| | | 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 37
... in which our hero escapes the fell clutches of Martina Hingis and Anna Kournikova
The Dodgers are going to win the division title this year.
I got that from an authority -- Barry Bonds.
"I can give up on one of two things," Barry was confiding in me last
night. He had stopped by Lore's, because he was in town taping an appearance on one of the talk shows. "I can either give up on the Giants or give up on me hitting 70 homers. And I'll give up on the team before I give up on myself."
|  | | Barry Bonds would give up on the Giants before giving up on himself. |
He goes on for a while about Paul Lo Duca, and he's going to be Rookie of the Year. And how Jim Tracy is going to be Manager of the Year.
Then Barry whispers to me that his big concern now is his home run slump. He can't get away from people expecting him to hit one every time he's up. It's terrible to think that he if he hits 55 homers this year, people will say he hit "only" 55. He lies in bed at night thinking about this. He says his problem is all those charts they're running, showing how many home runs he has compared to how many Mark McGwire had when he hit 70 two years ago.
"The minute I fall a game behind, it's all over, Wheeler. It's like
I'm living with another person, almost like a twin named Mark," Barry says, digging into his second helping of Nachos Fredericka, which is my personally designed preparation of lime-basted blue corn chips and truffles in honor of the Victoria's Secret Model.
"You've got to try and stick with McGwire," is what I tell Barry. I
tell him to imagine he is Sammy Sosa, that he is shadowing Big Mac.
Connected to him. A partner.
I offer to send him my special nachos wherever the Giants are playing the rest of the year to help him hit 70.
"What are you saying, these are magic nachos?" Barry asks. He laughs. Barry is so competitive about everything, especially being derisive.
I like for my customers to be laughing, and I tell Barry that it
isn't my intention to stop him having any pleasure. But I have to tell him a story.
I tell Barry how Anna Kournikova fell in love with my nachos when she shot a commercial at Lore's a few months ago. If you have to choose
between Anna Kournikova falling in love with you or falling in love with your nachos, everyone would probably agree you'd want her preferring you to your chips.
I found out this was a wrong assumption two weeks ago.
Anna was waiting to return to the tour from her stress fracture. She was hoping to play in Carlsbad. And she demanded I be on hand to prepare my special nachos while she worked out.
Anna was nervous. Sometimes she would flick her long blond hair behind her shoulder out of sheer terror.
"You can imagine how tough it was trying to please Anna under those
circumstances," I tell Barry.
Mainly, Anna was nervous because she didn't have a doubles partner. She and Martina Hingis had broken up as a team, and even though I offered to take Martina's place and told her I would pay her a week's worth of my tips here at Lore's, Anna turned me down.
One day, Martina stopped by. The two of them got into it.
"You're nothing but a mediocre player with a crummy serve who can't
move on the court. You're a loser," Martina told Anna. "You're not fit to be on the same court as me."
"And you're just a whining brat," Anna said to Martina, "and your
best days are behind you. The Williams sisters ... Capriati ... they beat you regularly. Soon you will be losing to Megan Shaugnessey. There is no bigger lie in sports than you rated no. 1."
It looked as if the two of them were about to get into a brawl. I was prepared to jump between them when they stood to square off. Only I
wasn't promising myself to stop things if, say, they began wrestling on the floor and accidentally pulled me down on top of them.
Just then, Martina happened to pick up a special Nachos Royale, which is nachos with coconut milk and pickled vegetables. Suddenly her whole
manner changed.
"This is good," Martina said.
Meaning the nachos.
The nachos did more than break the ice. Anna and Martina kind of kept me prisoner down there at Anna's rented condo in Carlsbad, eating my
nachos and sort of re-bonding over them, deciding they'd have a go at
doubles again. I told Barry I reluctantly decided I had to escape, so I climbed out the kitchen window. Shoeless and in shock, I staggered over hillsides and finally reached the road, where a passing motorist took me to the hospital.
"I barely made it out alive, Barry," I say. "But the point of my
story is there's some special power in my nachos. It's like that movie, 'Chocolat.' Eat my nachos and you'll bond with somebody. McGwire, in your case. You'll hit 70 home runs."
"Forget about that, Wheeler," Barry said. "I want to know what it was like being held captive by those two cute tennis players."
I promise Barry that if he hits 70 home runs this year I'll tell him
every incredible detail.
Next week: In Chapter 38, our hero reveals his top-secret preseason NFL ratings.
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