can't do anymore of t his right now sorry
{ ENTRY, Jan. 10
Picked up a three-day-old copy of the Washington Post today. The headline sort've cracked me up:
BUSH REGULARLY ATTENDED MEETINGS ON IRAN SALES
RECORDS INDICATE KNOWLEDGE UNDERSTATED
What else is new. But he's still in the frickin' race, so God love him. Only in America, the land of opportunists. He's starting to slip a few percentage points in the polls, though. It's only a matter of time. But so what. George'll still hang tough. Till the bleedin' bitter end. Some people evidently have to be hit over the head a lot more times than once before they get the message.... }
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I guess yesterday was just about the worst day of my life. I don't feel like spending too much time on it, so I'm going to give you the condensed version. It's the second week of January, bitter cold, so I slept in to let it get a little warmer and didn't venture out into an unusually-sharp London fog to pick up my daily armful of newspapers until about eleven in the morning. When I got back in my room I laid all the papers I'd collected (the London Times, a fairly recent New York Times, the International Herald-Tribune, and a week-old USA TODAY) on the floor, warmed up a cup of hot chocolate on a little hot plate I recently broke down and invested in, and prepared to embark upon an enjoyable afternoon of news mongering. I was quite comfortable in my bluejeans, socks, and sweatshirt, and my hands felt good on the warm surface of the hot chocolate mug. I was even in a fairly good mood. Things were okay. I picked up the USA TODAY first, because they have the best sports page. I opened it up.
And there it was. Just a little "filler" story to keep January sports fans entertained
between their stupid football games:
PETE MARAVICH, 40, DIES OF HEART ATTACK WHILE PLAYING BASKETBALL
Maybe in a few years I might be, but as of right now I am not nearly a gifted enough writer to explain to you what I felt at that moment. It....I suppose it was not too unlike that buzzy-hollow feeling you get when you're really scared, like you're afraid you're going to pass out but you don't because you're too afraid. I tried to read it again; Maravich....heart attack....basketball....say what?! I couldn't even think straight at first. The words didn't register, man, only the scaredness. I skimmed through the article quickly, nervously, panicky; it said something about a pick-up game at a church, the players taking a break between games, somebody asking him how he was feeling, Pete replying "I feel great", turning to walk away, taking one step, and collapsing. Dead before he hit the floor. "I feel great," it said he said....it's a mistake, I thought. None of this is possible, I thought. And then I thought I was going to have a heart attack, the only time I can ever remember feeling my heart actually move, squeezing against itself like a clenching fist, beating right through my chest muscle. I looked around the square room and thought, somewhat logically considering, that I must be dreaming....
The important thing for you to understand here, especially since you're all big basketball fans or you wouldn't even be reading this shit, is that this man (god it's hard to think of him as a man and not some weird, eternal boy), Pete Maravich, was my idol. My hero. Christ, he was more than that, he was the person, the thing, the bloody way I patterned myself to be! And for my money, the greatest basketball player who ever lived. I'm sure I must've mentioned him earlier. He was a genius. If you define genius as the redefinition of anything, he was truly a genius. Because the innovative things he did with a basketball were legendary....They way he could dribble between his legs or behind his back going full speed, or shoot a no-look, wrap-around pass between two or three defenders on the break, and the way he would throw himself off balance at the basket and spin it up there with those huge hands so it would just barely kiss the glass and ricochet like black magic through the hoop, nobody did it better. And what a shooter! Didn't matter how far out he was he'd put it up, and more often that not it'd go in. The greatest scorer in college basketball history. And the way he looked was so perfect, perfect for a ten, twelve, fifteen-year-old boy to hero-worship, with his long shaggy hair and always the same trademark pair of unwashed floppy socks and the long arms and legs flapping and sticking out at crazy angles, shirt hardly ever tucked in, God he was great to watch! And millions of people paid to do just that for fifteen friggin' years. My mom took me to see him play in Louisiana when we were on vacation there in '69- --Pete went to LSU---and that night he scored 46 points for me; which was only two goddam points over his season's average for pete's sake! I was hooked. I taught myself how to dribble between my legs within a week. I was determined to be the next Pete Maravich, the next "Pistol Pete", no matter what it took or how many hours I had to practice. That's how I got my nickname "The Rifle". The sportswriter who gave it to me knew I sort've looked up to Pete and of course I already told you what a good shooter I was. It made sense. And Pete was more than a scorer too, he was an entertainer, a showman. A crowd-pleaser. Best ball-handler in the game. Fastest man in the league from one end of the court to the other, black or white. Hell, the guy could've been the Harlem Globetrotters if only he were black! Talk about prejudice. But it's no wonder he got a million-dollar contract before his playing days were over, the way people flocked to see him. If ever a player, an athlete, in any sport, any era, was unique, it was my main man, The Pistol. So excuse me for gushing a little. Damn.
And so yesterday here I am reading that he's dead. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Heart attack? A super-fit, ex-athlete in the prime of his life? A man who used to run more miles in a month than most fat businessmen walk in a goddam lifetime? And here's the most amazing thing; the article didn't say much more, but it did say that he collapsed while playing the game he loved, basketball, in a church gymnasium in Pasadena, California. Pasadena! That means he actually died in Pasadena, my home town for godsake! While he was playing basketball, while he was actually playing? The odds of that must be astronomical. And in church? Man, you'd think if a guy plays basketball in a goddam church that God'd friggin' give him a break! I even knew right away what church gym it was, there's only one church in Pasadena that has a decent gym, First Church Of The Nazarene, Parker Gymnasium, god I've only played there myself about a million fucking times....dead....how could Pete Maravich ever be dead, I thought. How could he do this....And then finally it all hit me, all the anger, all the sorrow, memories I'd pay a professional hit-man to get rid of, and finally the////man, the single damned thought nothing could kill; that while he was playing in a pick-up game in my own goddam home town---a game I could very easily've been playing in myself if I was around---here I was shivering and cowering and holed up like a scared-stiff pussy in this grungy little hotel halfway around the god damn world, doing nothing.
I couldn't stand that. I had to get out of this room. God, was I nervous. I didn't bother to grab a coat or even put on my shoes, or lock the damn door behind me, I just beat it down the back stairs, blasted out the back entrance, pointed myself north, and began to run.
And run. and run...
I didn't know where I was going. Truth is I wasn't going nowhere....I mean not anywhere. I was just running. Man, I just ran! I figured out later that I must've sprinted right up through the crowded streets of West Kensington, right through a ton of people I bet, because the first thing I actually remember is chugging my way through Hyde Park which is north of West Kensington, and being the middle of the day the park was crowded with working people on their lunch hour even though it was freezing cold. I could hear their voices, them yelling things to me. I guess I must've looked ridiculous to all those bundled-up Brits, a long-legged six-foot-five typical stupid American with a tan just loping along through the park in January in jeans and a sweatshirt, barefoot. But the only thing I was consciously aware of was my own breath in front of me. I just kept running my face into the just-exhaled gray puffs of my breath, that's all I cared about. And I wasn't jogging, either. I was flat-out and full-speed, and not getting tired at all, and I was only barely con
scious of my shoeless feet thumping softly like heartbeats against the brown, cold-frozen Hyde Park turf. When I got to the top of the park I turned right and followed Bayswater Road east to the Marble Arch, instinct I suppose, then right again and down Park Lane which borders the park's east edge. I remember running right by this big bronze statue of that Greek guy Achilles at the southeast corner of the park (called Hyde Park Corner) that I didn't even know was there, and I guarantee you old Achilles and I were the only ones in London that day that were outdoors who were half-naked. There was something about that statue. Even in the state I was in, I knew it was the neatest statue I ever saw....but I didn't stop. I didn't even wait for the light before crossing the street. Lucky I didn't get hit. I do think I sort've remember the cars honking at me as I darted across Knightsbridge, though. But I just kept running south. Ran right under the Wellington Arch. Then down Grosvenor Place and past Buckingham Palace, still going just as fast as I can, down Vauxhall Bridge Road, across the Vauxhall Bridge, and into this crummy little neighborhood just south of the river Thames. I admit that by this time I was lost. But I kept running. I kept running. I didn't never wanna stop, y'know? Finally my adrenalin must've run out and I was suddenly as tired as a man can be. Totally exhausted. My heart was beating like a hummingbird's, and my leg was killing me. But I kept running. Deeper and deeper into the guts of this poor, run-down part of town. House after house after house. And it was then, I think, that I actually felt the paralyzing needles of cold in the air. Yeah. That was about the first I was actually aware of it. God it was bitter cold, the worst I could ever remember it being. Pretty soon I could hear peoples' voices again, but couldn't tell what they were saying. I'd be lying if I tried to tell you. And then all at once all the equipment gave out and I collapsed in mid-stride on the sidewalk, in this slushy little pool of melted snow. I kind've fell face first, my cheek and forehead taking the worst of it, and I guess I was bleeding pretty bad. I was so tired I could barely move; all I could do was roll over so I wasn't right in the middle of the sidewalk. My knee was practically on fire. But I managed to prop myself up against the side of this shabby little storefront, I think it was a little grocery market, sitting in the slush with my back against the wall. Freezing. And that's when I started to cry.
I don't exactly know what I was crying about. Sure, I was very upset hearing about Pete's....Pete being gone, sure, I'm still kind've shook up by it, but while I was sitting there on that cold wet sidewalk it wasn't really Pete I was thinking about. That's the thing; I wasn't really thinking about anything, that is any one thing in particular. Okay okay, you wouldn't believe all the stupid stuff I was thinking about sitting there. Fact is I'm not gonna tell you, so you'll hafta use your imagination. But don't worry. I really wasn't in any shape to do much serious "real" thinking. All I can tell you is that I was just in so much///////////well, PAIN ....and to compound matters, I grabbed my feet and they were frozen solid. And I couldn't catch my breath. Try crying sometime when you can't catch your breath. But that didn't bother me too much. I just couldn't think straight, couldn't get a handle on whatever it was inside me that made me take off on a five-mile run in the middle of winter. I suppose it's fair to say I spaced out a little bit. After a few minutes the crying turned into sniffling, and all I could think was poor Pete, poor Pete. At least I'm alive....he's dead and I'm alive....maybe I could've been in that game....if I was in town there's a good chance I could've been, hell I used to play ball at Parker all the time....maybe I couldn't play pro ball anymore, okay maybe I can't, but I can sure as hell hold my own in a cheesy little pick-up game in Pasadena....it's my home town, not his....what was he doing in my home town anyway? That's too weird, I thought. But if I was in Pasadena like I should've been I would've known he was in town and I might've been in that game, maybe I could've done something. Maybe. Maybe I could've been the one to drive him to St. Luke's Hospital, hell I know the streets around there like the back of my....At least I would've gotten the chance to meet him. I never met him. But I wasn't there. I wasn't there. I wasn't frigging even fucking there.
And so what the hell in the world am I doing here....
After awhile I looked up and tried to focus my wet blurry eyes on all the people that had gathered there to gawk at me. God, my leg hurt. And I couldn't even feel my feet at the end of my ankles, I've been soaking them all day today in warm water as it is. Man it was cold. I didn't even care that they were looking at me. This one sort've fairly young woman came up to me and asked me if I was alright, and I said sure, don't I look alright?, and she said sure or quite or indeed yes or something like that, and of course then I felt like a louse, and then she helped me up, stuffed a ten-pound note in my hand, and loaded me into a cab. She even cleaned the blood off my stupid face. She was really nice. That's all I remember about her, though. Happened too fast. I didn't even get a look at her face, so I have no friggin' idea if she was even good-looking or not.
The cab dropped me off at the front door of the hotel and I gave the cabbie the whole tenner. He offered to help me into the lobby, but I told him it was alright, I could make it. He thanked me about twenty times and drove off.
I hadn't taken one limping step into the hotel lobby when I heard that unbelievably annoying "Gude af'noon, sir!", I looked up and there he was. Omar, or Amir, or whatever his stupid name is. He was smiling like he'd just won the lottery. I don't think I've ever been so angry in my life. I know he didn't mean anything by it (although he should've noticed that I was wincing in pain every two seconds for godsake) but it still got to me. Especially the smiling. I remember thinking, if I could just do something to wipe that smile of this guy's face maybe I'll feel better. The more I looked at those big perfect white teeth the more I thought about it.
"Gude af'noon, sir!" he said again.
That did it. I knew I had to do something. But what? What could I do short of hitting him? My mind was racing. I was standing there dripping wet in my fucking frozen bare feet, all tired and beat up, depressed as hell, but I knew I had to do something. As fate would have it, my mind reeled back to my carefree college days, to some of the pranks me and my buds used to play driving around Westwood Village. Our favorite was giving somebody the old B.A. The B.A., students, consists of dropping one's pants, turning around, bending over, and availing one's target of his own bullseye in the form of one's carefully exposed A-hole. Which is exactly what I did. Right in the middle of this friggin' Arab hotel. I didn't say a word, either. I just dropped my jeans, turned around, bent over, spread the ol' cheeks as wide as they would go, and gave this grinning Middle Eastern numbskull a B.A. that I guarantee you he and everyone else who happened to be in the lobby will never, ever, forget.
Seemed like I was bent over like that forever, just looking back between my legs at that stupid Arab's upside-down smile. All that blood rushing to my head didn't exactly make my head feel better, I can tell you that. And the face cuts started bleeding again. But---as God is my witness---he lost it for just a second. For just a split second his face relaxed, from confusion or bewilderment or outright shock I guess, or whatever goddam Arabs feel when they see an American bend over and give them the old B.A., but somewhere within that blessed half-second he absolutely, positively lost his damn smile. I admit he started right back up again, smiling again and laughing to beat the band, but for just that one split second he did stop. He definitely did stop smiling. He did! I saw it! I saw it. I saw it. God damn it, man, I know I did.
Eight
I guess by now you've probably figured out that I beat it back home right after hearing the news about Pete. Yeah. Soon as I healed up. And it sure feels good to dash off these last few reports from my own apartment! I guess I'm stuck with this crazy old place. L.A. I mean. Every man is sort've stuck with both his home town and his own stupid country I guess. It gets in the blood. Like I said earlier, I'm not entirely sure in what order you're getting these things, but assuming that in the end it'll all wind up being pretty much in chronological order this i
s my last official entry. Sort've an "epilog", you might say. And so, right off the bat, I want to apologize for my last two or three dispatches from London. Whether you got them or not. I got a little emotional there for awhile, and I know I used some pretty "colorful" language. I even broke down and told my mom about it the other day. She said she understood, and all that jazz, but strongly advised me to knock it off "if you don't a-wanna wind uppa like you papa", and I suppose that cured me! Besides I was just being honest, doing exactly what my 'massa told me to do, and since he calls the shots there's always the chance he might clean it up a little anyway, before it goes to press.
The Basketball Expatriate Page 22
