Hey Rube Page 4

  Nashville, in fact, was once the Syphilis capital of America. During the Civil War the Yankees called it the City of 10,000 Whores because of the rampant disease that plagued the Union Army as more & more Southern women turned to prostitution as the Confederacy began losing the War—75 percent of them terminally infected with Syphilis, which made soldiers unable to fight.

  Al Gore is not from Nashville, & he is probably not a real Football Fan either. Gore will watch the game at home tonight, in Carthage, while he jabbers to his wife about Santa Claus & Whiskey & why his own goddamn state voted heavily against him for President.… Hell, Adelphia Coliseum will hold far, far more people tonight than Gore would have needed to win Florida. There are high school games on the outskirts of Nashville that draw 10,000 fans.

  Yeah, suck on that for a while, Bubba. If your Family Dog got loose tonight, it would draw a bigger crowd than you pulled in Palm Beach.… Shame on you, Al. They chopped you up like a worm.

  The Tennessee Titans will beat the jabbering slime out of the Dallas Cowboys tonight. They will whip them like baby mules & embarrass the whole state of Texas.… But not for long, and not enough to make George Bush cry.

  (Which one, you ask? Hell, it hardly matters, does it? They all spring from the same root, and they all have the same greedy instincts. The only time they cry is when they lose money—and that won’t happen tonight. The Cowboys are 14-point underdogs, but the real spread is more like 33.)

  It is not sane to give away 33 points in the playoffs, or even in the Super Bowl—although I did once, and I won.… It was my finest day in the gambling business. The Broncos were playing the 49ers in Super Bowl XXIV & the closing spread was 11, which I gave without hesitation in a crowded Aspen bar.… It is always a huge advantage, when fleecing people in public, to bet against rabid fans on their own turf. You want to do it in a loud, mocking voice that grates on the nerves of everybody within hearing range, so even your Friends will be infuriated & start betting rashly.

  On this day the 49ers scored twice before the Broncos even got the ball. The crowd went into a funk, and bettors among them were happy to take 22 points, at only 2–1 odds. Nobody wants to Quit & slink away this early in the Big Game.

  By the middle of the second quarter the score was something like 30–3. And the homeboys were getting desperate. The stakes had long since gone from hundreds of dollars into thousands—so when I offered to give 33 points at 5–1 payoff odds, they eagerly gobbled it up. Hell, they were six points ahead & the Broncos were bound to score soon. Ho ho. The final score was 55–10. It was my finest day in the gambling business.

  —December 25, 2000

  The Curse of Musburger

  The start of a new year is always a good time to watch football and settle old scores, so let’s get to it. I have some serious grudges to grind at the end of a foul year like 2000. It was not so much a bad year as a deeply Wrong one—but to make a list of reasons why it was Wrong would torture us all & only double the suffering.

  I have old scores to even with all manner of people: Brent Musburger, Lyle Lovett, Lawyers, foreigners, Pit bulls, Russian Pimps, and the whole Los Angeles Police Department. There are rotten people everywhere.

  My grudge against Brent Musburger has been smoking on a personal back burner for many years—since the early 1980s, in fact, when Brent was covering the NBA finals for CBS-TV, and it involves the word “downtown.”

  That is when Musburger changed the language of sportswriting forever when he came up with the ignorant notion that any basketball player firing off a long three-point shot is shooting from “downtown.” (Celtics announcer Johnny Most might have coined the “downtown” trademark in the 1960s, but it was Musburger who beat it to death.)

  I still hear in my dreams the wild stupid gibberish coming out of that yo-yo’s mouth every time Nate McMillan or Dennis Johnson drilled one of those long flat three-pointers.

  “All the way from downtown,” Brent would scream, “another one from Downtown!”

  It drove me mad then, & it still does every time one of those fools blurts it out. It was quickly picked up and adopted by a whole generation of half-bright TV commentators every night of the bloody season. It has become part of the Lexicon now, & it will not be easy to correct.… In gyms & Coliseums all over America (even in Greece or Korea), wherever basketball as we know it is played, there will be some howling Jackass braying “From downtown! Another three-pointer! Is this a great country, or what?”

  It is the Curse of Musburger, another dumb and relentless squawk from the world of baseball writers.

  “Going downtown” has more than one meaning—from going to work at 66 Wall Street in New York to anal rape in Alcatraz—but it always means going to a busy place, for good or ill. The Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang says it’s “where the action is”—a noisy, crowded place with many intersections & tall buildings & freaky-looking strangers.

  Indeed we all know that place. We see it every night on ESPN & on the hardwood at Boston Garden.… It’s that violent little place just under the glass on a big-time Basketball court where tall brutes slam each other around like crazed fish. They call it “Rebounding.”

  Downtown is where you score—not somewhere out in the wilderness, where people are far apart & not much happens. You don’t fire a long jump shot from Downtown, you fire it into Downtown. The Real definition of “Taking it downtown” is to suddenly drive to the basket & into a cluster of 7-footers who seem to have you sealed out—like Allen Iverson launching himself at Robinson & Duncan & dunking it over them. To think Otherwise would be to think like a Baseball Writer, or like Brent Musburger.

  He is a creepy bugger, for sure. I saw him whooping it up in the Superdome last week. He was hanging with some kids at the Saints-Rams game, acting like Mr. Rogers.

  Which is not a bad thing, necessarily, but it will get on your nerves in a hurry if you’re drunk. The last time I saw Brent socially was in the dinner lounge at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. I was dining with my old friend Jimmy the Greek & some women who said they were traveling with (famous fight promoter) Bob Arum, when Musburger came up to our table & started abusing the Greek in a loud voice about something Jimmy had said on the air about him.… We had a very prominent table, as the Greek always did, so I had him thrown out.

  “What’s wrong with that bum?” Jimmy asked. “He acts this way every time he gets around the Champ. I should have him killed.”

  He signaled for the maitre d’, but one of the women stopped him. Later that night a man was stabbed to death in the parking lot by a Sonny Liston fan.

  The real definition of “downtown,” back then, was wherever Muhammad Ali was at the time—which is still true: I saw him with the Mayor in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The Champ always draws a crowd.

  —January 1, 2001

  Cruel Twist in the Coaching Business

  My mood is foul tonight, so I will try to keep this short. I must keep this short, in fact, because I can barely see the page I’m working on. My left eye is swollen shut and my mouth is so crooked that I lisp & spit when I talk. My phone rings constantly, but I can’t answer it & football games are meaningless.

  On Friday (or maybe it was Thursday or Saturday) I was bitten on the cheek by a Brown Recluse spider & my face swelled up like a Blowfish. My eyes are like slits and my nose has disappeared.… I am Diss-Figured, in a word, and my sense of humor is cruel.

  This is an ugly way to live, but at least it has given me time to brood & bitch & fondle my crystal ball for the Meaning of Life in this rotten little year 2001.

  The rest of the year will be marked by three distinct trends—or Drifts, or Developments, Plagues, Fads, Fashions, & certainly inescapable Realities: huge tits, thin wallets, and enormous fear of bill collectors.… These will be the Primary Drive Energies behind everything else that happens in 2001. This is all Ye know & all Ye need to know.

  People scoff at the notion that naked women will soon be delivering the news o
n TV—but it is True, and it will happen very soon, for good or ill. Naked women Already deliver almost everything Else on TV, from sitcoms in prime-time Miller Lite & Magnavox ads & goofy little orgies on the Playboy channel at dawn, so why should the News or the Weather or Sports-Center be any different?

  You don’t need a crystal ball or the bite of a poison spider to see these things coming. All you have to do is read the newspapers or watch the TV News to see the stock markets staggering and the current craze for quick-fix “breast enhancements” swirling all around us on every street corner.… The boobs of Britney Spears are the hottest topic in Web chat rooms all over the world. The Implant industry is cranking up for a record-setting year, & the Santa Claus factory will look a lot different next Christmas than it ever has in the past: no more of those stupid little toys or bikes or Barbie dolls.

  No. The gift that every high school girl in America will be demanding this year is a top-of-the-line Boob Job, and millions will get their wish. It is no longer considered lewd or sleazy to give your 12-year-old daughter a hot-looking set of torpedo tits for Christmas.

  They are not cheap yet: $5000 or so is said to be Reasonable in the soccer mom set—which it is, compared to a new BMW convertible or chain of perfect diamonds—and if you don’t give her new boobs for Xmas you will Never hear the end of it. You will be Blamed, from now on, for every Wrong thing that happens in her life—from bad grades & pimples to evil boyfriends & nervous breakdowns & Failed marriages & finally, Insane Asylums.…

  It is already a truism in high schools that Big Boobs are absolutely Necessary if a girl wants to be successful in this world, and Huge Tits can make you a Billionaire. Look at Anna Nicole Smith on the cover of Playboy—all she needed to pocket a quick $450,000,000 was one (1) smart idea & a gigantic pair of knockers. Is this a Great Country, or what?

  Okay, okay, that’s it for boob jobs. Let’s get back to the Stock Market & the coming Crash. There will be a definite shrinkage of the Money Supply, and that is always bad news for the Disposable Income crowd. Lifestyles will be greatly diminished & many unpayable debts will be run up on Canceled credit cards. Half the people you know will declare Bankruptcy or turn to Prostitution for rent money. That is what they mean by “Crash.”

  Life will get meaner & dumber, and greedheads like Alex Rodriguez & Shaq & the hideous Daniel Snyder will have to drive around town in Armored cars. The crime rate will skyrocket & violent burglaries will be commonplace.… The parking lot at Yankee Stadium will become a savage No Man’s Land, like it was in the Good Old days of the Seventies. A nice club seat at Mile High Stadium will cost Ten dollars & Fifty cents, & Junk Sex will be available Night & Day at every Quick-Mart.

  Major sports markets will go belly up, & high-end teams like the Forty-Niners & the Celtics will wallow and crash into Bankruptcy. “Fans” will prey on each other like vultures in public Restrooms at the Garden & the Superdome. Your home will be Burglarized & you will suspect your Neighbors of doing it. Sales of canned Dog food will soar, water will cost more than gasoline, & Airports will be like War Zones.

  (Whoops! Get a grip on yourself, Doc. This is supposed to be a harmless little Sports column. Let’s not scare the children so soon after Xmas.)

  Okay, I told you I was in a foul head—so we’ll save that riff on Fear & Failure & Off-Duty Cops working as Armed Debt Collectors for next week. My face is swelling again & I have to call the Nurse. Later.

  —January 8, 2001

  The NFL Sucks . . . Another League Bites the Dust . . . Rich Kids with Weapons

  The NFL sucks.… That is a nasty way to open a column, but after watching another one of these putrid play-off games, I have nothing else to say. It is embarrassing to have to admit that I’ve been taking the NFL seriously all these years.

  Waking up to watch the Giants-Vikings game on Sunday was like rolling out of bed & stepping into a pile of steaming animal dung. The score at halftime was 34–0, & the Vikings had two first downs. Neither Moss nor Carter had caught a single pass & the Giants led 386–45 in total yards. The game was over, all bets were off, & the crowd in my kitchen was sullen. They had come here to watch football, not a road-paving operation.

  The Oakland bettors had given six points, so their game was over by halftime. The Raiders were clearly doomed.…

  Fortunately I had bet against them, just as I bet against Minnesota in the first game—although my personal preference was strongly for both Oakland & the Vikings.

  That is Fan-thinking, & I have learned from painful experience that it is almost always the Wrong way to bet. I learned this the Hard way, by consistently betting money—even serious money—against the Dallas Cowboys because I Hated them. I consistently Lost my bets. Those wretched bastards beat me nine times out of ten. They were a very Good football team, & the 49ers were Not.

  It was that simple, but it was more than a year before I learned to swallow my pride & my natural home team passion & bet like a smart boy on the Enemy & make money instead of having fun & losing it. Once I started betting on the Cowboys, I went on a winning streak that lasted for 10 years. It was a crucial lesson to learn.

  The Sheriff was one of those who got beaten like a gong on both games. By halftime of the Oakland whipping he was drinking heavily & rapping his knuckles on the bar whenever money changed hands, usually in My direction. At one point he began raving & cursing about Al Gore, who will be watching the game on TV about five miles from here in Snow-mass.… It will be Gore’s last ride in Air Force Two, & he is determined to make the most of it. His Secret Service handlers have already requested/demanded more Special Protection than he would need for a week in Miami Beach, & he also wants armed guards to surround his wife & daughters 24 hours a day.

  The Sheriff refused to have any part of it, because of the huge Costs, & his rising anger drove women out of the room.… Indeed, Al Gore & whatever remains of his family will arrive here tomorrow for a weeklong winter vacation, & the locals are getting edgy.… Presidential visits are fairly routine in Aspen. The Clintons visited two or three times a year for big-time Money-raising gigs, & Bush the Elder was here so often that I came to be good friends with his Secret Service agents.

  They hung around the Woody Creek Tavern for weeks at a time, protecting against assassins.… One summer the Whole neighborhood was overrun by armed bodyguards from three Nations. Bush traveled with a Presidential detail of 40 or 50; Prime Minister Thatcher of England had another 45 or so; & Prince Bandar of Saudi Arabia was here with his normal detail of at least 30 personal assassins who never leave his side.

  That is a lot of hired gunmen to bring into a rural community with a normal population of 300 cowboys & 50 confirmed addicts.… The Prince lives here, of course, so we are used to fast caravans of black Hummers & silver Mercedes 600s full of giggling naked children zooming around the Valley at all hours.

  Why not? Prince Bandar is a good neighbor & I would never Dream of butting into his Personal life. He has lived right up the hill from me for ten or eleven years. I am wary of his Politics & no doubt he is wary of mine, but that is not a problem in this neighborhood.… I have lived across the street, as it were, from some of the worst Swine in America, & I have always assumed that at least eleven percent of all visitors to my house are carrying either concealed weapons or felony-dangerous drugs. (About three percent carry both—down from 44 percent in the Seventies & 20 percent in the Eighties, but most of those are dead now & the rest are in prison.)

  “There is too much money out there,” said the Sheriff, waving his arm in the general direction of Aspen. “The billionaires have run the Millionaires out of town, & the new crowd has no sense of humor. None at all. My deputies got a 911 call last night from a seven-year-old kid who wanted us to arrest his Nanny for being mean to him. It happens all the time.” He made a quick chopping motion with his hand. “We had to Investigate it,” he snarled. “It was utterly bogus. We should have drowned the little bastard.”

  In the old days I went to many games & p
ersonally “covered” nine or ten Super Bowls. I was a Sportswriter, among other things, & I enjoyed the games & the Gambling & the crazy dumb Excitement that goes along with the Spectacle. I liked hanging out with Paul Hornung & Jimmy the Greek & engaging in random violence here & there. It was fun.

  It was not long before I learned that it was not even necessary to attend the games in person in order to Cover them & write excellent Super Bowl stories.… There is a relentless kind of Craziness that hovers in the air during Super Bowl week. You can get into serious trouble just for answering your Phone after midnight, or by simply opening your Hotel room door when somebody knocks on it. I once woke up in Reno with a strange woman about 15 hours after I attended the first half of a Denver-Washington game in San Diego.

  It made perfect sense at the time, but I have never been able to explain it—not even to myself. It remains one of the darker adventures of my life & cost me about sixty thousand dollars at a time when I was stone broke.… It was a Crime of Passion, as I recall, & we will let it go at that.

  On another occasion I was physically ejected from the Redskins Press box when I forgot to take my hat off for the National Anthem, & on another I got involved with the Bush family in Houston. I have flipped out in Miami & been kidnapped in New Orleans, all for just trying to do my job. The Super Bowl is always a high-risk Assignment for some people & I am definitely one of them.

  As for this year in Tampa, the Game itself looks like a guaranteed Bummer. Baltimore will squeeze out a six-point victory over the Giants, but only about 2,000 people in America will care about it. Both the City & the Game will be neck-deep in wild whores & hustlers & Pimps from all over the world, & President Bush might even make an appearance at halftime.…