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Advice for the lovesick ... and the just plain sick
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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 13
... in which our hero rescues a fairy-tale marriage

The dude came in and started drinking even before my shift began. He was all hunched over his Margarita Testaverde (add a half jigger of knee drainage), and hidden behind a swirl of leather jacket with bits of cranberry-colored shirt peeking out.

"Up To No Good" should have been flashing on and off from a sign stuck to his back.

I know when to leave patrons alone at Lore's. And as an extreme athlete, I usually keep advice to myself, not out of selfish reasons but because Xtreme sports at heart isn't a competitive deal, so I don't blurt out my take on the best downhill line for a street luge or snowboard run unless I'm asked. Lately, though, with dudes like Mark Cuban cell-ing me up every three seconds to ask stuff like how should the NBA handle the Jason Kidd episode, I've felt a little freer to hand out a piece of my mind.

So when I see who it is hunched over in his leather jacket, I'm less inclined to hold back the way a good bartender should. Or, who knows, maybe that's just me being Mr. Go-For-It all over again.

"Jason," I say to the guy who's bent over looking miserable, "how bad could things be? You just played in the Super Bowl. You're getting married to that gorgeous actress, Angie Harmon. She doesn't have much of an upper deck, sure, but the whole world would be rocked to find you sitting here like this."

"That's the problem," he says. "The whole world saw me suck in the biggest game of my life. Slipping. Getting beat deep."

And with that he hurls. His shoulders just hunch up, and he chucks a bullet pass out of his mouth. Maybe he didn't think anything he did against the Ravens was of championship quality, but this was a Super Bowl hurl. It's not often a world-class athlete is man enough to show his emotions like that. At that moment, Jason Sehorn grew enormously in my eyes.

"Right away, in the locker room afterward, everyone was talking about next year and how we get back to the big game," Sehorn says, holding his forehead in his hand. "But I could tell, they knew where my head was at: cleaning stuff up here in L.A. before I get married to my beautiful actress. They knew I wasn't into the game. I let the organization down. It's obvious what I've got to do, Wheeler."

"What's that?"


	So what if Jason Sehorn doesn't have a Super Bowl ring. He's still got Angie.

He pulls out his cell phone. "I'm gonna call her right now and tell her it's off. It's a wedding ring or a Super Bowl ring, dude. Then maybe you and me can go ride some dirt bikes."

A few weeks ago, maybe I clam up and keep pouring. Maybe I let an All-Pro cornerback throw away happiness.

I finish swabbing up Sehorn's Super spew and bring him another Margarita.

"I just want to mention two names to you, Jason," I say, putting the drink down, "and then you just go ahead and call Angie and break up and let someone like Christian Peter move in on her, because he blew in here about six weeks ago complaining how he'd like a crack at some of your action."

"What names?" he asks.

"Rodney Peete. Holly Robinson."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he says.

"Rodney Peete was a player, but he doesn't have a Super Bowl ring. And he married a beautiful actress."

"What's your point, dude?"

"My point is, look at getting married this way -- as a chance to set a record. It's not a Super Bowl ring or a wedding ring. You can be the first dude to wear both. Win the Super Bowl and get married. Who cares if you love Angie anymore? I don't blame you for hating her -- she ruined your pregame focus. You should get married because you're a competitor trying to do something that's never been done."

All of a sudden, Jason's sitting up with that magazine-cover smile on his face. Like his whole world has suddenly been changed. Because I picked him up.

Sehorn stands and leaves. Tells me he's inviting me to his wedding. And there'll be a free Super Bowl ticket for me next year.

It wasn't until much later, when I was telling my friends Puker and Janine about this over an order of Xtreme Nachos with Pre-Eaten Pork, that the idea hits me: I ought to market myself, offer advice to the rest of the athletic world. Look how well it's going now.

Puker and Janine look at each other, and then Janine says, "Don't you think you're letting this stuff get a little out of hand?"

"It's one thing to talk with people in a bar. It's totally different to be some sort of super sports guru, Wheeler," Puker says. He wants me to come with him. He's got a trash can tied to a dirt bike. The object is, someone climbs into the metal bin while the partner whips it so that it dangles over the canyon edge.

I tell Puker and Janine to go on without me. I've got better things to do.

Next Week: Chapter 14, 1-900-Wheeler.