Summer 1959. I’ll refine my
first-baseman skills here at the semipro level, forget college, and
go straight to the major leagues. The old, grizzled, arthritic pitcher throws
some chin music. I jump cat-quick out of the way, trip, and fall on
my back, arms and legs kickin’ like an upside-down dung
beetle. The ball breaks over the plate for a strike. Laughter rings
universal. I decide to be a professional basketball player.
Fall 1959. Chicago’s Loyola University
will pay for my education if I play basketball for ’em.
I’ll hone my skills here for a while, quit school, and turn
professional. First practice. Jerry Harkness (who in 1963
will lead Loyola to the national championship) dribbles between
“my” legs, fakes right, goes left, jumps, floats in
midair for an hour, and slams home a dunk. I lay where I tripped
— doing the beetle dance again. Laughter bellows universal. I
decide to be a standup comedian. Spring 1960. Comedian! Show biz! A
can’t-miss. I’m a funny guy — the one who always
ends up holding court at fraternity parties, where I regale drunken
sophomores with my celebrated body-part-noise jokes. The Second City Comedy Club is just starting
out in Chicago. I’ll knock ’em dead on amateur night,
be discovered, leave school — make a fortune. I open with a verbal joke. Nothing! Maybe
some slapstick? I try my beetle impression. Nothing! A strong
finish — a litany of my famous body-part-noise jokes.
Nothing, followed by thunderous boos. Obviously my stuff is too
sophisticated for this non-college crowd. I decide to be a
businessman — because business is the second major alphabetically on
the list of majors and I have no interest in anthropology. Summer 1960. I work the summer in a factory.
A poster on the factory wall tells me there’s a fight club
across town where I can make $25 on Friday nights just by
poundin’ someone senseless. I’m the toughest man alive,
not quite sure how it happened — but it’s so.
I’ll hone my skills at the club level, then turn big-time
professional. I win the first fight; another college boy
and I trade windmill punches for three rounds, with no harm done. Second fight. No college boy here. I’ve
seen cauliflower ears before — this guy has a cauliflower
head. No
matter — I’ll kick his cauliflower ass! I windmill this
palooka though round one, and he never lays a glove on me. Round two, the world’s toughest man
drops his left. I wake up on my back, doing that damn beetle thing
again. My face looks like diseased-trout pâté, and
I’m missing three front teeth. There goes the movie-star career I was holding in
reserve. I decide to be a businessman (again) . . . a short-run deal
only, just until I can accumulate Big Money, take time off, and hone my
sports and show-business skills. After college. Computers are new to the
workplace. Might be Big Money in “computers.” I pass a
test. I’m a programmer — a terrible programmer; must be
a flaw in the test. Nonetheless, I survive. Over the years I edge up and down and
sideways. Lose some. Win some. I head a small software company for
a while. I’m a “consultant” for a year because
“unemployed bum” doesn’t read well on a
résumé. I work for a company about to fail. They
offer stock options instead of salary. I take the options. IBM
eventually buys the joint for inflated money — a big win, but
not quite enough money for me to quit work and hone skills in the
genres where I belong. Eventually technology and I strike a compromise: I’ll write no more articles titled
“The Computer Lie” for magazines, and computer technology
will evolve itself so that even I can understand some of it. A fine
compromise, but just so it’s understood, I’m outta here as
soon as I can escape to the entertainment world. Spring 2005. Someone stole my time. I’m
old, grizzled, and arthritic. I retire. “Old?”
“Grizzled?” “Arthritic?” Just like the
pitcher who delivered my chin music in 1959! That’s it! I was never
meant to play first base: I’m pitcher material.
I’ll hone my pitching skills in semipro
in the spring and be in the major leagues by next summer.
I’ll look for my old glove, after my
nap. Or maybe go to the gym and work on my hook shot, or punch the
heavy bag for awhile. Or maybe skip the gym and hone my beetle
dance for the grandkids — the littlest one, especially, loves
that one. And when I take my three front choppers out and do the
palooka impersonation — man, that’s one funny bit. My wife looks up from her book, smiles, and
returns to her reading. Life is perfect, just as I dreamed it would
be — in ’59, in the summer.
This article appears in Nov 17-23, 2005.
