| | | 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 16
... in which our hero fights off that most implacable of foes -- death
"They pulled me out of the snow, and my body temperature was 93.4, and they stuck me in this oxygen thing at the hospital, and for two days I hallucinated and hollered at the surgeon to keep his hands off me. They had me in restraints. Finally, the doctor looked at me and said, 'Wheeler, we can either go in now or watch the gangrene crawl up your arm and cut it off at the shoulder.' Well, there was only one choice. I said, 'Go for it, Dude.' "
I hold up my right hand, which is just one big cotton-candy-sized ball of post-operative gauze. And Kevin Malone, the Dodgers GM -- this is my first night back on the job at Lore's -- looks shocked. A big drippy nacho chip full of refried beans and hickory-smoked Bavarian boar falls right out of his mouth and onto his pants.
"Wheeler," he gasps, "that's the ugliest thing I've seen since Jesse Orosco showed up in camp."
"I'll have to work a little harder when I'm grabbing air on my board," I say, "but I'll change. Maybe I lost a fingertip or two. But this gangrene's going to turn into a growth experience."
Malone's in Lore's on a quick trip from Vero. Before his flight back, he spent a couple minutes with the Dodger brass, and the rest of the time getting awesomely hammered and telling me what bummer shape the team is in. It might even finish behind the Padres. Finish behind the Padres! Why bother unpacking the baseballs?
"I got gangrene, too," Kevin's telling me, "only where I work it's called Gary Sheffield."
"I feel bad about the advice I gave him on his contract, Kevin," I say. "But you can make a change too, dude."
"No way, Wheeler. Where do you think those rumors about the Mets, Yankees and Braves being interested in Sheffield are coming from -- they're coming from me. I mean, I dialed their numbers so I could technically claim we held talks. But you know who they really offered for Sheffield? The Braves offered the tumor they took out of Andres Gallaraga's back last year. The Yankees offered a second-string goalie from Manchester United. The Mets offered Sid Fernandez -- and he doesn't even belong to them anymore!"
|  | | Dodgers general manager Kevin Malone has had a rough month. |
Malone orders another Margarita Xtreme Speciale with a splash of Bursal fluid and Kosher salt. He begins weeping. I haven't seen a man look so pained since my homey Puker got loaded and tried imitating Ray Lewis' pre-Super Bowl war dance and broke his rib.
"You're letting it mess with your head, dude," I say, "and that leads only one place -- Wipe-Out City. Look at me. I went over the edge. All these people jamming me about how to run their affairs. My 1-900-Wheeler hotline. I was lying face-down in the snow up on Big Bear when Mark Cuban called to ask if he should trade for Juwan Howard. Did he ever ask about me? Mike Heisley sat where you're sitting right now, eating Quail Quesadillas, asking me about moving the Grizzlies to Anaheim. I learned I had to change my life. I lost the essence of who I am."
"The essence of who I am, Wheeler, is a GM with gangrene batting fourth and playing left field," Kevin says, "and the best I could do for Big Blue is get rid of Devon 'The Dud' White in exchange for Marquis 'The Nonentity' Grissom. I brought back Martinez to pitch. Who'm I gonna bring back next, Larry Sherry?"
"I'm gonna tell you your real essence, Kevin," I say. "Sonny Bono."
"Sonny Bono?!"
"I'm for real, Kevin. The way you mumble your words, that hair -- you could be Sonny Bono. You could change your life."
Kevin laughs and tells me just a couple nights ago some cocktail waitress in a lap dance club in Tampa told him the same thing.
"Get up and check it out," I say.
I point out the karaoke machine Stu Getzler set up on the other side of Lore's. My girlfriend, Janine, who never left my bedside in the hospital, even when I asked her to, is sitting at the end of the bar with that look on her face. Like I'm a chicken tender and she's honey mustard sauce.
"Yo, Janine, why don't you and Kevin crank it up and do a Sonny and Cher number?" I say.
Malone and Janine pick up the microphone and start singing: "They say we're too young and we don't know?"
Lore's stops cold. Everybody turns away from the Clippers-Mavs game to watch them ace, "I Got You, Babe."
Afterward, it's obvious Kevin hasn't been this stoked since he took the Dodgers GM job. I wipe down the bar in front of him and lean in real close and tell Kevin that I'm pulling back on my profile in the advice business, but I'm giving him one freebie.
"Kevin, there's a guy in Reno putting together a Sonny and Cher lookalike act. You're a natural for the part. You could move to Reno, dude. Work in the casino lounge 50 weeks a year. Play golf. Say no to the gangrene eating away at you and rebuild your life. Maybe even run for Congress someday."
I can't tell for sure if Kevin's shaking because he's happy or scared. But I hand him my cell phone and watch as he dials Bob Daly.
"Bob," he says, "I'm quitting the Dodgers and moving to Reno to star in a Sonny and Cher look-alike act."
I couldn't have been prouder at that moment. I smile at Janine, and she gives me one of those signs that lets you know things in the sack a couple hours down the road are going to be a lot of fun even with one hand wrapped up in gauze and the size of a Panda.
"I like the new Wheeler," she says.
"Janine," I say, "the secret is, maybe gangrene's going to take something away from you, but you have to take something away from it."
Next Week: In chapter 17, a romantic kite-surfing weekend in Tahoe leaves our hero holding the keys to the NCAA's future.
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