| | | Editor's Note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.
Chapter 12
... in which our hero declares war on the NBA.
Around 3 a.m. after the Super Bowl, I'm tending bar in Ybor City just outside Tampa -- so I can pay for my ticket back to L.A. -- when an old, stocky guy wearing a sombrero and the worst fake mustache you ever saw walks in and makes a beeline for me.
"You're Wheeler, aren't you? I know by the earring. Now, do you know who I am?" he whispers with a wink. He pulls the mustache away from his face so I can get a better view. Then he peels back his overcoat, and I catch the glint coming off the trophy he's stuffed inside it.
"You're Art Modell," I say.
"Shhhh," he says. He orders a drink and then motions me closer. "Mark Cuban told me you solved the Kobe-Shaq thing, that you have all the answers. Well, I have just one question, Wheeler: Listen to all those fans outside, clogging the streets, ready for a huge parade in the city of Baltimore. How are we going to repeat? They're all over Billick already, talking about Dilfer, about our defensive coordinator situation. How can we possibly repeat as Super Bowl champs?"
"Simple," I say. "Billick and Lewis, Dilfer ... all the rest of those guys, they weren't the keys to the Super Bowl."
"What was?" Art asks. "Tell me, I'm begging you, Wheeler."
|  | | Art Modell and the Vince Lombardi Trophy are headed to Modesto. |
"Moving," I say. "When you moved the team, you won. The way to repeat is, you've got to relocate. I've always thought Modesto was radical."
"Modesto," he repeats. "You're recommending we go back to Maryland and, while they're having the victory parade, we pack up the trucks and leave town?"
"Exactly."
"And win again next year as the Ravens from ... where?"
"Modesto," I say. "It's in California."
Art knocks back his drink, then grins at me.
"The Modesto Ravens. Mark Cuban was right about you, Wheeler, you're a genius."
And then he's out the door.
It has been that way for a couple of weeks, the way it is when you're in the zone. On a streak. Call it what you want. You feel like there are no edges to catch. Nothing to get hung up on. No falls that hurt.
So on the plane back, when my cell goes off and it's Cuban himself calling from Dallas with the secret code words, "I love this team," I just go for it. Because he's in a sweat.
"The owners are worried about the NBA," he says frantically. "They're calling a big meeting to decide what to do. The future of the league is at stake, and I've got to make some proposals."
"Well, Camby's coming back after he gave Van Gundy stitches," I say. "That's a perfect place to start. I'd have Camby and Van Gundy square off again. Really push it, dude. Strobe lights. Big music. The whole deal."
"You mean promote them fighting?" he asks, not quite able to hide how surprised he is.
"I don't see why not. And I don't see why nobody's allowed to go after the refs. You don't like the call, who says you can't get in the guy's face. The guy whistles you, calls a T, go ahead and give him a little love tap. Hit him on the head with a chair, let a little blood flow. I guarantee the fans will get stoked --"
"-- Wheeler --" Cuban says.
"-- speaking of which, who says the players can't go into the stands? Go on in and grab a few courtsiders who are mouthing off. Smack some heads around. Put some drama into the damn thing --"
"But Wheeler --"
"-- and have the visiting team play for the right to carry off the home team's cheerleaders. And I think there ought to be a walk-on contest. None of this stuff where a fan hits a halfcourt shot at halftime and wins a Chevy Malibu for a year. One lucky fan a night gets to suit up and get into the rotation during the game. Each team ought to have a certified prison inmate on its roster. And at least one junior high school student. And I'd call Rick Mahorn up and Bill Laimbeer, get some of those dudes with sharp elbows and make them the presidents of the East and West Conferences and have them maul each other during the All-Star Game, have Rodman come out of the stands --"
"Listen to me, Wheeler --"
"-- and as far as the 24-second clock goes, call fouls only during the first 20 seconds. The last four you can throw a forearm into a guy's throat or take his legs out and dump him on his head while he's beating the buzzer, and it's no foul. Also, you're allowed four flagrant fouls a game."
"Wheeler, the owners want to clean up the image. That's why they're having this meeting," Cuban says.
"Oh. Well, I'm only a skateboarding, snowboarding, bartending freak, trying to grind, dude."
"So you mean, turn the NBA into the XBA?" Cuban says. "Kind of like the XFL?"
"You're already halfway there," I tell him. "I say, just go for it. Oh, and by the way, as a special treat for you, I'd put your owner's seat at the top of the backboard."
"I like that," he says, and I can tell he's starting to come around. "Wheeler," he finally says, "you know how much I love my team."
"I do, Cubes," I say.
"So I'd like you to think about becoming chief of basketball operations for the Mavericks."
Well, any dude's got to be flattered by that.
I keep him hanging for a tick, and then I say, "I'll let you know when I touch down."
Next Week: Chapter 13, in which our hero reunites America's first couple -- Jason Sehorn and Angie Harmon.
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