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Suite meals fit for Kings, Avs and Sir Charles
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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 25
... in which our hero strives mightily to hold down a balloon named Barkley.

As an athlete-person who grinds the edge of the envelope, I'm always looking for PBs. Personal Bests.

Now, how many people can say they went to a hockey game with Charles Barkley on Monday night?

Pretty much nobody but me. Yet another PB.

Technically, I was only there because Charles paid my manager at Lore's, Stu Getzler, to lend me to him for the night. Charles needed me, he explained, as part of his personal, radical, psycho-caloric regimen leading up to his earth-shattering return to the NBA next year.

He translates that for me as soon as we get out of his limo at the Staples Center for the Kings-Avs playoff game.

"Don't let me eat too much food now, Wheeler. I'm getting to be a laughingstock with how much weight I've put on."

He hands me a hundred-dollar bill.

"We're keepin' to a budget, I got to get in shape," he says.

We've settled into his luxury suite. The pregame fireworks are going off when Charles says, "Two turkey sandwiches, Wheeler."

He orders two more when the Kings take their first penalty. When I bring those back and it looks like mainly what Charles is training for is talking with his mouth full, I say, "Charles, look at those dudes skate up and down the ice ... Sakic. Deadmarsh. Forsberg."

"I love Forsberg," Charles mumbles, taking another bite. "If I was a hockey player, I'd want to be Peter Forsberg. Big. Tough to move out of the way. Knows where everyone is. Great touch. A warrior."

"Dude, I love Forsberg, too," I say. "The only difference between you two dudes is that Forsberg doesn't eat his own weight in turkey every day."

Charles plainly isn't enjoying what I'm saying, but I explain I'm just doing my job.

Two turkey sandwiches later, I'm getting tired of explaining to Charles that I'm only doing my job. So, I ask to borrow Charles' Palm Pilot and retreat to the back of the box. I regularly check into monster wave websites so I know surf conditions all along the coastline every couple of hours. It's kind of like the way Muslims have to pray to Allah six times every day.

I'm looking at the action down in Mexico when I get one of those instant messages from a buddy. This one I ought to keep secret. I swore to. But I've landed on my head so many times that it's had two opposite effects -- I get forgetful and I can't keep secrets. It's more of a physical disability than a morality thing, I hope you understand. In other words, even though I swore, I figure it's all right to tell you.

It's the President.


	Charles Barkley needs less beef -- and less turkey -- if he's going to make it back next season.

He's buddies with Alex Rodriguez of the Texas Rangers. And A-Rod has told him about the way I fixed him up with Jeanie Buss (see Chapter 22) and extended him humility and courtesy when he was on a road trip to Anaheim. The President is big on those things. He likes to talk sports, and Alex has told him about my own form of compassionate extremism. It turns out we are two extremely compassionate dudes.

He's watching the hockey game on ESPN, he says.

I tell him I'm attending the game in person with Charles Barkley. He says, "Put him on."

"Where've you been? If I'm going to make it back to the NBA, I need two more turkey sandwiches, Wheeler," Charles is yelling at me, but he shuts up when I tell him who I'm on line with -- Honcho. That's his screen name.

Meanwhile, I use up a little more of the hundred dollars on some turkey sandwiches. When I get back with them, Charles is still talking to Honcho on line.

I see pretty quickly that maybe I shouldn't have left. Charles explains they've decided on a little competition. Every time there's a power play on the ice, they chug a beer. And every time there's a goal, they eat a turkey sandwich. Whoever can't keep up is the loser.

I don't like the sound of this.

A few seconds later, Rob Blake lets loose a slap shot from somewhere near Montecito, and Felix Potvin somehow lets the puck dribble through.

"They make wonderful turkey sandwiches here at the White House," Honcho tells me.

"Tell him they make better ones at the Staples Center," Charles hollers as he digs into -- I've lost track -- maybe his sixth.

A minute or so later, Luc Robitaille is called for high sticking. Charles chugs his beer. And, on the Palm Pilot, Honcho writes: "Am currently enjoying a very compassionate brewskie."

We stay online during the game, Honcho making some funny comments, like, "I'd hardly call that a compassionate check," when one of the guys gets slammed into the boards.

Anyway, I'm torn between my patriotic duty to the nation and the task I've been hired for, which is to help Charles Barkley return to NBA glory by limiting his intake of calories.

The game ends up 4-3. I count 13 penalties.

Charles is comatose and slumped over the front ledge of the luxury box when the buzzer sounds. I'm only thankful there wasn't an empty-netter, because Charles would have exploded.

"I think you won," I write to Honcho.

"Thanks. Got to stop now anyway -- Cheney's buggin' me about bombing China. Oh -- almost forgot why I called. Your country needs you, Wheeler. I'll be in touch."

You're just not going to succeed at everything. And I can't say I feel like I succeeded at boosting Charles Barkley's return to the NBA as I drag him out of his luxury suite and somehow dump him back in his limo.

I could be disappointed by that.

But it sounds like there might be more important callings for me in the future.

Next week: In Chapter 26, Honcho makes our hero America's James Bond of sports.