IT'S NOT LOOKING GOOD FOR THE NFL

Bob and Ted stand on the curb, after a Saturday afternoon Vikings game.

"Boy, that guy St. Cloud, sure got his bell rung." says Bob. "Hope he's all right. I didn't see him in the second half."

"Looked like he really got hurt," says Ted.  "Both going for a fumble like that. Guy could have a broken neck. But that's the chance you take when you play football."

"League's trying to make it safer. You can't Horse Collar a guy anymore.  And Spearing.  That's  supposed to be illegal too, but how can you really rule that out.  I've heard some of the players are suing."

"Come on," says Ted. "That's what they signed up for  That's how the game is played. That's the NFL."

As they walk toward Bob's car,  a man in orange alligator boots, and an orange feather in his hatband, draws near.

"The game is over, gentlemen, but the night's not." he says.

Ted and Bob turn and look at the man.

"Are you game?" says the man.

"What exactly are you saying?" says Bob.   

"You don't have to be alone for the rest of the evening. They're waiting for you."

Bob and Ted, stare at each other,

"Am I too vague?  Here,"  he says.  He hands them a scrap of paper.  "Call these two ladies. They'll explain."  He moves away.  "You have fifteen minutes. Or you'll miss out."  He vanishes into the crowd.

Bob and Ted confer. Then make the call.

"Hello?" says Bob. "We got your number from a man with orange alligator bo..."

"No need to explain. I'm Carol. I have a friend, Alice.  Would you like companions for dinner?"

"Yes, but, we're low on cash. Do you take credit cards?"

"Debit. Credit."  Her voice is higher.  "As long as the card is good. We're easy."

"I think we already established that."

"Oh, funny guy. If I had a nickel...Okay, meet us at Bullwinkle's Saloon. It's near the stadium, and we'll talk.  How's that sound?"

"What about the man with the orange alligator boots?"

"Who?"

"I understand. Okay, but how will we know it's you?"

"Oh, you'll find us. You haven't done this much before, have you. Don't worry. Bullwinkles, half hour." 

Bob and Ted find Bullwinkles, enter, and see two ladies sitting together. They hold empty Champagne glasses.

The Curly Blond stands and waits. Bob and Ted slide into the booth.

The other has Short Brown hair.  Both have large Blue Eyes.  

"Don't be nervous ladies, we've been on blind dates before." says Bob. He breathes deeply. 

Ted smiles.

"So have we," says Carol, the Curly Blond. "Told you he was funny."  She hugs his arm.  "Viking tickets are so expensive, it is hard for us to find nice dinner companions."

"What do you do when the Vikings are on the road?  Place is empty?" asks Ted.

"Well, Carol and Alice, LLC, will have to work soccer games, I guess."  They look at each other. 
"We have other jobs."

"Alice is a legal assistant," says Carol. "And I'm working on her Masters in Econ."

Then Alice says, "Might not even be any football, fifteen, twenty years from now."

"What do you mean, no football." says Bob.  Carol still hugs Bob's arm.

"There are something like 21 lawsuits against the NFL right now, more than 300 players suing. 
Guys like Jim McMahon, Tony Dorsett, Ottis Anderson. 

Bob blinks.

"I read the Tweets at work?  Skinnim, Screwem, and Howe, Law offices? I work there."

Dinner is served, along with a second bottle of champagne, a bottle of Heidsleck 1907.

"More champagne? Why not," says Ted.  "It's not every night you can dine with such interesting ladies."

"We're not pretty?" asks Alice.  She looks up at Ted. Those large Blue Eyes.

"Yeah, that too." say Ted. "That's what I meant."  He breathes deeply.

"I'm Kidding. Don't be so nervous," says Alice.  She puts her head on his shoulder. "As I was saying."

"It's all the concussion in college football, almost 100,000 a year.  And all the law suits.  Soon insurance companies won't insure school athletic programs anymore, leaving schools no option, but to cut out football. 

"When I'm a mom," says Carol." My son will be playing soccer, or running the mile, or something,  if I have any say. Or golf,  that might be fun.  Only a few can play basketball.  Boxing and Ice hockey used to be the major sports once, so there is nothing sacred about football."

Full Metal Jousting," says Ted. "Talk about collisions.  It's a concussion or dislocated shoulder on every charge."

"From discussions in class," says Carol, "NFL will be around fifteen, maybe twenty years max. It'll only be played in Texas, and maybe Oklahoma. A single injury is life threatening."

"Law suits against the NFL boils down to the NFL not doing enough to stop the injuries, and those doctors on the sidelines?  They're hand picked.  They're told to keep the players playing.

"NFL claims they didn't know how bad the problem was.  Maybe they did, maybe they didn't."


They finish dinner, and champagne.  Bob and Ted sit and gaze at their empty plates.

"What?" says Carol. "Guys, you're come over for coffee, right?  We're just around the corner."

She kisses Bob on the cheek and both ladies push quickly out of the booth.  They giggle as they ramble out the door.

Six minutes later they are in a large third floor, two bedroom apartment. 

"Make yourselves at home, I'll get the coffee."  She comes back with four glasses and a bottle of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac.  "Something I picked up at the drug store. You like Cognac?"

Ted sees an Economics Textbook on the table, along with a ream of legal paper.  They told the truth. He is very relieved.  

"I think you're right about those injuries," said Bob. "I wouldn't want my son to get hurt like that. But every kid plays football."

"Everybody used to smoke too, but that's changing."

"Alabama and LSU are known for football, not so much for academics.  Now they will have to compete in the classroom.  That can't be bad." says Alice.

"And here," she says.  "So you'll be relaxed."  She wedges a chair under the door knob. "Now nobody can come in.  You're safe."

"So," says Carol." I'll need your credit card.  We're good on what we decided?  Alice and I have discussed the matter, and well, we think you guys are all right.  'Course after Alice checks your credit card."

"We're good," says Bob. "This will be another grampa story I can tell my grand kids over breakfast some day."    

"I don't know why, but I like you Bob," says Carol.  She laughs.  "Okay, then let's get you a story that can't be topped."

"Yep, that's what Ted and I had in mind."

Carol pulls Bob into the bedroom.  Under the covers, "You're naked." says Bob.

"That's kinda the idea," she says. "You're such a funny guy."  She yells, "Alice, I like this guy,  He's still making jokes.  I like you, you know."


Bacon sizzles on the stove.

I made you two breakfast," says Alice. "Least we could do.  We've decided we want you two to come back."

When football dries up," says Carol. "We might have to scout tennis tournaments, or maybe move over by the marina. Guys there have money, but they're just so snooty.  It'll be a hassle, but..."

"We don't like to put a whole lot in writing, but keep our number.  Whenever you need, you know, dinner companions.  We'll take sports some more."

They all hug and say nice things. Then Bob and Ted leave.

They turn back to see Carol and Alice wave out their front window. One is Curly Blond, and the other has short Brown Hair.  Both have Big Blue Eyes.

As they walk to Bobs car, they talk about coming back.  Bob looks at his credit card, takes a deep breath, then puts it back in his wallet.  Why not? They decided to come back soon.

------------
Help comes from:

Grantland.com
(CNN) -- A nasty collision during a...
What Would the End of Football Look Like?
An economic perspective on CTE and the concussion crisis
By Tyler Cowen and Kevin Grier on February 9, 2012
Google, Google Maps, Wikipedia.(Vikings),
StiffLeftJab.com (Is Lou the Luckiest Man on the Face of the Earth?)
ESPN.GO.com/nfl story (Hiding concussions...).

THE REHAB OF PEYTON MANNING

"Hey, Woody. Guess who?"

"Well, as I live and breath, Peyton Manning.  This is a surprise."

"Had to go through that newspaper of yours, Valley Post Picayune? to get your number."

"Hey, I've been reading about you."  I laugh.

"Been up here, a facility in Thousand Oaks, doing my rehab.  Place is mobbed.  Maybe a thousand people watching."

"Thanks for the invite. I do a sports column, remember?"

"Don't worry, Woody. I got something a whole lot better.  I'm flying out later.  Where should we meet?  I got a surprise for you."

"A surprise, well, sure," I say.  "How about the Montana Galley. Ventura Blvd, near Laurel Canyon."

"Woody, I'm sorry I haven't called more.  I'll never forget that last high school game. You said, You got the potential, so just follow your instincts, and don't fumble the ball. Remember?"

"Long time ago."

"I think about those word before every game, I really do.  So I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"I'll be here."  Wow. Peyton Manning.


A couple of hours later, coming in the back door, I introduce Peyton to Helena, the owner of the Montana Galley.  

She walks out of the kitchen, a big smile and long blond braids.

He stops and bows.  "And so young to be the owner."

"If you're hungry, we make a dynamite, Waffle, Peanut Butter, Jelly, topped with Lobster.  Lots of protein."  She stands back.  "You're a big guy. You'll love it."

She looks at me.  ""Two Lob-Awffles coming up. Not the most appetizing name, but guaranteed delish."  She takes us back to the round booth way in the back. 

As we sit, he says,  "Woody, you've always been good to me in your columns over the years. Ever since High School.   And ...well...I have a proposition for you.  But you can't write about it.  It's off the record."

"But Peyton?."

He taps the table.

"Okay, off the record." I say.  I take a deep breath and nod. 

"There are a few people in my life that I remember.  You're one of them.  You encouraged me in high school, and wrote about me.  We were about the same age. Now I can pay you back."

"Okay," I say. 

"I'm buying the Houston Texans."

Silence.

"NFL?  Football?  And I want you to be one of the owners."
 
"Hold on," I say.  "Can you do that?"  I look at him.  "Will they allow you to play against a team you own?   Wait, what're you saying?" 

"A young reporter.  You saw my potential.  Just those word have shaped my career.  Simple things. Come on. You'll be on the letterhead.  Half a percent of the Gross.  An NFL team." 

"But...wait a minute.  How will you find time to own...?"

He looks down.  He fingers his spoon.

"So, you're not going to play anymore?"

    "It''s all drama, Woody.  All this rehab. It's for the fans.  I've had three neck surgeries, and I might need more.  I can't throw more than 30 years, and the spin it just isn't there anymore.  Trainers tell me rehab will take time.  But...I'm looking at what?  More hits, and more concussions.  That's my future."

He fiddles more with the spoon. 

"I'm done playing football, Woody.  New chapter.  Time to move on.  I've thought about it. It's time."

"It's a life changing decision."  I say.

"I'll probably announce in May or June.  Then start negotiating for the Texans.  Don't tell anybody.  The price will go up."

Then he says, "It'll cost too much for the Colts to trade me.  And who's going to pay my salary?   No, it's time."

I look at him.  He smiles back. Then I shake my head. "Maybe you can practice you left handed shovel pass.  That might work."

His eyes twinkle.  "Or talk the Colts into bringing back T-Formation.  Every play will just be a hand off.  Draft a big offensive line."

We both laugh. 

"So, how much money do I need?"

He looks at his iPhone.  "Oh boy, I forgot. I'm supposed to do this radio interview.  I promised."

He looks around the room. "Think anybody'll mind?  I'll put it on speaker.  I've done thousands of these.  Smile and talk."

I look around, nobody notices us.

"KRUD radio 98.6.  Sweetwater Montgomery here with Sports Talk 98.6. We've got Peyton Manning on the line.

"I'm going to ask him the questions we all want to know.  Where will he be playing next season? Can he still pass the ball?  They're saying his arm is a wet noodle?

"Peyton, thanks for coming on. Let me ask you this, to begin with, will you ever play another game in the NFL?  That's the buzz.  Numerous neck surgeries, some are saying there's no snap on your passes anymore?"

"Good to talk to you,  Sweetwater. I don't know.  I'm still rehabbing."  Peyton's face is red.

"I can't believe I'm really talking to a legend," says Sweetwater.  "It's the real  Peyton Manning. But the Super Bowl, you think you'll ever be there again?" 

"I'm just waiting to see how the months play out. I'll continue to rehab...".

"Hold on, Peyton...Sorry...but we have a call coming from Joe Flacco...can you hold on?"

"Sure Sweetwater, I'll be here."  Then to me.  "Part of the job. My image with the fans. Insanity."

Helena arrives with two PJ Lobsters.  She slides in while we dig in.

"This is good," says Peyton. "Really."

"How about we call it the Peyton Manning Lobster Waffles?" she says

"I'd be honored, Helena." 

She squeezes his arm and smiles over at me. 

"My own waffle, peanut butter...upps,"  His iPhone beeps. 

"Hello, Sweetwater?...wait...Hold on Sweetwater, I've got a call coming in from...my agent."

"It's a text."  He reads to us in the booth. "Will you do a Metamucil commercial?  You know the constipation stuff...Two million, buy out, they have unlimited use?  We'll talk later."  He looks up. "Metamucil commercials. I'm already out to pasture."

"Peyton," says Sweetwater. "I have to apologize but we have another call coming in from Cam Newton, of the Panthers, so..."

"These interviews.I must do twenty...oh, hello again, Sweetwater?"

"Thanks Cam...Okay. You still there Peyton?  We have Doctor Huntsville. He had the same kind of surgery you did."

"That's right,"  says the good doctor. "After over 10 years of rigorous rehab in the gym, there has been no improvement in my nerve and related muscle strength."

"Well, Sweetwater, that is certainly good news.  Thanks a lot Doc."

"Peyton, thanks.  Are you coming for the Chili Cook Off in Loxley.  You'll be here for that, right?"

"All depends on my re... "

"Out of time. Thanks Peyton.  This is Sweetwater Montgomery, and we'll be right back."

Peyton began to laugh.  All three of us laugh.  Then we stop, and stare at our empty dishes.

"Yes, playing is over, but I'm not over."  He looks up.  "We're going to be football owners." And slaps the table. "I know you're in.  Half a percentage of an NFL Team.  I'll send you the paperwork. My gift to you, Woody."

We walk to the back door.  We all hug. 

"Okay. Gotta go.  I rented a pick up truck.  Be easier to keep those kids from TMZ off my back.  They follow me everywhere.  So, thanks Helena, for naming a dish after me, and Woody. Thanks for everything."

And off he goes toward LAX and back to Indy.

We wave. 

"Thanks Peyton," I say.  

"Being an NFL owner? That's a good thing,  Right?"

I look at her, and put my arm around her shoulder.  "Yes, Helena.  That's a real good thing."

--------
*Help comes from:

The Washington Post/ Peyton Manning
Google, Wikipedia
CBSSports/Handicapping
Yahoo Sports/Fan's Take
Nisqually Valley News/Seahawks
readabilityformulas,com

GISELE STANDS BY HER MAN

"Tom."  She waves from stage left, then runs to the center of the stage.

"Gisele?"  He removes his lab goggles, and walks to the center of the stage.  His head is down.

They meet.  She takes his hands.  "Oh, Tom," she says.

"Gisele." he says.  "What have I done?"  His voice is rocky.

A young man sits in the front row.  He holds a script.  "Yes, yes, Tom. That's good. Go with it.  You're coming from a state of anguish. You've just been given a B- by your Biology Teacher.  You're sick about it. That's your motivation."

A Young Lady sits near.  She starts to cry..  "Oh, Tom," she mumbles. "You don't have to be an A student. You're Student Body President.  You're on the Debate Team. You're the guy every girl in school would die for.  You can do anything you put your mind to, I know you can."

There is an off stage voice.  "He failed.  It was his fault.  He had to dissect a smelt. His hands shook.  He did not deserve an A grade.  The pressure of the exam did him in."

Gisele turns toward the voice.  "You're wrong," she says. "He had a Biology partner.  He was partially responsible.  He could have steadied Tom's hand.  Smelt is a tiny fish, if you didn't know."  She turns back.  "Oh, Tom."  She strokes his face.

"Gisele," says Tom.  "It wasn't all Wes' fault.  We studied anchovies, not smelt.  We thought it would be good enough.  We had pictures, we drew it's innards, we dissected them on the computer.  We ate them, cooked, boiled, sautéed them. Wes even slept with one near his head.  He was thinking osmosis."

"Oh Tom," she says. "I hope it was in a plastic bag.  Oh Tom."

He looks directly at Gisele.  "Wes helped me so much on the other exams.  We're a team in the lab.  It wasn't his fault. It was those anchovies."

Another Young Man enters stage left.  "We didn't see the smelt coming, Tom.  We were under some real pressure with that exam.  And we thought studying anchovies would be good enough."

Tom and Gisele turn toward the man.
 
"Maybe." he says. " If we had practiced on a chub, or Carp or maybe Sand Dabs.  I should have just bought a Flounder.  It would have been just as good.  Who knew anchovies were just too small to really see?"

An older man stands in the aisle and watches. He taps his lips with his index finger. 

"Is this all there is, Wainwright?  Just the two main characters?"

"Yes, Mr. Fairbanks," says Wainwright.  "My play is about people on top of the world, who fail. then move on to greater heights. These are the only two the audience really cares about.  Everyone else is simply the rest of the cast."   

"Oh Tom." says Gisele. She hugs Tom.

"Oh Gisele," says Tom.  He rests his head  on her shoulder.  Tears fall to the stage

"Yes, Tom," says Wainwright.  "Go with it.  Stay in the moment.  You're sad, and, yes. Tears.  Perfect."

Gisele lifts Tom's head, and brushes back his hair.  "So, a B- on your lab score. You wanted to be the absolute best, but not this time. So you won't be going to Stanford. You're over all score is still good enough for Princeton, or Michigan State.  Heck, UCLA will welcome you with open arms. Oh Tom."

"Oh, Gisele," says Tom. "All I wanted to say was I'm going to Stanford. But I failed."

"It's okay," she says.  She leans in and kisses him.  "We have each other,"

"They are just jealous of you Tom," says the Young Lady in the audience.  She still cries. "You're wonderful, even when you lose.  People are saying things out of jealousy.  They'll be apologizing soon." 

"Wainwright,"  says Mr. Fairbanks. "These are high schoolers.  Would they act this way.  They seem to be very mature, very adult"

"They are special high schoolers, Mr. Fairbanks.  He has the chops to do just about anywhere he wants, and she's a cheerleader.  They are not shy about how they speak, or act, or how they feel, and they don't care who knows it.  They are the King and the Queen of Homecoming.  That's why there is only real characters up there."

Mr. Fairbanks taps his index finger over his lips and looks back at the stage. 

Young Lady in the audience, "No Tom, you're still the best.  One biology class. Don't feel bad.  UCLA's still good.  Maybe in a year you can try again for Stanford. It'll still be there. 

She dabs her eyes. "Maybe next year it'll be a rat you'll have to dissect.  This time you'll eat, sleep, live with rats, not mice or Guiana pigs, but rats, and you'll ace the test.  I know you will.  Then you can transfer to Stanford."  She wipes more tears from her eyes.  

"It's time to go home,"  says Gisele.

"I should have been better prepared," says Tom. "I should have gone back and checked out
the tests they gave in the past, better analyzed the professor, figured out what he thought was important.  It was the pressure, Gisele.  I aced most of the other tests this semester."

"Tom, stay in the moment," says Wainwright.

"You can do it Tom." say the Young Lady in the audience.

Mr. Fairbanks, taps his index finger.

Voice off stage: "It's all your fault Tom.  You came up short.  You know it."

Tom's knee buckles and he slides to the floor. He sits with his head down.

Gisele kneels beside him. She lifts his head. "Oh Tom, we'll be together.  This is only a set back. We will not let this get us down.  It's Stanford's loss. Oh Tom, we're together. This will all pass."

Tom gets to his feet.  "I've nailed lab tests in the past. But what happened today?" 

Together they walk off stage right.

___________________

Help comes from:

msn.Foxsports (Gisele)
nydailynews.com/news/super-bowl-2012-
ogemawherald.com
grammer.quickanddirtytips.com
readabilityformulas.com
animalcrossing.wikia.com
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/early-lead/post/brandon-jacobs-apologizes
http://www.therepublic.com/view/story/fbn-gisele020912/fbn-gisele020912/

BIRDS FLIP AT THE SUPER BOWL

Man in a Brooks Brothers suit calls from the baggage area. He holds a briefcase.

"Fresh Air Taxi."  He waves.  "Beverly Hills.  I have a meeting in ten minutes. You get me there?"

"Beverly Hills?  At this time in the morning?  You are going to be needing a time machine, pal."

"Just kidding, my friend.  I got an hour or so."

Lady stands in a Silk Blouse, tight jeans, and red Converse.  "Hey, small world.  I'm going to the same place."  She moves toward another taxi.

"Hey, ride with me.  We'll share."

She stops, smiles, and says.  "Doing our part to save gas?"  Then walks back.  "Why not? You have an honest face.  Every penny counts."

"That's the spirit."  He opens the door for her, while I put her bag in the trunk.

A lady with a Diamond Broach, bluish hair and black nurse shoes, stands by the curb.
She looks to her right, then left, then back right. 

Brooks Brothers says, "You look lost. Going anywhere near Beverly Hills, ride with us."

She blinks and says, "My chauffeur was supposed to be here. Claims he ran out of gas." 

She has no luggage, just a purse. "No telling when he'll arrive."

"You got shotgun. That okay?" he says. 

She looks at Silk Blouse in the back seat, then at Brooks Brothers, and nods. "Thanks. I can ride shotgun. I'll save money."  She looks right and then left again. "Fine." 

She climbs in the passenger side and sits.  She hugs her purse, and leans toward the window.

"Do not be at all nervous. I drive quite well," I say to her, to allay any fear. 

"I'm sure you do,"  she says.  She leans forward and reads my registration card, " Mr. Palermo Sicily,  I'm sure you do."  

I deftly negotiate the aggressive buses, cars, and accidental tourists, head out of LAX , onto La Cienega Blvd. 

I glance at Mr. Brooks Brothers in the rear view mirror. "Did you have the Giants, in the game?"

"Had the Patriots, but my money was already made. I increased my stock portfolio just prior to the Game."

Brooks Brothers looks at Silver Blouse.  "That's what I do. Corporate stock. I bought shares of Comcast, parent of NBC.  $250 million from Super Bowl commercials in one day, helps their bottom line.  Thirty second ad cost $3 and a half million."

"But, you know, the big buzz was the half time show." says Silver Blouse. "M.I.A. flipping the bird at everybody.  How uncool.

"She did it quickly to make sure it wasn't edited out  And when she said don't give me any shit, well, I hardly heard it."

"If she wanted to cause a controversy," says Brooks Brothers. "She did.  Puts her on the map. She's a more valuable commodity now."

Silver Blouse nods.  "Madonna knew the risk when she allowed her on stage. M.I.A.'s been freaky in the past.  I'm hearing more about the Half Time Show,  than about the Game."

Miss Broach turns in her seat and says, "We had the world's full attention, so we throw at them fireworks, dancers, lip-synchers and smoke.  It was certainly no Olympics Opening Ceremony, where hope and union between nations was the message. To get kids to watch, NBC hires a dubious Gangsta type to shock everybody."

I missed most of all that," says Brooks Brothers. "Did you know, this was the first year the Super Bowl was streamed live to mobile phones?  Bought some stock in Verizon.  They had the exclusive Super Bowl rights with the NFL.  Extra $10 to down load the app.  So buying a few shares made sense.  How could I lose?"

Silver Blouse nods at Brooks Brothers. "I'm a clothes designer, so I couldn't miss it.  In the past Half Time Shows have been rather drab.  But I think Madonna did well.  She was flashy, looked very professional, and wasn't afraid to get people up there that kids listen to.  She's 53, come on."

I say, "I think the key was the New York's strong defensive line, keeping Brady..."

"It was outrageous," says Miss Broach.  "We turn away from addressing real life problems here in America.  Instead they tell us, eat your Doritos, and watch this very expensive aging once super star, and be real shocked when some rapper flips us all the bird."

"That's a bit harsh, I think"  says the Silver Blouse. "Madonna's the only woman in the world who can look so regal, and not too ridiculous, clad like a Viking, while performing  off-balance one-legged yoga poses. She's still go it.  Come on, it's a Half Time Show, not the State of the Union."

"But ," says Brooks Brothers.  "What happens during half time? Guys are in the kitchen getting more beer.  My guys tell me almost 50 million cases of beer were sold, because of the game.  How could you not see that coming. I bought more shares in Budweiser, and Molson-Coors."

"You must have a very large portfolio?" says Silver Blouse, smiling up at him.

"You'd be surprised."  He looks down at Silver Blouse's tight jeans. "It gets a lot bigger around Super Bowl time. Doesn't take a rocket surgeon to make money.  I get excited when my portfolio grows."

Silver Blouse cocks her head, and rubs her knees.

I say, "There were some passes dropped by New England that could have..."

Miss Broach says, "Whole affair was a blasphemy."

"I think you mean an obscenity," says Brooks Brothers. "There's a difference.  You might even think it was profane, but that too is a little different.  Blasphemous is showing contempt for God, and while similar, profanity is a show of contempt.  I think you mean it was obscene." 

"What is obscene," says Miss Broach. "Is the money spent on the damn thing.  At least they hired the Indianapolis Children's Choir.  Those kids had some fun and a night out.  But what about the almost 30 percent of children in Indianapolis who live below the national poverty line."

Silver Blouse looks out the window.  "I was really young, but for me Madonna opened the door for me, talking about things that you wouldn't ever read in Cosmopolitan.  A young lady's sexuality was something no one wanted to really talk about.  Madonna was there for a lot of us."

Brooks Brother nudges Silver Blouse's thigh.  "Calavo, large avocado co-op. You know how much guacamole was eaten during the Super Bowl?"

"And you bought guacamole?" 

"You got it,  That's what I do. My portfolio is growing as we speak.  Matter of fact it's gotten bigger since I've been here in this cab."  He raises his eyebrows.  "That's a fact."

Miss Broach shakes her head.  "How many textbooks, teacher's salaries, art supplies can be bought with what was spent on 15 minutes of very questionable entertainment?  I've heard better karaoke."

I turn off George Burns Road, onto Gracie Allen Drive, and stop next to the Emergency.

Cedars Sinai." I say. 

Brooks Brothers says, "Well, this is my stop.  Hey, what are you doing later. Have lunch with me?" 

Silk Blouse, leans back in the seat.

"You have to eat,"  he says. "Come on, You'll be finished by noon."

"You're right. Okay, meet me in front of Macy's at noon.  And no food court.  Some place nice."

"Brooks Brothers gets out, then turns back.  "By the way, what's your name?"

"You show up, I'll tell you." says Silver Blouse.

He waves and walks toward sliding doors.

I drop Silver Blouse at the the Beverly Center.  We figure a third, she pays, I get her bag, and watch her stride away, spring in her red Converse.

I slide back behind the wheel. "How did I do, ma'am?" I say,

"Well, young man." says Miss Broach.  "My chauffeur has been a pain lately, missing connections, running out of gas, gum wrappers on the seat. You could pick me up at the airport?"

"Being CEO of Fresh Air Taxi, say the word. One of my taxi's will pick you up." 

"I'm in and out of L.A. all the time. I own a Jewelry store on Rodeo Drive.  I cater to rich people, but I don't have to like them. Most had rich parents, never had to fight for a dollar.  I don't need the money, anymore. I give most of it to needy people I meet."

I drop her off in the middle of Beverly Hills. She takes my card.  I wave.  She waves back.

And I sit there for a minute.

Wow.  Win $100 on the Super Bowl, learn how to create a large portfolio, and meet a lady that owns a Beverly Hills jewelry store.  All in one day.

Nice.

--------

*Help comes from:

Google, Wikipedia,
rt.com (Feb 6),
MTV.com/Madonna,
www.Superbowl.com/
Winnipegfree Press,
Belfast Telegraph

AMERICAN FOOTBALL IS CLEARLY A GIRL'S SPORT

Helena is a lady true to her word.

"I said I'd make you breakfast," she says.  "And well, walk me down.  You can help me open, and I'll make you something special." 

I asked last night if she would come up for coffee after the movie and well, here it is now,  5:30 am.

I live two floors above her restaurant, the Montana Galley. As a gentleman, I walk her down.

"What sounds good?"

"Surprise me." I say.  We open and I sit at my usual booth in the back.

Other early risers enter.

She brings coffee, and we sit.

"Remember, Super Bowl's Sunday." says Helena.  "I got the Giants.  Hope you haven't forgotten our bet?"

"Oh, I remember." I promised to be her slave for a day if I lost.
 
"I've made a list." says Helena.  She nudges me under the table with her foot.

"Okay," she says.  "I 'm trying something new for my breakfast menu.  You wanted surprise.   Hope you don't mind being my guinae pig. Got my best chef on it."

A Man leans over the booth.

"'ello Laddie.  Playing the odds on American Football, eh?"

"Just a friendly Super Bowl bet."

"Think I coo take some of that also?  I'm from Queens, so I like
the Giants.  I'm not a 'uge American Football fan, but I'd go for a wager.  l canee let
Boston take the prize."

I sit silently for a second.  This man, a visitor, might bring added oomph to our breakfast.

"Please," I say. "Come sit with us.  We'll talk about it."  Helena seems game.

"Sure, Laddie,"  says the Man, and slides into our booth.

I give him the same odds I give Helena last week, the odds Key West, my odds guy down near Hialeah, gives me:

Giants +3, Overs 55, $100 to win $115, and $120 to win $!00.

He takes Giants plus 3 for $500.  We shake.

"This is Helena, and I'm Brentwood.  You're not originally from around here, " I say, and sip my coffee.

"You think?" says Helena.

He smiles.  "Hail from Scaw'lun.  Names Glasgow.  Glasgow  Killbride.  I play rugby back 'ome. The Ednbrah Eagles, Rugby League."

"I see they're televising more Rugby here in America. I write a sports column for the Valley Post Picayune, so I know a wee bit about rugby."   Then I say, "Not to ruffle your feathers, but American Football is better." 

I look at Helena, and wink, then look over at Glasgow. 

He blinks.  "Well, Laddie, " he says.  "I don't know about that.  The TV rugby is Rugby Union.  Very slow, lots of stops, with a million rules,  That's why it's on the tele.  Plenty of stops for commercials  Rugby League is non-stop, less confusin' rules, and well, much more excitin.'

My surprise arrives.  I look down at a three inch waffle sandwich; peanut butter, jelly and a layer of lobster.

Helena has the waitress bring us another plate.  "Both of you, tell me what you think."

We taste.

"Wow, this is terrific,"  says Glasgow.

"Magnificent," I say. And it is.

"It's got lobster," says Helena.  "What's not to like?  Right?  Now you were saying."

"Yes," says Glasgow.  "Eton, Charterhouse, Westminster School. It's Rugby Union.  It's a right of passage. Nobody gets hurt, or exhausted.  It's very slow, but a young Prep school chap can say, "Oh yes sir-ee.  I played Rugby."

"The first time I saw a rugby on TV," I say, "This muddy player was saying into the camera,  'I found it,'  showing his tooth to the camera.  He had a large missing-tooth grin on this face. And, I'll confess, a twinkle in this eye."

"That's Rugby League," says Glasgow.  "Ya don-nee to be the fastest, or the strongest, or the widest, We accept you just the way you are.  There is always a position you can play, regardless of shape, size, and height."

"In football," I say, "We have the forward pass, so we score a lot quicker.  We have a lot more plays, too, so the defenses are more complex.  And an interception can quickly change the momentum of the game.  We're more exciting."

"So," says Glasgow. "Both sports are known for bone crushin' tackles. Can-nee argue with that.

But all those excitin' crashes and an “almost anythin' goes” attitude, gives us the win.  Watchin' a 150-pound lightweight hooker take down a 300-pound tighthead prop, without nerry a scratch, is a thin' of beauty.

"Makes sense," says Helena.

"Thought you were on my side?" I say, and elbow her shoulder. Then to Glasgow, "15 players?  I guess you need that many to carry players off on stretchers?"

"That's right. The game stops for no man. If you’re not springin' back up and shakin' it off  we only stop to roll you off the field and pull in a substitute."

"Okay," I say."Our football players don’t just tackle, we collide, so we need safety  Helmet, face mask, chin strap, mouth protector, shoulder, tailbone, hip, thigh and knee pads. We win by sheer volume."

"Rugby League, it's basically, trunks, shoes, and mouthpiece. Goes without sayin', rugby players are bad asses on the field.  American Football is clearly a girl's sport.

I breathe heavily. 

"So," says Helena. "Your Lob-Affle...probably not the most appetizing name...how is it?  A winner, right?"

We both wipe our plates with pieces of waffle.

"I take that as a yes.  Good. Now, what to name it?  A Lobster PJ?"

"Football has the Hail Mary. Statue of Liberty. Football is Spiritual. It's Patriotic.   Bootleg, Red Dog, Shotgun, Halfback Draw. It's like a Tom Mix Western." 

"Tom who?" says Helena.

"Well, how 'boot, Hooker. Scrum. Maul. Ruck. Flyhalf.  We have all the cool names."

"Flyhalf?" says Helena.

"It's a player's position like Flanker, Prop, or Lock. Sometimes they're called 'First-Five Eighth,'"

"Of course," says Helena. "Silly me."   Again a kick under the table.

Lady from another table, looks over, and waves.  "Sorry, but I can't resist,  I’ve dated football players and rugby players. A senior linebacker at USC.  A real creep, never called me back.  But this Winger for the Northampton Saints.  Wow, what a doll.  We got married after only two weeks."

"Was he a hooligan?" asked Glasgow.

"Sure was, in the best sense."   She points to the Lob-Affle.  "And can I get one of those.  Looks delish."

Helena waves to her and strides toward the kitchen. 

"Yes," says Glasgow.  "We are known as the “Hooligan Sport Played by Gentlemen”, but at the end expect a nice meal and a pint, provided by the hostin' team after every game.  All grievances end once you get off the pitch and into the clubhouse.

His hands are fists. "80 minutes of nonstop ruggedness, Everyone gaspin' at the tackles, everyone wowin' at the plays.  Hands down, Rugby takes home the trophy."

A voice from two tables over.  "Guys, the reason they wear that much padding because every hit is a collision.  Their bodies are weapons.  Football is more physically demanding because it is about bursts of speed and physical power.  Not just endurance like rugby."

Another voice.  "Not really. Rugby's a man's game. American football is played by guys who can't play rugby and think they're hard."

Another voice and another voice...

And the debate, not yet physical, continues as I take my leave.  My conclusion:  Watch Rugby League, then watch American Football.  You decide. 

 And I am off to write my sports column. I bid farewell to Glasgow, and set next Monday morning for the resolution of our wager.

At the door, I wave to Helena, and say, "Coffee later?"

She winks and says, "Just coffee, now."   But there's that impulsive smile of hers, definitely one that is not missing any teeth.


-----------------------------------------------------
Help comes from:

Scotland Rugby League (scotlandrl.com)
BBC,CO,UK (Rugby Union)
Whoohoo.co.uk (Scottish translator)
Scots-online.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rugby

SHANGHAI AND THE GIANTS

I sit at my usual spot in the back.  Lunch at the Montana Galley,  A poached smelt on rye, Mayo and mustard, tall glass of buttermilk. 

I look up.

"Woody. What is happening?"  .

"Well, as I live and breath. " I say,.  As I chew my fish,  he slides into the booth.  "If it isn't Palermo Sicily.  How goes the Fresh Air Taxi Company?  Perfect, sunny day to have a job driving a cab."

"A fine day to have any kind of job.  Sun or no sun.  And today you should be referring to me as Mr. Sicily, since I am just adding a new Fresh Air taxi cab to my fleet."

He smiles, and waves to Helena, the owner, her eye on us form the kitchen. The food brings them in.  Helena keeps them coming back, she being so bubbly with the clientele.

"Hey, reason I am here, please put me down for $100 on the Giants. They are certainly looking like winners"

"$100?  So, you're saying you want me to extend you credit?"

"Come on.  You know I am good for it.  I am needing all my available funds for the expansion of my growing  business,  Do you know how competitive the independent taxi business is in LA?" 

I'm reading the Racing Form, so I have to shift gears. I won't find Super Bowl odds in the Form,  not even in the back, not even after the long lists of scratches.

"Well," I say. "For Super Bowl odd, I'll have to make a call, Pauly."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Upps." I say. "Sorry, Mr. Sicily.  Let me phone a friend, get the current odds." 

He smiles, and is out of the booth, on his way toward the kitchen and Helena.


I thumb my iPod.

"Yes?"

"This Key West?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Key, it me.  Brentwood."

"Oh, hey," says Key.  "Woody.  Okay., okay  I know.  Probably looking for that $50 on that Laker Heat game."

"Yeah, 2008."

"Well, it's been real tight down here. I claimed this $1000 maiden about a week ago at Hialeah."

"$1000, huh?"

"Woody, okay, okay, what with expenses, stable rental, feed, oh my God, you know how much straw costs these days? Entry fees, jock has to get something...I'm flat..." 

"Relax, Key," I say.  "Guy wants to bet on the Super Bowl, so instantly I thought who else to call but Key West."

"Woody, okay, sure, but hey, while I got you on the phone. I got this jock, he says this horse in the fifth at Belmont..."

"No thanks, Key.  I'm not paying for any more of your hot tips.  I'm looking for Super Bowl odds. Remember, Moos Jaw, couldn't lose, guaranteed?  Jumped the fence and ran around in the infield. Everybody was in hysterics, while I'm tearing up a handful of losing tickets.  Moose Jaw, last seen headed north for Saskatoon."

"Okay, okay. He was homesick.  How'd I know?"

"Just the odds, Key.  Just the odds."  

I look over at Pauly.  He sits with Helena, and they are laughing.  Should I be jealous?

"Okay, okay.  Odds.  Everything points to New England. Big money will come in on the Pats. Brady, Bilachek have a national following, but mostly it's faith in Brady. 

"Pats by 3 1/2.  Overs is 53.  $115 to win $100, and  $100 to win $120.  This is currently from the Cosmopolitan, Hard Rock, and Palazzo Books in Vegas.  So, here's what I'd do,  Give your mark Patriots by 3, with overs of 55. You'll probably be safe."

"Perfect. Thanks Key."

"Remember, the 49ers almost beat New York, even with Alex Smith.  Brady will take charge. Take the unders. Manning will not be able to overcome New England's defense. Money'll be made betting on New England.  That's my take." 

"Thanks Key. I knew you'd have good advice.  Just send me $25 and we're even."

"Good as in the mail, Woody.  Hey, this horse I've been watching at Hialeah. Durango.  Maybe you could, you know, front me....?"

"So long, Key."


Pauly continues to chews the fat with Helena, who, as I say, is very bubbly with the customers.

I wave and he is back. He slides into the booth.  "I am thinking the Giants have a good offense."

"How come you know so much about football?  I thought you were all about soccer?"

"Here is how it is.  I am seeing this story on KLUK TV news last night. Man has a camel who is able to see into the future. A camel, can you believe,  It can pick winners, so I says to myself, why not Shanghai?"

"Shanghai?"

"My cat.  Long story.  Fare into Chinatown, this Chinese lady,  forgets her cat. Don't ask.  Anyway.  This camel I am watching on TV picks NFL games, as good as the guys in Vegas, if not better."

He nods his head,

"Cat has nine lives, right, so I am thinking Shanghai is nine times smarter that some guy's camel. Anyway, I get these pictures of Eli Manning, and Tom Brady, put them down on the floor..."

"And Shanghai goes to the picture of Eli."

"How did you know?"

I shrug.

"Ok smarty," says Mr. Sicily, "How is Shanghai coming up with the score?"

"You took some paper, and you wrote some numbers..."

"No, NO.  You gotta listen to this, it is kinda tricky.  I take this deck of cards, put them out on the floor.  Then I turn Shanghai around so he is dizzy and say. GO.  Nine of diamonds."

"So?  Giants by 9?  That's your bet?"

"Shanghai knows, I am telling you.   If ground hogs are predicting the weather. Shanghai can pick Super Bowls."

He pulls out his phone. "Got a pick up at LAX.  So, I am down for New York, and 3 points, and over 55.  One hundred dollar?" 

"Deal," I say.

He stands up. "Woody, " he says. "I am reading your column in the Valley Post Picayune.  What are you thinking?  49ers in the Super Bowl, with Terrell Owens being their wide receiver?  My friend, stick to race horses."  He laughs.  "Ariva Derchi."

"Drive real careful, there Mr. Sicily."

I'm ready to leave when, to my good fortune, Helena slides into the booth.  "Stick around.  I want some of this action."

I breathe deeply.  "Say what?  You want action?"

"I was listening."  She pushes $10 bill toward me. "I'll take New York to win."

I pat her hand and push it back. "Tell you what. You win, I'll be your slave for a day."

Silence.  She blinks. "And if I lose?"

I look into her large brown eyes, and just smile. 

LET'S BUY THE REDSKINS

Man in a terry cloth robe sits on the roof, beside the Casino's pool.  He looks toward the sky, and blows smoke from a cigar.

Another man waves and walks onto the deck. "Hampton, you look comfortable."

"Newport. Come. Sit. Get some sun."

The man hobbles over to a nearby chair.

"Just get some steam?" says Hampton,

"Yeah, the closest I get to hot nowadays is that steam room."

They both laugh, their bellies jiggle.

Hampton watches two young ladies, naked, swim in the pool. He sighs heavily.  Well, they're almost naked.

"Yeah," he says. "It's been boring ever since my daddy gave me my first office building 40 years ago. Now I've got too many to count."

"Me too," says Newport. "Real estate's been good for both of us, yeah?" 

"We gotta find something exciting to do, you know.  We gotta get lives." says Hampton

"All I got to look forward to is another hip replacement. Uggg.  My Doctor, young guy, says
he wants to put me on marijuana treatment for my glaucoma.  Smoke a joint twice a day,
he says.  What the hell is this world coming to?  Doctor's now your drug dealer?"

They shake their heads.

"You're right, we gotta get some life into our lives. Here, watch this."

They both move over to the side of the roof.

Hampton takes out his wallet, picks out two one dollar bills, then puts one back and throws the other over the side.  They watch it flutter.to the street.

"Look at those people running for that dollar."

They both laugh, their bellies jiggle.

"I got some money stashed,  Caymans, real money, off the books."

"Yeah," says Newport. "I got some too, a lot really, nobody knows about."  He pulls out his cell phone.  "My guy, Boston, takes care of my money.  Everything hand written in a book.  Nothing is on the computer, so nobody can hack into it."  He whispers to Hampton .  "About hundred twenty million."

Hampton raises his eyes brows. "I could probably come up with about that."

They sit back down and look at each other. 

"Why not?  Lets spend it.  Doing us no good in somebody's book.  Something exciting."

"Let's buy a football team," says Hampton "I like it when the TV shows the owners in their box, all excited about the game and their team, announcers talking about them, all proud to know them."

"Boston?" says Newport into his phone.  "Newport here. We want to buy a football team. Me and Hampton.  What's for sale?"

Silence.

"Yeah, no joke. It's me.  No, I'm sober."  They both laugh, their bellies jiggle. "Looking for some excitement.  You got my real money, so, how much for some NFL team. We want to go big. Let's buy the Redskins."

Newport's face turns pink.

"Washington Redskins...WHAT?  $1.2 billion.  BILLION?  What?"

The both blink, and breath deeply.  Billion?  And blink again. 

"The Cowboys, $1.8 billion?  New York Jets are what? $1.1 billion.  The Chargers?  Only $907 million?"    

More blinking.

Hampton watches the two young girls, naked, swim past on their backs. They smile; lots of teeth.  Hampton sighs heavily.  Well, they're almost naked. 

"Maybe, some team like the Raiders, little less? They're real exciting, right?  $761 million?  YIKES.  That much?"

Hampton gulps at his Martini.

"No, Boston. It's been a while since I've actually been to a game.  WHAT?"  He turns to Hampton,  "Average cost to take the family of four to an NFL game is, get this, $450. Good seats, beers, hot dogs, couple of foam fingers, parking.  Average $450,  That's the average."

Hampton waves his empty martini glass in the air. GQ in a tux trots over.

"What about Major League Baseball?  Maybe a little less?  Yankees? $1.7 billion?   Hey, the Pittsburgh Pirates are only about $400 million."

Hampton watches the two young ladies, naked, climb out of the pool, and shake out their long hair.  Hampton sighs heavily.  Well, they're almost naked.

"The Quad City River Bandits might still be for sale.  Minor league baseball in Davenport Iowa.
I don't know.?  I don't feel the excitement, Boston.  Really?

"Ice Hockey?" says Newport. "Hampton, we got it, the Ducks.  Ice Hockey.  $260 million.  That's close."

"Too cold," says Hampton.  "All that ice.  Warmth, that's why I live here in Vegas, come on."

"Milwaukee Bucks, basketball, $258 million.  It's a small market.  That might be fun.  We can do that."

"Cold, Newport.  Don't like cold.  Get something cheaper, a lot warmer, and I don't want to do any work.  I've done my heavy lifting, collecting rents all my life.  Excitement, Newport, and not too far from this chair, and my martinis."

He blows smoke.

"Remember, we want TV where they show the owners in the owners box."

"What about soccer?  A growing sport. There's excitement there, right?  Probably get one of them English teams cheap, gotta be round $200 million."

"WHAT?" says Newport.

"Manchester United,  $1.8 billion?  BILLION?  Liverpool, $822 million. New Castle United?  Never heard of them.  Hey, they're only $315 million?"

Then to Hampton, "You like soccer?" says Newport.

Hampton shrugs. "There's a ball and they kick it around, right. How come they're so expensive?"

GQ in a tux drops off  his Martini.

"Chennai Super Kings, part of the Indian Premier Cricket League, in the $50 million range.  Indian cricket? That could be fun, no?" 

"Newport, we're two really rich old guys, and you're telling me all we can afford is some cricket team in the middle of India. India?  Isn't that close to Afghanistan?  Oh boy."

"You'd think $250 million would get us on TV. We're poor, Hampton.  Boston, we got all this money and we can't find anything exciting.  Sorry, my man.  Call me if you find something cheap, and please, don't lose that book."

Newton hangs up.  "Know what he said? Go over to Santa Anita and pick up a $10,00 claimer, probably a lot more exciting than some Billion dollar football team."

Hampton watches the two young ladies, naked, wave from the other side of the pool. Matter of fact they are naked.  He sighs very very heavily.

Then he slowly gets up, gulps downs the martini, and walks toward the door. "Come on, Newport."

"See you later, guys." say the naked ladies, real friendly.  

Where we going?" says Newport.

"We're going to Santa Anita, to see a man about a horse, but first I gotta see if I can get my dollar bill back."