This Won't Hurt a Bit

Take one dodgy family medical history, add in a couple of slightly perplexing test results, combine with a doctor who never met a medical procedure he didn’t like, and you get this:

“I want you to have an angiogram.”

When? you ask.

“Today,” he says.

Dim recollections enter your mind. Angiogram. Isn’t that the exam in which they scootch a wire up a bloodway into your heart and have a gander? From an entry point in an area where a man least wants a pack of strangers meddling? Won’t that be ... unpleasant?

“They’ll make you comfortable,” the doctor says.

Your ideal state for a procedure of this level of invasiveness could best be described as “unconscious.” As you were the last time medical personnel peered around in your inner regions. This theme dominates your thinking as you make your way to the friendly local hospital, where you move along with surprising speed to a room filled with people in beds along the wall, separated by retractable curtains. A nurse named Pam takes you into her care.

“You’ll be comfortable,” she says, as she pokes a needle into a vein in your left arm. A needle that feels distinctly larger than those used to extract blood. A quite attractive young physician assistant stops by to tell you what is soon to happen, which includes the possibility that something resembling the spring in a ballpoint pen will be permanently inserted into your heart tubing. Oh, and there is the rare but occasional bleeding. And heart attack.

You are then wheeled into another room where you edge onto a table beneath a big light. Two more nurses there promise to “make you comfortable” with a cocktail they will inject as soon as the doctor arrives. You ask that it include a Jack and water.

The good news they provide is that it appears the entry point for the scootching can be your wrist, instead of that other place. As a precaution, though, both places are washed with a soap that feels oddly cold. The doctor arrives, the cocktail flows, and he inquires as to its impact. You ask if it can be augmented with a single malt scotch, preferably from the Islay region.

At some point during all this, perhaps while your mind is wandering off to Scotland, the scootching occurs. A dye is injected, with the resultant sensation that you are taking a warm shower, but only on the inside. The dye allows an image to be seen on a screen, an image the doctor shows you. It looks to you like a map of the Amazon and its tributaries, but to the doctor it signifies something else: everything in your ticker, he says, is A-O.K. Those previously perplexing test results must have involved a false positive, he says. No big deal.

At which point, for the first time all day, you feel very comfortable.

Gooooaaaallll!

Inspired by the World Cup, I’m trying to give a damn about soccer. Any kind of damn. It isn't easy.

Part of the reason, I know, is that the only soccer I've ever witnessed in person involved a field full of 8-year-olds running around somewhat randomly, every now and then kicking the ball in no particular direction. I quickly realized that the only way for this to be entertaining was to have a blood relationship - and I mean a close one - to someone on the field. I didn’t.

I’ve seen professional soccer played on TV, and did appreciate the difference in skill level. Those guys certainly have a way with their feet - stutter stepping, juking, hands unemployed - why, I bet they’d be naturals on the Riverdance stage.

But the result seemed all-too-similar to that of the 8-year-olds: one or more players would scheme to get the ball close to the relevant goal, and then some opposing player would intervene and kick it WAY THE HELL to the other end of the field. At which point the process would take place again, in reverse.

It was a little like watching a basketball game in which nobody makes a shot, with the occasional minor drama of someone bouncing a lob pass off his head toward the basket.

My effort to get excited is further complicated by the fact that I have no particular allegiance to my U.S.A. home team. A couple of countries that I could support for genealogical reasons - Scotland and Ireland - failed to qualify. (Slovenia made it! North Korea! What’s wrong, Scotland and Ireland?) England did qualify, and is, in fact, considered one of the stronger contenders. But I have a curious lack of enthusiasm for the English team. Maybe, because of David Beckham, I unfairly associate it with the Spice Girls.

Still, I know that some sort of rooting interest is necessary if I am to give that damn. And so, after careful consideration, I’ve decided to support Brazil, the five-time winner and favorite.

Am I shamelessly boarding the bandwagon? Not at all. It’s just that my extensive research determined that, of all the teams, Brazil has the coolest jerseys. Shirts. Whatever.

BFF

My best friend died a year ago today.

Before going down for his funeral, I started jotting down notes about some of the memories we’d created over our 40-plus years.

Each one had long-since taken shorthand form for us; a few words that instantly transported us back to a specific point in time:

Chinese Genetics. The Lightning Storm. The Accommodation Bar. Throw Double-Ones. Evil Roy Slade. The Best Meal Ever. The Worst Night Ever. Is This a Purse, or What? You Sugared the Eggs. Bulls Strategy. Beat the Dolt.

And so on. I had 58 when I stopped, but there are more.

Each one still transports me.

Some tales inevitably grew with the telling. In Beat the Dolt, our account of a college intramural football game, the number of touchdown passes he threw me inched up over the years. No matter. Friendships don’t rely on facts.

I can still hear his voice, and the to-the-point way he started every phone call to me (“Rogers? Furby.”). I can feel his handshake, left hand gripping my upper arm, as he warns me to drive carefully. I can see him in the distance of Victoria Station, 1988, as he stops, puts down his bag, and thrusts both arms over his head, triumphant: two Moss Point boys together in London. England, beware!

We talked and argued endlessly over God, politics and sports. He made me laugh more than anyone else. He saved my sanity more than once.

Our last conversation was by phone, him in a hospital room in Mississippi, me in my kitchen in New York. He was to have more tests the next day, yet another effort to find out what was wrong, to see what could be done to fix it.

“Hang in there, boy,” I said.

“I will,” he said.

But he couldn’t.

I’ve put a candle on the mantel today. It’s in memory, and honor, of the light he brought to my life.

The candle will go out. The light will not.

Kills Bugs Dead

Anyone who doubts the adhesive power of TV advertising on the brain should take a look at some of the stuff rattling around in my head, in some cases even after decades. See how many you can put a product to:

__ _______ will clean your whole house, and everything that’s in it.

____ _____ means fine tobacco.

I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.

Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

My baloney has a first name, it’s _ _ _ _ _

_______ tastes good like a cigarette should.

There’s nothing like the face of a kid eating a _______ ___.

_____ takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

You’ll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with _________.

Everything tastes better when it sits on a ____.

Everything’s better, with __________ on it.

How ’bout a nice, ________ punch?

See the U.S.A., in your _________.

Mmmm, mmmm, good. Mmmm, mmmm, good. That’s what ________ _____ are, mmmm, mmmm, good!

____ has a better idea.

_______ cleans while it shines.

The beer that made Milwaukee famous, simply because it tastes so good.

You’re smoking neat, you’re smoking clean, with __________ today.

Have one, have another, it’s that kind of beer.

Have a ____ and a smile.

Betcha can’t eat just one.

_____ has been shown to be an effective, decay-preventive dentifrice when used in a conscientiously applied program of oral hygiene and regular professional care.

______ is a candy mint! _____ is a breath mint!

Show us your ____ pack.

A ______, a ______, a wonderful wonderful toy.

588, 2-3hundred. ______!

So pure, it floats!

Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.

Won’t sink to the bottom of the bowl.

_______ consumes 47 times its weight in excess stomach acid.

Nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven, and _________ says it best.

Silly rabbit! ____ are for kids!

Choosy mothers choose ___.

____ cleans like a white tornado!

You got chocolate in my peanut butter.

_________ kills germs on contact.

A ________, a ________, delicious whole-wheat biscuit, baked only by Nabisco.

It’s not fried, it’s ______ _ ____, and I hepped.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is.

Now you know, and you can take all bets, that when you smoke all seven filter cigarettes, you’ll find some too strong, some too light, but ________ got the taste that’s right.

But wait, there’s more!

And indeed there is. Commercials aren’t the only thing from TV filling up my head. But that’s a topic for another time...


Answers: Mr. Clean, Lucky Strike, Alka Seltzer, Big Mac, Oscar Mayer, Winston, Hershey bar, Timex, Pepsodent, Ritz, Bluebonnet margarine, Hawaiian Punch, Chevrolet, Campell’s soups, Ford, Pledge, Schlitz, Parliament, Old Milwaukee, Coke, Lay's potato chips, Crest, Certs, Lark, Slinky, Empire carpets, Ivory soap, M&M, Seven Seas salad dressing, Rolaids, Pillsbury, Trix, Jif, Ajax, Reese’s Cups, Listerine, Triscuits, Shake ‘n Bake, Alka Seltzer, Viceroy. The headline and art refer, or course, to Raid.

Love and Local 203

I have an annual fling with football, and I respect it, as a sport. But every year at this time my heart returns to my first, true love: baseball.

Today’s kids seem to all grow up playing soccer, scurrying around in some inchoate effort to kick a speckled ball into a net, their arms and hands all but useless. I was lucky enough to come along when baseball ruled, learning from older neighborhood mentors the simple but eternal truths: throw, catch, hit.

And run, when appropriate.

If we didn’t have enough players for a game, we’d play flies and grounders, or relay. If there were only two of us, pitcher and catcher, swapping roles as soon as one struck out three or walked four.

If there was only one, throw the ball straight up, and catch it when it comes down. A lesson in physics and coordination. (I once broke the windshield on my parents’ car.)

The first goal was to demonstrate sufficient skill at tryouts to be drafted by a Little League team. To win a uniform: team name across the chest, pants tucked at the knees to show off those stripped leggings, cap with bill carefully rounded, black canvas shoes with rubber cleats.

I wanted it all.

It took two years in the minors - wearing T-shirts for Staples Athletics and Nelson Pontiac Dodgers - before I got a uniform of my own and a place on Papermakers Local 203. From that to Standard Oil to Burnham’s Drugs, to steel cleats and stealing bases, I was a serviceable infielder, a decent hitter and, for a couple of years, a wildly erratic pitcher.

There was nothing, from sweaty practice sessions to snowball treats after the games, that wasn’t fun. Even a bad day on the baseball field beat a good day doing something else.

I know the detractors’ arguments: baseball is too slow, too boring, too arcane. This, I figure, comes from people who never played it, or never played it well enough to appreciate it. (The infield fly rule isn’t really that difficult.)

My own playing days are decades behind me, but I still love everything about baseball, especially at the ballpark: the pre-game warmups and stretches, infield and batting practice, the national anthem, the smells and tastes, the crowd’s crescendo as a fly ball climbs, climbs, climbs into a home run.

O.K., I’m not too crazy about the ticket prices for a Yankees game. But as any guy who’s ever bought diamonds knows, true love can be expensive.

Lights! Camera! Joe!

I’ve been thinking about becoming a movie star, figuring, how hard could it be?

Not a young, good-looking movie star, obviously. But look at the career that, say, Karl Malden had. And nobody is confusing Morgan Freeman with Denzel Washington, but they both seem to do all right.

As for training, I had a part as a lord in my third-grade play, complete with red satin knee breeches and tailcoat, in which I demonstrated a marked ability to skip around a Maypole - forward and backward, mind you. (Hey, Ken Hase couldn’t do it, and had to play a frog.) I appeared in my junior play as well, and, as I recall, was able to deliver my lines and move about the stage without tripping over anything.

Clearly, I would come to stardom having paid my dues.

And so the other day, when my friend the comedian/actor Mack Dryden offered me a role in a coming small-scale video production of his, I leapt at the chance. Such is the stuff success stories can be made of.

My role, shot on location around Rockefeller Center, might be billed in the credits as New Yorker With Attitude. That, and Guy Who Held the Camera While Mack Did the Funny Stuff.

I will not, as a result of the second role, actually appear on screen. But I did have lines, extemporized by Mack, that any critic would be sure to describe as “crucial to the plot development.”

Alas, any critic would most likely go on to describe them as “the worst imitation of a New York accent ever attempted.”

O.K. So accents, other than the one I come by naturally, are not my thing. Perhaps a better entry role might be Middle-Aged Guy With Ability to Look Very Stern, and I could work my way up from there.

Meanwhile, I’m not putting all my show business eggs in one basket. I’ve also been thinking about writing some hit country songs. I used to live in Nashville, and from what I could see, there’s good money in it.

Yankees Doodle Dandy

In the wake of the Yankees' stirring World Series championship,* a friend sent congratulations, tempered by his Yankees loathing: “Every year the Yanks don't win it is a victory for our national pastime in my opinion.”

Another confessed inner conflict, saying he really likes the team “except for A-Rod.”

Well. So it goes.

We Yankee fans are accustomed to such. Everybody needs a villain, it seems, and let’s face it, teams like the Padres, the Royals or those adorable loser Cubs just aren’t up to the role.

And so the Yankees go about their business of beating up teams at home in the Bronx, or traveling around the country and filling stadiums for other teams, and then beating them up.

“They’re buying championships!” critics cry. “The best team that money can buy!”

As if there’s something wrong with an owner trying to put the best team on the field. Besides, if money is the be-all, where are all those championships Jason Giambi, Kevin Brown, Carl Pavano and Randy Johnson were supposed to bring? How about a little sympathy here for nine years without a ring?

“Steroids!” others shout. “Cheaters!”

Hey, the Yankees have been winning championships since the days when cigarettes and beer were their performance enhancers. Imagine what the Babe or Mickey could have done sober!

So, in the spirit of comity, let's give the Yankees their due for No. 27, move on to football season, and hate the team that really deserves it: the Patriots.




*Every Yankees' World Series championship is stirring. Every defeat is either gut-wrenching or heartbreaking (see Game 7, 2001).