WAS LOU THE LUCKIEST MAN ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH?

"Who'd a thunk? Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Knife just slipped."

"Three stitches, only a scratch, my friend."

"Easy for you to say. It really hurts, Doc."

A young man yells from another room.

"And while you're here, let me give you a quick physical. Check you out."

I stand up. There is a breeze, so I hold the gown in back.

"Okay," he says."  His hand is cold. "Now, turn your head and cough, please." 

"Cough, cough."

"Again"

"Cough, cough."

"Seems okay," says Dr. Norway.

"Seems?" I say.

"Well, you're not 18 anymore, Mr. Belair.  Things wear out.  Sag.  You know."

"Thanks a lot, Doc. I needed that."

There is a flash of light. We both turn, step back, our hands up.

Believe it or not, Lou Gehrig stands in front of us by the table.  He wears a sloppy Yankee cotton uniform, unbuttoned at the neck.

We do not breathe. 

"Hi guys," says Lou. "Had some time off, my left wing was acting up, and while I was sitting on this cloud, taking a break, I heard these rumors.  Maybe I didn't die of Lou Gehrig's disease, after all?  Brentwood, you're a sports writer, and Oslo, you're a Doctor.  Figured who better.  You must have heard something about this?"

"This is indeed an honor, Mr. Gehrig. Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted to play first base for the LA Dodgers."

"Dodgers, huh?  I heard they said good-bye to Ebbets Field.  Flatbush will never be the same." 

He shakes his head.  "Anyway," he says. "I was thinking. Could I have maybe prevented catching this ALS?  Rumors it was me getting hit by pitches too many times, and playing through the pain?" 

You might be right, Lou," I say.  "It might have been the bean balls. Too many concussions.  They added up.".

"Sure, there were broken bones but I kept batting.  I was nearly unconscious sometimes, I know, but I had this reputation for playing through all the injuries. I was always out there."

"Yep," says Dr. Norway.  "2,130 consecutive games over 14 years -

A nurse sticks her head in.  "Oslo?...Dr. Norway?  We need you out here.  There's a football player
yelling at us. Says he must get back on the field for the second half."

"Be right back," says Dr. Norway..

"I played football too, you know," says Lou.

"You're the symbol of commitment for playing every day, especially through the pain.  And you know that NFL players are eight times more likely to get ALS than normal."

I thumb Google into my iPod and read from a website.  Lou looks down at my cell phone and shakes his head.

"It's repeated head trauma, which produces toxic proteins that migrate to the spinal cord. The result is a disease that mimics ALS.

"The ALS Association in the US says that about 30,000 people have this incurable fatal disease that mostly kills men aged 40 and older by wasting away their muscles."

"That's what happened to me," he says

The doctor is back.  "Young player, furious with me.  I won't sign off so he can get back for the second half.  We need more tests.  Young players want to play, that's all."

"I remember," I say. " Ryan Grant, Packers running back.  He collapsed on his way off the field after getting hit.  Doctors immediately checked him out. A concussion. And when they took him out of the game he said, he should have kept his mouth shut, he'd still be in the game."

The nurse again.  "Doctor?  The boy says he's going to play anyway.  He doesn't care."

"These players need to understand the risks. A poster in the locker room isn't going to cut it."

I say, "Maybe players should see former Raider Steve Smith wasting away from the disease, his muscles shutting down one by one." I look at Dr. Norway.  "Remember Wally Hilgenberg, another player no longer with us."

"Athletes are stubborn," says Dr. Norway. "Young men in general think they're indestructible. They need to see what concussions can lead to.  It's much worse than just dizziness.  It's something worse than even dementia or Alzheimer's."

"Baseball, and football," I say. "What about rugby.  I see it is being televised here in the USA.  They don't wear any helmets at all." 

"Too bad I can no long have my head frozen. I followed the career of Ted Williams, but they didn't have freezing back in 1941.  A lot of things we didn't know about back then.

"At the time I was endorsing Cigarettes.  I remember the ad: 
 
  'Another time, he was knocked out by a ‘bean ball,’ yet next day walloped 3 triples in 5 innings,” the ad read. “Gehrig’s ‘Iron-Man’ record is proof of his splendid physical condition. As Lou says: ‘All the years I’ve been playing, I’ve been careful about my physical condition. Smoke? I smoke and enjoy it. My cigarette is Camel.’ ”

He looked down, and rubbed his hands. "I said I was the luckiest man on the face of the earth.  I was more like the stubbornist man on the face of the earth."

He take a deep breath.

Then he said, "Now that we know about this, we need to let  everybody know.  I have to talk with that young man."

And he is gone.

We are both dumbfounded. We sit motionless on the table. 

"Wow. What a day.," I say.. "Three stitches, I get a free physical, and I meet none other than Lou Gehrig.  Well, thank you, Dr. Norway, for a day I won't soon forget." 

And as I rise to leave, the good Doctor says, "Wait, there's one last test to perform."  He snaps on a rubber glove, smiles, and wiggles his index finger. 

"Wait, Doctor." I say. "Maybe that blond nurse I saw in the waiting room.  Maybe she could.....

"No such luck, Mr. Belair.  Now, bend over. This should only take a minute."

"A minute," I say. Oh boy.


---------------------------------------------------------------
*Help came from Barry Petchesky: CNN
Chris McGreal: The Guardian
Rob Neyer: (Sweetpot) ESPN
Wikipedia and Google Images  Also see:  NY Post-Medical group PAST (Feb 1, 2012)

JOSE CANSECO AND THE HALL OF FAME?

It's an overcast Saturday afternoon, lunch time.  I am at my usual spot, the Montana Galley, on Ventura, near Laurel Canyon,  I  walk in and wave to Helena, owner, who is very bubbly with the customers.  I order my usual, a grilled smelt on rye, with Mayo and cheese, and a tall buttermilk.

As I sit in a small booth in the back, who walks in but Jose Canseco.  He sits in the round booth near me in the back, and orders a T-Bone steak, two baked potatoes, Caesar salad, and coffee.

With an idea, I thumb my iPod.

A low voice says, "Hello?"

"Abilene Austin, please.  This Abilene?"

"Woody? Yeah, it's me.  Brentwood Belair, what a pleasant surprise. Been a while."

I slide out, move toward the door, and out onto the sidewalk.

"Remember, I sleep in on Saturdays.  Wait.  Let me gets some coffee, hold on."

"No, no. You haven't got time. Your first big story here in LA."

"Big story, huh?"

"I'm at the Montana Galley.  Jose Canseco.  He's here"

"Jose?  Canseco?  Who?  Well, I know who he is, but..."

"Seems he's trying to get back with the Red Sox.  DH.  It's an exclusive, my dear. He's right hear, sitting in the round booth in the back, all alone. Put on something nice and get over here."

"Canseco?" she says. There is silence.  "I know this guy. Better wear a tight sweater.  Do my hair. Give me  half an hour.  But I get the story first, then you can put it in your paper.  What is it? Valley Post Picayune."

"Deal. And welcome to LA.  I knew you'd be back."

As I sit back down, Jose is pushing his Caesar salad around with his fork. 

Twenty minutes, Abilene walks in, orders coffee, and walks directly toward the round booth in the back, a stand out, in her red sweater, I must say.    

Jose is served a T-Bone steak, medium rare, two baked potatoes, with chives and butter.  He squeezes a tennis ball in his left hand. 

"I can help you, Jose," she says.

His right eye twitches. "Do I know you?"

"Abilene Austin, KLUK-TV.  I interviewed you once after you fought Sikahema."

"Yes, I used to be a boxer.  Vai Sikahema.  Atlantic City.  Boxing, a rough and tumble sport.  Should have fought him inside."

"Can I sit?"

"Sure, why not." 

He looks at her.  "Yeah I remember. You were the only lady there."

"That was me."

"TV,  Yeah, I've seen you.  How did you ever get into sports."  He cuts his steak, and pokes at the baked potato.

"Wanted to be on TV.  Sports desk was available. Being Miss Congeniality in the 2005 Cajun National Chili Cook-Off , and a short skirt, probably the main reasons they hired me."

He tries to put the tennis ball in his pocket but his pants are too tight.  Instead, he drops it on the seat.

"Enough about me." she says..

"You know, you look better in person." he says.

Their eyes meet.  Then, "Pu-Shaw," she says, giggles, and slaps his hand.

She sees pills on the table. Two red ones, three capsules, and a round one, half red, half blue?

"Vitamins," he says,  "Yup. I try to keep in shape."

"I've heard you trying to get back into baseball.  Your only what,  40? 42?"

"47," he says. He breathes deeply.

"No?" she says, raising her eyebrows. 

He looks down at his plate, and stabs at the steak with his fork.  "I saw they were thinking about Tony Ramirez, so I said why not me?   What's he, hundred year old?

"So I tweet. I got almost 400,000 followers.    Somebody knows somebody, and maybe I can get a try out.   Maybe with the Red Sox.  Thought about the A's, but they're not looking so good. But the Red Sox got a real chance."

"You've kept in terrific shape. Why not?"

"Yeah," he says.  His right eye twitches.  "I'm hoping."

She reaches over and squeezes his forearm.  "Wow, pretty strong."

She scooches closer to him in the booth.  He doesn't move.

"Going to be tough," he says. "I'm not dumb.  Probably never get a pitch to hit.  They'll all be throwing at my head." A quick laugh.

He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head.  "Still in the game, though. I've been the manager, outfielder and designated hitter for the Yuma Scorpions of the North American League since last April."

He looks at her.  "Off the record, all of this?"

"Just two people talking over lunch." She reaches into her purse and clicks on her tape recorder

"Sad part is I'd be a pretty good player for a lot of teams."  He leans over his T-Bone, and two baked potatoes.  "I was MVP,  Rookie of the Year, had a 40-40 season, and I'm 32nd all-time with 462 homers."

"And 200 stolen bases."

He squints.  "How do you know all this?"

"You're Jose Canseco."  They bumps shoulders and she smiles.

He breathes deeply.  Again his right eye twitches. "Being out front with the drugs.  That's what's did me in."  His head bows, and he starts to sniffle.

"Hey, lots of guys came back. Mcgwire, he's now the Cards hitting coach. What about Darryl Strawberry. How many chances did they give him?"

"All I wanted to do was give the fans what they wanted.  I didn't hurt anybody."  His eyes are watery.

"How about Don King, Iron Mike,  Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress. They came back.  Come on, even Martha Stewart's back doing her thing on TV."

She holds his arm and shakes him.  "Anyone, you deserve a second chance."

"I should of just lied about it to Congress. A one-way ticket to Palooka-ville!  I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody.  Which I was.  Instead of a bum, which is what I am.  Let's face it.  That's what baseball thinks of me."  He puts his hands over his face.  "This is probably my last real chance." 

Large tears drop into the chives and butter of the baked potatoes.  "I'm not usually this way."

"Sweetheart," says Abilene. "Once again you'll be on top."

He wipes his eyes, "You really think so?"

"Guaranteed," she says. "Guaranteed."

He sits up straight, scoops up the pills on the table, and downs them with two gulps of coffee. 


It's Monday evening, Jose Canseco is sitting on the edge of a bed in a room at the Bonaventure.  He aims the remote.

"You're watching the KLUK Six o'clock Eyewitness News.  Here's Mr. News himself, Roswell Hobbs."

"Good evening everyone.  We begin with breaking news in sports.  Let's call in our new Miss Sports here at KLUK, none other than  Abilene Austin. Tell us Aby, a key figure in Major League Baseball is making a come back. And you have an exclusive."

"Thanks Roz. Yes, former major league slugger and admitted steroid user Jose Canseco wants to get back into baseball.  With the Boston Red Sox.  Through a usually reliable source, I was able to get an exclusive interview with him Saturday afternoon.

Jose's teeth clench.  "That was off the record.  What is she going to say?  I was in tears?  You weren't supposed..." says Jose.

"He's now 47. He's been serving as manager, outfielder and designated hitter for the Yuma Scorpions of the North American League since last April.

"Well, why not Jose?" says Abilene. "Stranger thing have perhaps happened, but, remember, it's not over...that's right... 'til it's over.  Winston Churchill had seven words for success:  Never, never, never, never, never, give up.  I spoke with him at the Montana Galley, over in the Valley.  We spoke over lunch, and what I can say is this: If he can pull this off, it will be one of the best comeback stories of the decade.  Good Luck Jose. Now, back to you Roswell."

"First of all, " says Roswell.  "Welcome to our News Team here at KLUK-TV.  So, Abilene, your first day and you already have an exclusive.  Wonderful. And sure, why not Jose?"

Jose clicks off the TV.  He laughs, opens a brown pill bottle, takes out a green pill, and drinks it down with half a glass of Gatoraide, and says, "Yeah, why not me?"

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."