"I don't know anything about golf."
"Your stage manager can research it for you."
"You don't know how to let up, do you?"
She said, "I've been hurt, Billy C. I don't know how long I'll feel this way."
"Well, if you ever get over it, I'm findable," I said, and went to the CBS table.
Which was where I got intolerably drunk.
The awards dinner lasted four hours. The middle two hours constituted the telecast when all of the important Emmys were presented.
I bribed a waiter to bring me youngsters by the threes and fours while everyone else at our table drank champagne or wine and poked around on their plates at the green peas and slivers of mystery meat.
During the two-hour telecast, I watched an endless procession of actors and actresses and producers accept Emmys for an endless list of shows I had never heard of.
Barb had guessed right. She didn't win the Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series Emmy. But neither did Shirley Foster for Cruds! The award went to an actress named Diane Connors for a show called Goose and Bomber.
Rita was honored in another category. Sheldon Gurtz and Kitty Feldman won for best writing of a comedy series— for a script in which every line had been changed by Barb and Jack Sullivan.
When they made their acceptance speeches, Kitty spoke first, although she had trouble reaching the mike.
"I accept this award on behalf of the entire cast and crew," she said. "It's a great team."
"We're a family," said Sheldon. "It's the happiest show I've ever been a part of."
The sports awards came after the telecast was off the air, very late in the evening.
My category, Outstanding Analyst, which should have gone to John Madden, was taken by Laird Rinker, the twenty-two-year-old ex-surfing champion who did water sports for ABC.
At first, I wasn't sure why Larry Hoage had leaped up at our table and hollered, "Yippy-ty-yi-yee," but then I realized he had won the Emmy as the Outstanding Sports Host.
As Larry Hoage walked up to the stage and the mike, I tried to comfort Kathy Montgomery, who was in shock.
"This is the profession I've chosen," she said with sorrow in her voice.
"Only in America," I said to her. "It's a great country."
Larry Hoage's acceptance speech ran to such length that it practically cleared the grand ballroom. I only recall the beginning of it.
"Back in Orange County, California," he said, "the year was 1937 and a baby boy was born to the humble, hardworking couple of Bertha and Fred Hoage. This country was slowly digging its way out of a wingding of a financial depression. It was a hopeful year. Nobody could have known we were on the brink of another calamity—a gut-bustin' sidewinder of a shootin' war. Well, sir, that little curly-haired boy..."
From April through August I went to so many golf tournaments I felt like an alligator on a shirt pocket. CBS did tournaments in Augusta, Georgia; Hilton Head, South Carolina; Memphis; Columbus, Ohio; Washington, D.C.; Atlanta; Chicago; Philadelphia; Hartford; and Akron.
They were all the same event to me. Our cameras would point at the clouds because somebody said a golf ball was up there, and then our cameras would point at something rolling across the ground and going off the scr
een.
I learned to recognize a dramatic moment. That was when a golfer punched the air with his fist.
My job on the telecasts was relatively easy. I would sit up on a tower behind a green and try to guess which sets of tits in the gallery were following which golfers.
Every so often, the producer, a guy named Frank, would talk to me on the headset. He would say something like "Billy Clyde, holler down at the one in the green shorts. Tell her to turn around."
Occasionally, he would even tell me to say something on the air.
All I would have time to say was "Here's Ben Crenshaw. There are some other guys with him. They're all gonna walk around on the green a while. Let's go to Sixteen."
Kathy Montgomery was promoted to associate producer at the first of the summer. She was assigned to golf, which pleased her because it was live.
She worked in the main control truck with the producer and director. Her responsibility was to cuss out the graphics person for getting scores wrong and to count everyone down to commercials.
At times by accident I would hear Kathy over my headset. She would be spun. "Thirty seconds till Ideal commercial!" she would sing out. "Twenty-five...twenty...fifteen!" That was before I heard Frank say to her, "Kathy, if you want to stay in this business, take a Demerol."
Kathy was just another one of the guys now. She was still a good friend, somebody to drink with, eat dinner with, loaf around with on the road. She still looked great. But all I saw when I looked at her was another eager electronic journalist in faded jeans and a sweatshirt.
One evening in July we were in Chicago and Kathy asked if the two of us could go out to dinner, somewhere quaint and expensive, and talk about life its ownself the way we used to.
She took us to a restaurant where there was nothing on the menu for me to eat but the ice in my Scotch glass— Chicago's version of Enjolie's. That was the night she confessed that it was all over with Denise.
She said Denise had verbally attacked her for not being committed to their way of life. Denise had always been insanely jealous of me. And Denise had broken it off and moved to Eugene, Oregon, with a middle-distance runner named Janet.
"Denise was right," Kathy said. "I wasn't committed. I don't know why I got into that life. I'm a girl, Billy Clyde. I really am! I can't tell you what a relief it is to know it, to have a good feeling about it. You know what? I've never stopped thinking about you. You're probably the reason I'm back to normal."
