50 (19 page)

Doug sat at the Blarney going over notes from the Macklin interview. He noticed Tony Rosselli attempting to line himself up in Doug’s field of vision. The last time they had seen each other was when Rosselli tried to convince Doug to do a column on his latest idea, nonpedigree dog racing. The owners would be ordinary citizens with their ordinary dogs. Since this was supposed to be for Everyman and Everydog, Doug agreed to go to a schoolyard in East Harlem where Rosselli was staging a demonstration for him. A track was drawn in chalk for a trial race. Two dozen dog owners held their mongrels on leashes. A teenage boy on a bicycle carrying a salami rode past the dogs, Rosselli yelled, “Go,” the dogs were released, and they went berserk, about a dozen chasing the salami, others peeing, a few humping other dogs, none keeping the general outline of a track in their little minds, and Doug was obliged to say to Rosselli, “I don’t think populist dog racing is a sport yet.”

“You got a minute, Doug?”

“What now, Tony, cat racing?”

“This is elegant. Think about the Olympic Games, Doug. Who competes for us? College athletes, former college athletes. But what happens to the kids who never make it to college? Their grades aren’t good enough or they get in trouble when they’re young. The hard-luck story. The outstanding athlete who doesn’t get into the system.”

Apprehensively he looked at Doug to see if he was following.

“Go on—”

“We run an Olympics for everybody who’s not in the system! The Street Olympics. We do it in public places like the running track where a certain party who shall go nameless was snookered by a certain wolf party. Track and field doesn’t cost that much to run. And we can do it all across the country.” He removed a piece of paper and read from notes. “We find the people who have slipped through the boards of the system and put them on a new path.” He addressed Doug again. “We give a chance to kids who lost their chance. Even if they don’t go all the way to the real Olympics they still might be good enough to compete in regular track meets. We get them into track organizations.” Reading from his notes again: “We give them a second chance for glory.” He looked up. “I have a new girlfriend, smart, a travel agent. She wrote that part. So there it is, Doug, the Street Olympics.”

Doug took a moment to consider the idea. Rosselli’s eyes darted nervously. Doug couldn’t think of anything wrong with it. Rosselli had finally done it. This had value, it was moral.

“It’s lovely,” Doug said.

“It is?”

“It would be a very interesting event.”

“Yes?”

“And if it comes off, you get yourself credibility in the sports field.”

“Listen—”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Tony, I’m going to do it. You’ve got yourself a column.”

“You mean it?”

“Absolutely. Your name, everything.”

“You’re not putting me on?”

“No, Tony. I’m going to write about it.”

“I made your column! Jesus, I gotta go. I gotta call my girl.”

Rosselli did not know what to do with his hands. He put them to his face, he shook hands with Doug in thanks, and put them to his face again. “It’s gonna be in the paper!” Then he added, “I knew it was good,” and he rushed off.

Doug completed the Steve Macklin column on athletes’ salaries and started working on the Street Olympics piece. He formally interviewed Rosselli and also called track officials and coaches in various parts of the country for their reactions to the idea. The column was in rough draft form when Reynolds came to the New York bureau, passing through while he and his wife were en route to Europe. Reynolds came into Doug’s office and scanned the monitor, which showed fragments of the Rosselli column.

“What are you writing here?”

“You’ll be very happy. Uplifting. Optimistic. A column for these Iacocca years.”

“Street Olympics? For street kids?” Reynolds said, reading the material. “Our readers don’t want to know about street kids. Where is this in our demographics?”

“This has to be written about.”

“Street kids mug people. They mug each other. Our readers aren’t interested in muggers and people on crack.”

“Where are you getting that? Robby, this is a first-rate idea for a sports event.”

“How can you think street kids are what I mean when I say ‘uplifting’? This is your New York point of view messing you up. I’m talking your Vietnam vet who runs the Marathon on crutches. Your suburban housewife who swims Lake Michigan. I’m not talking street kids. Don’t spend any more time on this. It’s not for our paper.”

“This is my column.”

“Well, I’m killing this piece. Don’t submit it,” and he walked out of Doug’s office.

Doug did not deliberate very long. He had a couple of beers at the Blarney, returned to the office after hours, wrote the column, and sent it to Houston. He was at his desk on Monday afternoon, the day the column was in the paper, when Reynolds entered his office, no Texas smile. “I thought you were in Europe, Robby.”

“We only went for the weekend.”

“I’d like to do that sometime. The Concorde?”

“The column ran, Doug.”

“Yes, I filed it.”

“I told you not to run that column. Brad!” The office manager came to the doorway. “Get a garbage bag. Do you have one?”

“In the coffee room.”

“Bring it in here.” Reynolds turned back to Doug. “Anything you’ve got that belongs to you, dump in the garbage bag and take with you. We’ve got four columns in reserve. That will be sufficient. You’re fired. I want you off the premises in three minutes or I’ll bring in the building security to haul you off.”

“And throw me out on the sidewalk like in a Western?”

“You’re a real New York wise guy.”

“And you’re a real Houston wise guy.”

“I hope you’re independently wealthy, Doug. Because you’re not going to get a job like this anywhere at this kind of money.”

“Come on, Robby, you know this isn’t about money. It’s about peckers.”

50.
HE WAS CLOSER
to 50 than he was to 49. Five months away. His only income was from the television work, and that was not enough to sustain him. At a time in his life when he should have been successful, apart from a few minutes a week as a performer, he had nothing.

50! 50 was General MacArthur, admirals, the school principal. 50-year-old women were Tallulah Bankhead, Eleanor Roosevelt, opera divas. Phil Niekro, the old knuckleballer who looked ancient, wasn’t even 50. 50 was Abby Meltzner, the delicatessen waiter his parents knew, who retired with the shakes. “Put down the glass, Abby,” his boss had said. “You have to go home.” “I’ll go home,” Abby replied. “But I can’t put down the glass.” 50 was closer to 60, which was a senior citizen. 50 was being who you are, no longer thinking about what you might become.

“You have seven months to live,” Bob Kleinman announced mournfully in his law office.

“What you mean is I have seven months before the money I have in the bank is gone. That is not the same as seven months to live.”

“You think being without money for men of our age and background isn’t death?”

“Bob, do you ever see yourself at your own funeral?”

“I’ve been to my own funeral so many times it’s like watching
I Love Lucy
reruns.”

“My dog spoke at mine. Brief, but touching.”

“What did you die of?”

“Worrying about dying.”

“I died last time of sex. Connie says I’ve created a crisis in my personal life because I’m fifty, because I’ll never be a young man again.”

“That’s where she doesn’t know you. You were never a young man. You were forty when you were twenty-five. You can’t be getting much older.”

“I am. This affair is going to do me in. But I need it. I realized I had never spent a Sunday with Connie. Then I had a brainstorm. I was going to Washington on a Monday-morning shuttle. I told Sarah I wanted to go down early to avoid the Monday crush and I also had work to prepare. I flew down on Sunday, called Sarah from the hotel in Washington and said there was trouble with the phones. If we got disconnected she should call me back. I disconnect us. She calls me back. Sarah is calling me back in Washington! We finish the conversation, I fly back to New York, spend Sunday afternoon and night with Connie while Sarah
knows
I’m in Washington. The next day I fly to where I’m supposed to be!”

“I’d say it’s a lot of work to add to your frequent flyer mileage.”

Andy came into New York and stayed at Doug’s apartment. Karen was with him for the first time in two weeks, and he told them what had taken place at
Sports Day.

“It was a matter of principle,” Andy said. “You did the right thing.”

“And you still have the television show,” Karen said.

“Yes, I still have the television show.”

They had gathered around in support, but he felt tainted. Whatever his justifications with Reynolds, he was saying to his children that he had been fired. Big Daddy is not supposed to be fired. Stepdaddy never has to worry about that. He owns the ball.

Susan called him, having heard the news from Karen and Andy.

“I hope they don’t take away from this the idea that mutiny is the best policy,” he said. “It might not always be.”

“What they see is that you stood up for yourself. Doug, what are your plans?”

“Nothing definite.”

“I just want you to know you don’t have to rush into anything because of your share. If need be, I’ll take care of the bills on the kids for a while.”

“I don’t want you and Jerry—”

“We’re not talking about Jerry. This is between us. You covered for me, I’ll do it for you. I have plenty of money.”

“Thank you for your offer, Susan.”

Doug met with John McCarthy for lunch at the Carnegie Delicatessen.

“This is the constant,” Doug said, savoring the sandwich. “When the pastrami here goes, we’re all finished.”

“I see you’ve been replaced by disco music and situps.” Unable to communicate with Doug by computer, Reynolds found a new way of sending a message to him and it said, “We can live without you, Doug, boy.” The space where Doug’s column had appeared was given over to “Personal Fitness,” a new column by Bonny Sunshine, a Californian with a hit workout video.

“Reynolds’s love note to me.”

“I don’t know if there are any jobs around. An out-of-town paper, maybe.”

“I can’t go out of town. Karen’s here. Andy’s here sometimes.”

“Could be your best shot now is TV.”

“I don’t take that seriously, John.”

“The time is right for a good sports game show. If we come up with an idea, we can package it. You can be the host.”

“A regular Bob Barker. Remember John Drebinger, used to write for the
Times
when we were kids?”

“Sure.”

“That dramatic prose. You grew up on it, what sports-writing was supposed to be. There’s a book out with a lot of those old
Times
pieces.”

“I saw it.”

“I was reading Drebinger when Bevens lost the no-hitter.”

“Yanks-Dodgers, 1947.”

“Henrich was in right. ‘Desperately he tried to clutch the ball as it caromed off the boards in order to get it home as quickly as possible, but that sloping wall is a tricky barrier and as the ball bounced to the ground more precious moments were lost.’ It’s so florid and wonderful, it’s almost Victorian. You start out wanting to be John Drebinger and you end up Bob Barker.”

Doug received a call from Steve Macklin, the sports lawyer he had done the column about. Macklin had a proposal to make and asked if Doug would visit him at his office. Macklin was guarded about the idea and Doug presumed he wanted him to ghostwrite or co-author a book. He did not want to move into an area of writing that John McCarthy, the king of the field, regarded as distributing product. Doug entered Macklin’s space in the Seagram Building, the reception area decorated with luxurious Italian modern furniture, a Picasso painting behind the receptionist, the space saying, “Whatever you thought when you walked in here, you’d better raise your offer.” Doug was escorted into Macklin’s corner office, a Chagall and a Degas on the wall.

“Thank you for coming, Doug.”

“I feel I should be in formal wear in this place.”

“Appearances. Unfortunately, it counts. So what happened at
Sports Day?
”

“Artistic differences. No, I don’t think you’d want to say artistic with that operation.”

“You were too good for the room there. Doug, I know Reynolds was spending money so I imagine you were making more than you’d get on a conventional paper. But I propose to you, and I’ve been reading you for years, that at this point in your career you’ve taken being a sports columnist as far as you can go. Where do you go next? You don’t want to work for less money and you don’t want to interview smart alecks like me for the rest of your life. Should I continue?”

“Does that mean I concede you’re a smart aleck or that I’m interested in what you have to say?”

“Both can be true. The stuff you wrote, outstanding, but you did it. It’s time for a change. One of the functions we’ve begun to perform here is to bring together corporations looking for sports tie-ins with sports events they can tie into.”

“Like the Volvo Masters.”

“Exactly. There are many corporations that would like to get into the tie-in business, for the PR, the customer relations, the dealer relations. The problem is to create the events for them.”

“Be a marriage broker.”

“Right. We can’t handle the demand the way we’re structured now. I’ve got a lawyer here to negotiate fees and contracts, but I need someone who’s creative enough to think of ideas, who can talk to the corporate people, oversee publicity, someone who understands the sports world. First I thought of hiring a former athlete. But an athlete from one sport might not give the appearance of overall knowledge.”

“Appearances.”

“That’s what
you
have, Doug. Overall savvy. And you have visibility from the TV show. I’m being blunt. That’s a plus. Also you’re a clever man. I bet you could come up with an idea for a tie-in right while we’re sitting here.”

“Steve, is this a test?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Tennis. Most of the attention is given over to the top players on the circuit. The big tournaments already have tie-ins. But you could run a junior tournament. The Stars of Tomorrow. Do it in the Meadowlands and get one of those aggressive New Jersey banks or corporations and you’d have yourself a tie-in.”