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)

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. 

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?"