| | | 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 32
... in which our hero referees a match bigger than Pearl Harbor
So last night is our first all-you-can-eat sushi night, and we're packed. Everyone's loaded and busting totally ill moves to Shaq's "It Takes Two" rap at the Lakers' victory celebration downtown at Staples. I'm offering free drinks to anyone who can dance as bad as Mark "Mad Dog" Madsen.
Suddenly, a bunch of Asians appear in the doorway. Asians are not exactly an awesome part of our clientele, so this causes a stir.
In a flash, our manager, Stu Getzler is panting into my ear: "Go get it! That's him!"
I dig around under the bar and yank out the box Stu had me buy a couple of weeks ago when he heard who might be coming into town to shoot a commercial.
|  | | Ichiro Suzuki finally found something he couldn't conquer in the United States. |
The box holds a gong.
Stu yanks it out of the carton and scurries around the bar to the Asians who are looking for a seat.
"Listen up, everybody -- welcome Ichiro!" Stu shouts.
He rears back and wallops the gong. The bronze plate falls off its hook and onto Ichiro Suzuki's foot. I can't make out exactly what the Asians are saying, but one of Ichiro's friends winds up examining a six-inch section of Stu's shirtsleeve he's torn off and then he asks me to throw it away after they sit down at the bar while Stu's gone in search of some iodine.
I apologize to Ichiro and his pals about the cheap gong. But I assure him we only want to honor a Seattle Mariner dude such as himself, and that I heartily recommend Lore's Extreme Nachos with Jalapeño and Sea Urchin. Washed down with a Saki Margarita, it's a stand-up triple.
Ichiro speaks little English, but one of his friends, Sarazawa, interprets: "He's heard about you, Wheeler. The talk around the American League is that you are the only man alive who can defeat the President of the United States in a game of computer bass fishing. You must be a mighty man."
I thank Ichiro and notice he's admiring my new Circa skateboard shoes.
"There is much to learn about America," Sarazawa explains. "Baseball is the same in both our countries. But Ichiro needs someone to teach him about shoes, as well as America's other customs. We have just come from the movie 'Tomb Raider.' Ichiro is very taken with this Croft female. He admires strength in women."
Ichiro lets Sarazawa finish and then grunts in Japanese. He motions down the bar, and it's not like I need an interpreter to tell me what he's saying. There's a woman sipping a club soda a few stools away who Ichiro finds as exciting as he does Lara Croft.
Ichiro doesn't seem to recognize her, so I fill him in: It's Jennifer Capriati, who just won the French Open. She's about to board a red-eye for London, where she's seeded No. 4 at Wimbledon.
Ichiro seems pleased to hear all this and asks me if perhaps Jennifer would be pleased to share a saki with a muscular, fellow athlete.
Jennifer's been sitting there happily ever since I told her the draw. If knowing that you'll have to beat Venus Williams and Martina Hingis to complete the third leg of the Grand Slam doesn't faze you, then being asked to share a saki with Ichiro Suzuki most likely won't either. So I convey Ichiro's admiration.
"I'm through with weirdos, Wheeler," Jennifer says, after checking out Ichiro, who's leering her way from his spot with the Asians. "Tell him Serena Williams could take out Lara Croft with one punch."
Here's where a bartender's job gets tricky. I tell Jennifer that Japanese people are very sensitive, especially since one of our submarines sunk that fishing boat, and that to avoid another international wipeout she might want to consider being friendly to a visitor, especially one hitting .350 and leading his team toward the World Series.
"Tell him I'll have a soda with him," Jennifer says, "if he can beat me in an arm wrestle."
Ichiro hears this and laughs confidently and wastes no time taking her up on the offer. So we clear away a couple of tables, and Jennifer sits down in a chair on one side and Ichiro on the other, and they get ready to tussle.
|  | | Jennifer Capriati raises a toast to another slam in her quest for a grand slam. |
The whole bar has gathered around and there's a lot of commotion. The Asians are throwing down bets and yammering. The money is on Ichiro, who looks totally together -- until Jennifer rolls up the sleeve of her dress.
"Let's do it," I say.
Ichiro and Jennifer plant their elbows together in position and come to grips. I check their hands to make sure neither is getting an unfair advantage. Then I yell, "Go."
Ichiro lets out a huge grunt of effort, as he throws his weight against Jennifer's locked wrist. He's hoping to claim victory in one quick lunge. The Asians are hollering encouragement. A little corkscrew-shaped vein in Ichiro's forehead is bulging with the strain.
Jennifer sits there looking as casual as if she is powdering her nose.
Her arm doesn't move. It's as solid as an outfield wall.
Beads of sweat appear on Ichiro's lip as he struggles.
"Another club soda, please, Wheeler," Jennifer says.
Ichiro looks on the verge of busting a hernia, and he's hollering in Japanese while Jennifer calmly sips the club soda, finishes it, hands the glass to me and pats her mouth dry with a napkin.
"Ready?" she says across the table.
Then she slams Ichiro's arm back down. You can hear it snap like a chopstick.
"Guess we won't be having that drink, outfielder boy," Jennifer says.
"Aaaiiiiii!" Ichiro screams. He jumps up and holds his arm, but I can't tell what's hurting him more, his arm or just losing to Jennifer Capriati, a woman.
Jennifer rolls down her sleeve and puts on her sweater, while Ichiro continues stomping around shouting stuff in the universal language of swear words.
"Thanks, Wheeler -- now I'm off to London," she says, and she waltzes out of Lore's.
The Asians huddle around Ichiro and talk excitedly. Finally, Sarazawa comes over to me. His glasses are steamed up, I guess from all the excitement.
"I hope Ichiro is OK," I tell Sarazawa.
"I'm afraid there may be some ligament damage. Unfortunately, now we will have to come up with an explanation for why Ichiro will be going on the DL and jeopardizing his sensational season," Sarazawa says. He looks more than a little helpless as Ichiro limps gingerly out into the night.
"Tell Piniella," I say, "that it was a slight case of love."
Next week: In Chapter 33, Wheeler explains tennis and the Williams sisters to Shaq.
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