Benny Jay: I Hate The Lakers!

It's been kind of quiet on my basketball front since the Bulls lost to the Celtics weeks and weeks ago.

But with the finals on free TV, I'm watching game four at home by myself and I'm trying to stay calm.

Lakers up two to one in the series. But Orlando has a three-point lead with eleven seconds left and Dwight Howard at the free-throw line. He hits one free throw and the game's pretty much over and the series tied.

I'm starting to get excited. Not cause I like Orlando -- I don't. But cause I hate the Lakers! I mean, I hate them almost as much as I love the Bulls, which is saying a lot.

I'm not sure why I hate the Lakers so much. Oh, hell, who am I kidding. It's envy -- raw and unadulterated. They're good. Really good. Always good. And even when they're bad, it doesn't really matter cause their fans don't seem to care. They're not lunatics about their teams -- like me and Milo and Norm and just about every other serious Bulls fan that I know. You don't see them walking around at midnight after a particularly hard loss, howling at the moon. What the hell do they care if the Lakers win or lose? They're rich. They hang with gorgeous babes -- they live in the sunshine out by the ocean. They don't need to win. And yet they do. Meanwhile, we desperately need to win, yet we don't -- or haven't in years. Is that fair? See my point? God, I hate the Lakers!

But, anyway, like I'm saying, they're about to get theirs. All Dwight Howard has to do is hit one....

The dog barks. The front door opens. My wife walks in. She's been out with a friend. "Are you watching the game?" she asks.

"He's gotta make one free throw...."

He shoots -- and misses....

"No!" I rage.

He shoots -- and misses again....

"No, no, no!"

And then, oh, man, the Lakers get the ball. Derek Fisher hits a three. The game goes to overtime. Oh, you don't need to know the rest. It's utter agony to watch -- why would I want to relive it? I can't even bear the final seconds. I turn off the TV before the game is over. I don't want to see the Lakers celebrate. Bad enough knowing that somewhere out in L.A. there's a fat guy with a bad toupee sitting in a hot tub with four gorgeous babes whooping it up....

I take out the garbage. I sweep the floor. I clean the sink. I get a text from Norm. He's gloating. He loves the Lakers. I don't know why....

I walk into the bedroom. My wife and my younger daughter are reading their books. So quiet and calm. Like nothing happened. I stand there. A few seconds go by.

"I hate the Lakers!" I say, breaking the silence.

My wife looks up from her book and smiles. It's a pleasant smile. A nice smile. The kind of benevolent smile you'd give a five-year-old who showed you his finger paintings.

She returns to her book.

"If Howard had only hit one free throw...."

They keep reading.

"Just one -- not even two. Just one...."

My daughter looks up with an annoyed grimace: "Dad -- I'm reading...."

I walk to my computer. I check my email. I wonder: If my wife had not come home when she did, would Howard have made a free throw? No, really, follow me on this. Is it possible that her coming into the house at the precise moment that she did set off some sort of invisible-to-the-eye psychic chain reaction -- like the butterfly that causes a hurricane -- that resulted, you know, in Howard missing those free throws? Anything's possible....

Norm text messages: "It's over."

I tell myself I shouldn't hate the Lakers! Hate is a negativity that hurts the hater more than the hated. I should love the Lakers! I should embrace their inner Lakerness.

I start to text message a congratulatory response. I get as far as: c-o-n-g-r-a-t. Then I stop. I can't do it. The hate's too strong. Ahhh! God, I hate the Lakers!

I grab the leash and walk the dog. I head down the street. I look at the sky. I go about four or five blocks and I realize: I've been thinking about Ronnie and Sammy -- two kids in a book I've been reading. I'm not thinking about the Lakers. My mind is on that book. The game's gone. Like it never happened.

Had it been the Bulls who'd lost rather than the Lakers who won, I'd be howling at the moon. But I love the Bulls. I only hate the Lakers! And that's the thing -- love is stronger than hate. Pass the word. There's hope for us all....

Benny Jay: Out Beyond The Arc

I'm at James Park up in Evanston with my my bowling buddies -- Cap and Norm -- watching Cap's kid, Miles, playing baseball.

Norm notices there's a basketball court across the way.

"You got a basketball in your car, Benny?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I do...."

He looks at me and I look at him. We don't say a word. But I know what he's thinking: Yes, we came to watch Miles pitch. But he's already pitched his maximum three innings. And it's a lovely spring night. So....

We head over the court. On one end there's an empty basket. On the other end, a dad's playing one-on-one with his ten-year-old son. The dad's pretending he just can't block his son's shot. And the son is really excited cause he only needs one more basket to win the game. Meanwhile, over in the parking lot, a group of teenagers are passing a joint and listening to their car radio. I feel like I've gone back in time.

I won't kid you. As much as I love this game, I was never very good at it. I could never dribble with my left hand and I shot the wrong way (two hands, not one). I played strictly Y ball and intramurals. My game never advanced beyond going to the corner and waiting for someone to pass me the ball....

But, in the spring of my senior year -- when there was nothing much else to do -- I played basketball almost every day. Used to come to this park with my friends and shoot `til the stars came out. I mastered a Chet Walker head fake and taught myself to shoot like Bob Butter Bean Love, with the release behind my head so it's hard to block. I wore cut-off blue jeans, floppy socks and black All-Stars. We played until it was too dark to see and then we walked to the corner store and drank our soda and ate our chips and talked and talked and talked....

Norm throws me a pass. I haven't shot in years. Officially, I have retired. Every five or so years I retire.

My first shot falls short. My second comes closer. The third hits the rim. "Damn," I exclaim.

Norm's not hitting many either. The thing is -- he's the real deal. Back in the day, he started for Hales Franciscan High School on the south side.

We're really getting into it. I hit one. Norm hits a couple. I drill three in a row from the corner. "You love that corner, Benny," he tells me.

We shoot so much we forget about the baseball game. The sun's gone from the sky. It's hard to see. My back's aching -- like I pulled a muscle. Norm says his knee's acting up.

But we keep shooting.

Norm says it's time to take it out beyond the arc. I say, first guy to hit a three wins a dollar. He shoots and misses. I shoot and miss. He shoots -- all net.

"I shoulda known better than to bet with you," I tell him.

He pockets my dollar and says: "C'mon, Benny -- you can't go without hitting a three...."

So I go beyond the arc and launch a long jumper -- all net.

I start dancing and singing: "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!"

Norm throws me a pass. I fire up another shot. All net.

"I'm Craig Hodges," I say. "Craig Hodges -- the world's greatest three-point shooter."

My third shot looks dead on. I raise my arms in triumph. But, no, it rattles out.

I figure it's time to go. But Norm's not ready to leave. The pride and joy of Hales Franciscan's not about to let no YMCA boy beat him.

He goes out beyond the arc and just like that -- bam, bam, bam -- hits three in a row. His fourth shot bounces out. But bottom line: He hit three and I hit two.

Don't get it twisted....

"I knew it Norm," I say. "I knew you weren't going to walk off the court in second place...."

Norm can't repress his smile.

"You beat me on my home court," I tell him.

"Next time, Benny," he says.

As we walk back to Miles and Cap, I get a feeling that I may have overextended myself. My toes, knees and back are aching. But, man, for a split second -- when that second three went in -- I almost felt young again....

Letter From Milo: The Time Luc Longley Chickened Out

Back in the days when Jack Daniel and I were close friends, I used to do and say a lot of very stupid things. It wasn't my fault. I blamed it on the booze. As an anonymous old bluesman once sang, "I was high, baby, when I did you wrong and you know it don't count when you're high."

I remember staggering home one evening from my local swill-a-teria and passing my neighbor's house on the way. The neighbor, a lovely woman named Amy, saw me rocking and reeling and called out, "Milo, are you drunk again?"

"I am indeed drunk," I replied, in my usual gentlemanly fashion. "But tomorrow morning I'll be sober and you'll still be an ugly old whore."

The next morning Amy's husband, a big brute of a man who is 20 years younger than I am, confronted me. "Did you call my wife an ugly old whore last night?"

"Yes I did," I answered. "And I'm truly sorry about it. It was presumptuous of me to say that. You see, I don't know what your wife does for a living."

Instead of kicking my butt, which he had every right to do, Amy's husband laughed his ass off and invited me over for drinks later that day.

I used to hang out at a bar called Sterch's on Lincoln Avenue. It is far from a chic or trendy spot, just a local saloon that has been sensitive to the needs of drinkers since the early 70s. One evening, a little after midnight, a smartly dressed couple walked in, probably by mistake, or else they were just slumming, checking out the local wildlife. They reeked of class, probably had season tickets to the opera and made regular appearances in Kup's Column.

It just so happened that the gentleman sitting on the bar stool next to me, who I had been having a lively discussion with for the past few hours, chose that moment to pass out. He rocked back and forth a couple of times then fell forward, his head hitting the bar with a loud thump.

The society matron appeared disgusted by the sight of my friend dozing on the bar. The woman pointed a well-manicured finger and said, "He must be the local drunk."

"No, lady," I told her, "We all generally take turns."

I've mentioned my good friend Bruce Diksas a few times in my posts. Bruce spends most of the year out of the country, in places like Bali, Nepal and Australia. Due to his proclivity for traveling, and his astute sense of the ridiculous, the editors of this blog site have offered him the prestigious and highly paid position of The Third City's Foreign Correspondent. As of this writing, Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this site, and Bruce's agent, Moe Howard, are still dickering over the terms of the contract. The hangup seems to be the company car. Big Mike is offering a 1997 Ford Taurus while Bruce is still holding out for a late model Buick Electra 225.

Anyway, until Bruce comes on board and provides us with his own unique and informative brand of bullshit, I'm going to steal one of his stories.

Now, Bruce is a guy who enjoys a good drink once in a while. In fact, he has had the the great pleasure of ordering drinks on five different continents. When they open a saloon in Antarctica I'm sure it won't be long before Bruce is on a first name basis with the bartender.

One day Bruce was sitting in his favorite watering hole on the island of Bali when in walks the biggest man he has ever seen. Not only that, the huge man is accompanied by a six-foot tall blond that would make Stevie Wonder look twice. When the awesome couple took seats at the bar next to Bruce, he realized that the man was none other than Luc Longley, the Aussie who was the former center for the Chicago Bulls. Bruce, being a Chicagoan and a Bulls fan, introduced himself and offered to buy Luc and his companion drinks. Luc accepted and shortly afterward reciprocated.

A few hours and quite a few drinks later, Bruce was feeling pretty good. In fact, he felt bulletproof, like Superman. He felt so good that he challenged Luc Longley to a game of one-on-one.

Luc, who must have faced this situation countless times, graciously declined, claiming a bum knee.

We were having a few drinks, a few months later, when Bruce related this story to me. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe Bruce was just feeling feisty, but he put his own unique spin on the tale. He didn't outright say it, but he intimated that perhaps, just perhaps, the great Luc Longley chickened out.

"Can't say I blame him," I replied. "After all, why would any seven-foot tall former NBA basketball player with three chanpionship rings to his credit want to tangle with a drunk 60-year-old Lithuanian with a four-inch vertical leap."

"My point, exactly," Bruce said.

Benny Jay: Modern Man

I'm driving north on Southport, and my car dies....

I know there's no good place to stall in traffic, but this place particularly sucks -- in the left turn lane, just south of the intersection. I suppose it could be worse. I could, you know, be in the middle of the intersection. Guess I should count my blessings....

It's noon. Car's zipping by. Nothing I can do. I try to go through life without swearing. I really do. It shows a lack of discipline and creativity. But, every now and then -- FUCK!!!

Ah, now I feel much better....

I have a cell phone. But it's almost as useless as my car. The battery's low. The battery's been low for about two weeks. I need a new battery. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the cell phone store to get a new battery when my car died. Can you believe this shit?

I figure I have just enough juice in my battery to make one quick call. So I call my wife, who's really busy at work. And I tell her: Can'ttalklongphonealmostoutofbatteriescardiedintrafficcalltriplea....

Which translates into: Can't talk long; phone almost out of batteries; call Triple AAA.

Message conveyed, I put on the blinkers, rush to the back of my car, and direct oncoming traffic to go around me. Some doofus in a Toyota honks his horn, like, you know, I'm standing in the middle of the street for some reason other than my car has died.

"My car is dead," I tell him.

"Fuck you," he says.

Ah, the compassion of my fellow man....

A guy on a bike pulls over and asks: "Need help?"

I want to hug him. Instead, I say: "Thanks, man...."

He gets behind my car. "We'll push it through the intersection," he says. "So you're not blocking traffic...."

We push, but the car won't budge. "You have to take it out of park," he tells me.

"Right," I say. "I knew that -- I really did...."

I hop back into my car. I'm about to switch gears when I see the keys dangling from the ignition. On an impulse, I turn the keys. It works!

"It's a miracle -- the car's on," I tell the biker. "Thanks for everything -- you're the man...."

I want to turn left and park on the side of the road. But the light's red and the car's quaking, like it's about to die at any instant. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the light to turn green. Ever notice how long something takes when you're waiting for it to happen?

The light turns green -- finally. I make the turn. The car's like an animal who's been shot in the leg with a bullet, limping along in pain. I drive it past the no-parking, bus-stop zone. I pull it into an empty space, just as the car dies. Phew!

I get a call from an editor. I tell him I can't talk -- battery low. I get a call from my wife -- she tells me Triple A is on its way. My phone dies. All juice gone. What the hell good is it? I toss it on the seat. I feel like the main character from that Isaac Bashevas Singer story who's on a train from New York City to Montreal in the years just after World War II. It's modern times and he's a modern man. But he feels as though with a flip of the switch he'll slip back to the Dark Ages. That's how fragile our existence is....

The deep thought passes and I bide the time the way I usually do -- thinking about the Bulls. Today's paper had a picture of Ben Gordon wearing a Blackhawks jersey. I wonder if the Bulls will sign Gordon. I start to call Norm to talk it over, when I remember: My phone's dead.

The Triple A tow truck arrives. The driver's named Ed. He couldn't be nicer. He hitches me to his tow truck, tells me to hop on in and he drives me to the mechanic. Along the way, he says the problem is the alternator -- the thing that feeds juice to the battery. It used to be called the generator. He's giving me a whole lecture when -- wham! -- the tow truck hits a speed bump that he obviously didn't see coming.

It feels as though my car was dropped from the sky.

He hops out of the truck to see if my car is damaged. Oh, brother, just what I need.

"It's okay," he assures me when he gets back.

He drives me to the mechanic and we walk into office. "We're here," I tell the lady at the cash register.

"Now, who are you?" she asks.

"The Ford," says Ed.

"Oh," she says. "Your P's husband...."

"Yeah, the one and only...."

She fills out a form and says: "Who should we call?"

"My wife," I say. "She's the brains of the family...."

"Guess you're the beauty," she says.

I shrug with Elvis-like humility and say: "I guess that's what I bring to the equation...."

When I leave the shop, she's smiling. I'm feeling pretty good, like I'm still quick with a one-liner.

Gonna call my wife to tell her all about my witty exchange. And I remember -- the cell phone's still dead. Aw, man. That's the thing about technology. It's one step forward, one step back. Probably all better off without it....

I walk home, get my bike, and peddle on over to the cell phone store.

Benny Jay: Hacking Like A Mug

Got a cold. Came last week. Thought it would go away. But it only got worse. Burrowed in my chest. Now it sounds like it's here to stay. Fuck....

Got me hacking like a mug. Sounds like I've been smoking two packs a day for the last twenty years. I should be up and at `em, working the phones. But all I wanna do is sleep....

I lie in bed. Tell myself -- this will only take five minutes. Just need a little rest....

Thirty minutes later I wake up and look around. Where the hell am I? In bed. Ugh. Start coughing. That leads to hacking. My stomach muscles ache. I feel sorry for myself.

I call my wife at work. "Do you have the swine flu?" she asks.

The swine flu! Damn. I hadn't thought of that.

"Take your temperature," she says.

I find the thermometer buried behind the Band-aids in the bathroom cabinet. I shove it in my mouth: 98.3. I feel better. Then I think: What if I didn't take it right? What if my mouth was open too much? I have this notion that somehow or other keeping my mouth open lowers the temperature. I take it again. And again. I become obsessive about my temperature. It's like the Bulls versus Boston one more time. I'm losing my freaking mind....

I go back to bed and look up at the fan. I turn to my right. There's a Reader's Digest on the night stand. Reader's Digest? How did that get here? I haven't seen a Reader's Digest in years.

I wind up reading an article called, "America's Funniest Jokes." Sid Caesar and seven other comics are sitting around a table in the back room of a deli, swapping jokes. Here's the first joke: "A man, shocked by how his buddy is dressed, asks him, `how long have you been wearing that bra?' The friend replies, `Ever since my wife found it in the glove compartment.'"

It must be the illness. But I find that hilarious. I can't stop laughing. I laugh so hard I start to hack. Then cough. Uncontrollably. Finally, I settle down. I'm lying on the bed. The dog's looking at me.

I start calling friends: Milo, Big Mike, Norm, Daddy Dee. I gotta talk to someone. Let the world know I'm still alive. They're all healthy. Busy. Doing shit. Big Mike's making bread, for Christ sakes. I'm not kidding. He's rolling out the freaking dough himself. Jesus. The whole world's doing stuff and I'm lying in bed.

I pick up Reader's Digest -- need another joke. I read about the priest, the minister and the rabbi who want to see who's best at their job. So they go into the woods, find some bears and attempt to convert them. The priest's so good he gets his bear to its first communion. The minister talks his bear into getting baptized. "They both look down at the rabbi, who is lying on gurney in a body cast. `Looking back,' he says. `Maybe I shouldn't have started with the circumcision.'"

I think that's hilarious. The rabbi cut the bear's dick -- get it? I'm roaring. Then I'm hacking and coughing. Aw, hell....

I roll on my back. I drift off. I hear a phone ringing. It's way off in the distance. I'll answer it later. When I get better....

Benny Jay: Here Come The Hawks

At the bowling alley, they got the Blackhawks game on TV -- all five of them, to be exact. It's game six of the playoff series against Vancouver. If the Hawks win, they move on to the next round.

I couldn't care less. I wouldn't even be paying attention except there's a dozen or so Hawks fans hanging around the bar, making so much noise.

I stand between Bob and Pat -- two stone-cold, crazy Hawks fans. They're standing still as statues. Eyes stuck on the tube. I'm not even sure they're breathing.

I turn to Norm. "They never put the Bulls on all the TVs," I say.

"Don't hate," he says.

"I'm just saying...."

"No, you're hating...."

I watch the Hawks skate round and round and round. Truth is, Norm's right. I am hating. I know I should be happy that they're doing so well after so many dismal seasons. But, hell, I don't care about the Blackhawks. Don't know any of their players. Can't remember the name of their coach. And my not caring has turned to hate cause I'm jealous. Every one's paying attention to the Hawks and every one's forgotten about the Bulls. I mean, this is even weirder than my normal weirdness, which is pretty weird.

"I used to like the Hawks," I tell Norm.

"Yeah...."

To prove it, I sing a snatch of their ancient fight song: "Here come the Hawks, the fighting Black Hawks/take the attack and we'll back you Black Hawks...."

Norm's laughing.

"But then they dumped Bobby Hull," I say.

"That was forty years ago, dawg...."

"Yeah, but he was the Golden Jet, man -- they dumped the Golden Jet...."

"You gotta get over that shit, dawg...."

"I hope they lose...."

"Aw, that's terrible, Benny. How can you say that, dawg? That don't make no fuckin' sense. They Chicago, Benny. As long as they from the Chi, you got to be goin' for them...."

"I can't...."

"Try...."

"Okay, man -- for you...."

So I try. I really do. I ask Bob for the name of the guy who scored a goal and he says that it's Pat Kane. I ask him who's the goaltender and he tells me -- something. I don't know. The name's a jumble of vowels. When the Hawks tie the game at five, I cheer. But it's an empty cheer. I just don't care.

I'm starting to worry about Pat. He looks pale. I'm watching him watching the Hawks and I'm thinking -- so this is what I must look like when I'm watching the Bulls on TV. All hunched over, a nervous wreck. Pat's a grown man, too -- past fifty. He's wearing a team jersey with Pat Kane's name an number on the back. Man, he's got it bad -- maybe even worse than me. At least I never wear a Derrick Rose team jersey.

Bored with the game, I go to the bar and order a coke. I page through the Sun-Times that's lying on the counter. I'm looking for a story about the Bulls -- any story will do. Turn page after page. Nothing. Nothing but Hawks this and Hawks that. I don't want to hate, but....

Roar! I look up to see the Hawks have scored. They're up six to five. Folks at the bar are cheering. Except for Pat. He looks even worse than before. Lips clenched. Hands tight. Whiter than white. I recognize the symptoms. I know what he's thinking -- he's dreading the worst. He's thinking if he cheers too soon -- if he counts those proverbial chickens before they proverbially hatch -- he'll blow it for his boys. As though anything he does can ever impact the game. I can related. If it were the Bulls, I'd be thinking the same stupid thing....

"Maybe you should take a walk," I suggest to him.

"Fuck," he says.

Clearly, he's in no mood for conversation. "They're gonna win," I tell him.

"Shut the fuck up -- don't jinx `em...."

"What do you mean jinx them? I got nothing to do with them. They're up one and they're playing at home. They have the home-court advantage...."

"Ice," says Bob.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Home ice advantage -- it's hockey, not basketball, dickwad...."

"Ice, court -- whatever...."

I walk to the jukebox. The younger guys have taken it over, playing shitty `80s rock. Is it just me or did the `80s suck when it came to rock `n roll?

Another roar. Hawks score -- up two. Vancouver looks devastated.

"It's over," I tell Pat.

"Not yet," he insists.

The game ends. The bar erupts. Bob and Pat are pounding each other on the back and talking about the next big series.

Aw, hell, it looks like it's gonna be at least another two weeks of this crap. If I were a drinking man, I'd have to have another....

Benny Jay: Winning The War

After the Bulls ended their season by losing game seven to the Celtics, I took the dog for a walk.

I thought I'd get away from the disappointment, but the details live in my mind. We race to the early lead, but the Celtics go on a run that turns a six-point deficit into a 14-point lead. The Bulls scratch and claw to get back. Cut it to three late in the fourth. Ben Gordon has the ball. Can tie the score and really turn things around. Should take his time, and work it around the perimeter to find a better shot. But, c'mon -- you know Ben. That's not his style. He's been a chucker all this season. He's not about to change now. Especially with the game on the line and no one else ready to step up....

The man throws up a prayer from the other side of Mongolia. It bounces out. Boston gets the rebound. And, well, here I am. Walking the dog....

After the game the TV shows Vinny Del Negro's locker-room talk to the team: I'm proud of you. You never quit. No one expected us to even be here. And so on and so forth....

It sounds like everything I ever told any little league team I ever coached after a disappointing loss. You'd think they'd come up with something more profound to say in the pros. But, really, what else is there to say?

The phone rings. It's my older daughter. She sounds like she's about to cry. Says she feels so bad cause she's really fallen in love with the Bulls in this playoff series.

I think back to a scene in my parent's house over 40 years ago after a playoff series between the Bulls and the Atlanta Hawks. I was crying in front of the TV set. I was in what -- sixth grade? My mother comes in and asks: "Why are you crying?" I tell her, "the Bulls lost." She says: "so, is that a reason to cry?" I tell her: "you wouldn't understand...."

Somehow or other I must have passed this lunacy onto my daughter.

I walk to the corner where months ago I howled at the moon. That was after Miami beat the Bulls on a last second shot by Shawn Marion. Remember? The shot came after Thabo Sefalosha threw the ball away. Thabo Sefalosha! The dude doesn't even play for the Bulls anymore. They traded him to Oklahoma City for a draft choice. Probably figured he'd never come to anything after watching him throw away that pass. Just thinking about that play makes me groan. Freaking Bulls....

I can't believe the season really ended. Feels like it just got started. They say it's too long, but I don't think it's long enough. Now I have to wait `til October -- another five of six months -- for the start of a new one.

This is too damn depressing. I call Johnny, the black Forest Gump, the wisest man I know.

He says he's at work, sitting in his patrol car out by O'Hare Airport. He heard the game on the radio. Tough game to take.

I tell him my daughter was just about crying. He tells me to tell her that "the Bulls lost the battle but they won the war."

How's that?

"They're stronger from this -- they'll come back stronger next year. You tell your daughter that what can't kill you only makes you stronger. It ain't even about the basketball game. For me `n you, the greatest thing in the world is to watch the games with our daughters. I watched game six with Taaj. She was telling me -- `Bulls gotta switch up their defense.' `The Bulls ain't blockin' out.' Tellin' me all kinds of stuff. The girl really knows her stuff. You `n me, Benny, we got to be the luckiest guys alive. Get to watch the games with our daughters.

"Make sure you tell your daughter that we lost the battle but won the war. And tell her that if this is the worst thing that ever happened to her, she's doin' all right...."

Benny Jay: Blows To The Head

For game five of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series, I go to Plan B -- or is it C? -- in order to keep myself from losing my mind: Inebriation.

If you recall, my first plan -- not watching the game -- didn't really work. I wound up making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of track-and-field fans. My second plan -- reading while watching -- was a complete failure. I came close to going insane.

I figure this time I'll get drunk. That ought to do the trick. I mean, it's done wonders for so many other people down through the ages.

So I go over to Norm's house and his lady friend, Sandy, couldn't be nicer. Feeds me pizza and bean dip -- uhm, that stuff is dee-li-cious! And I bring over an 18-pack of Budweiser, cause that's Norm's favorite beer.

I down one and then I down another. And by the third quarter I'm into my third -- which for me is serious boozing. I'm feeling no pain. Feeling groovy. Definitely enjoying the company. It's me and Norm and his daughter, Audrey, and his friends, the double Bs -- Brian and Brian. After the half, Milo comes by. What a great game. Back and forth they go. Up one, down one, up three, down three and so on and so forth.

At the start of the fourth the Bulls go on a mini run and take an eleven-point lead. But you know how it goes with the champs -- they make their own run. Cut the lead to eight, five, three. Next thing you know we're in overtime -- again.

They go up and we fight back. But we can't stop Paul Pierce. He hits one, two, three -- four cold-blooded, killer shots in the O.T. We're down two with three seconds left and coach Vinny Del Negro calls a time out and sets up this play. They fake an inbounds pass to Ben Gordon, but they throw it to Brad Miller, the back-up center. Is that brilliant or what? He's the last guy Boston thinks will get the ball. They probably forgot he was even on the court -- probably think I'll get the pass before Brad Miller.

Miller's got an open lane to the basket, just like Vinny planned. All he has to do is run in and slam it home and the game's tied and we're going to double overtime -- just like last game.

And he's running. At least, I think he's running. I mean, that is running -- isn't it? It's hard to tell cause he's so freaking slow -- Brad Miller has got to be the slowest man in basketball. And by the time he makes it to the basket the Celtics have closed in on him and as he rises to lay it in Rajon Rondo whacks him across the face. I mean, we're talking solid punch to the face. Knocks him down. It should be a flagrant -- two free throws and the ball on the side. But the refs don't call flagrant. They call a regular foul. Which means Miller's got two free throws to tie the score with two seconds left.

"How can that not be a mutha-fuckin' flagrant foul?" says Norm.

"He popped him in the face!" says Brian.

Miller goes to the sideline to wipe away the blood. And they stitch him up to stop the bleeding. And he staggers back to the line and he misses. Of course, he misses. You try shooting a free throw after getting smacked in the face. And the Bulls lose.

There's not much to say. We just stare at the TV. We've devoted over three hours of our lives to this gut-wrenching basketball game and now it's over and we've lost. There's nothing we can say cause what can you say. I feel like a boxer who's been through fifteen rounds with the champ. Too stunned to talk, too exhausted to cry. Too many blows to the head.

Milo leaves. Audrey goes to her computer. But Norm, Brian, Bee and I just keep staring at the tube. They're replaying the footage of Rondo whacking Miller in the head -- over and over and over.

"Can you believe this shit?" says Norm.

"No," I say.

"He fouled him," says Brian.

"Just smacked him in head," I say.

"Ain't that a bitch," says Norm.

I get it together to get on up and get my coat and head out to my car. On the radio, they're playing "Purple Rain" by Prince. I crank up the volume so it's blasting out of my brain: "Purple Rain, Purple Rain, I only want to see you in the Purple Rain...."

I've watched so many basketball games for so many years, you'd think I'd get tired of it. But I don't. Just the opposite. The more I watch, the more I want to watch. Just keep coming back. There's something about the way they go at it. I think of Brad Miller. The man took a fist to the face. Hit me like that and I'm in the hospital for a week. But Brad Miller? He just wipes off the blood and takes his free throw. Yeah, he missed it. But he took it.

Keep coming back. Never quit. Bulls got game six on Thursday. Win that and it's game seven on Saturday. Lose either one? Well, take the summer off and come on back next year.

Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Benny Jay: Cell Phone Play by Play

I wasn't gonna watch game one of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series. After the Bulls looked awful losing the last game of the regular season to the dreadful Toronto Raptors, I sent Milo an e-mail announcing that I was officially through with these worthless bums -- forever!

Plus, I had a track meet to attend. So I'm sitting on the aluminum bleachers of Hanson Stadium watching the 4/200 meter relay when Norm calls.

"You watching this?" he asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "How bad are we losing?"

"We're not losing -- we're winning. In Boston -- we're beating them in Boston, Benny...."

"No...."

"Yes...."

"How much?"

"Up three...."

"Oh, my God -- call me back. Keep me posted!"

A few minutes later, he calls back: "We're down one. Nine seconds left. Derrick at the line...."

"Oh, my God!"

"What?" says Daddy Dee, who's sitting next to me.

"Rose on the line," I tell him.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" says Norm.

I interpret this as a made free throw. "Bulls tied it," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Whee! Yeah!" says Norm. "Derrick Rose...."

I interpret this as another made free throw. "Bulls up one," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Celtics call time out," says Norm. "I'll call you back...."

A few minutes later, my cell phone vibrates. "Yeah?" I say.

"Damn," says Norm.

"No," I say.

"What happened?" asks Daddy Dee.

"Noah fouled Pierce with two seconds left," says Norm.

"No!" I say.

"Yes!" says Norm.

"Damn!" I say.

"What?" asks Daddy Dee.

I fill him in: "Noah fouled Pierce. Two seconds left. Pierce on the line. If he makes `em both, the Bulls lose...."

"Tied," says Norm.

"He made the first," I tell Daddy Dee.

"He missed," screams Norm. "He missed! The Truth missed, Benny!"

"Overtime," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Keep me posted," I tell Norm.

My phone vibrates -- Norm again: "We're up two in the OT...."

"Just stay on the line," I say. "I can't take this anymore. I need the play by play...."

"Okay, Rose has the ball," says Norm. "No. Agh! Ugh! Man...."

"What? What? What?"

"Agh!"

From the anguished tone of his wail, I gather something bad has occurred.

My phone vibrates. It's my sister. "Hold on, Norm -- I got another call. I'll put you on hold." I switch to my sister. "Are you watching this?" she asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "But I got my friend on the other line giving me the play by play. What's going on?"

"Well, there's three minutes and four seconds left and the Bulls have the ball. Now it's three minutes and three seconds, three minutes and two seconds, three minutes and one second...."

"Stop counting down the time -- tell me what's going on!"

"Three minutes left...."

Oh, brother. I love her dearly, but she's the absolute worst at play by play. I switch back to Norm. Apparently, he never knew I had him on hold cause he's in the middle of yelling: "Damn, Benny...."

I'm just about bellowing: "What? Is it good? Is it bad? What? What?"

"You got to calm down," Daddy Dee tells me.

"Tyrus hit a jumper -- Bulls up one," says Norm. "Celtics call time out. They got a last chance!"

"Call me back," I say.

I watch the runners. I hunch over and remind myself to stay calm. I'm surrounded by people and I don't want them to think that I'm any weirder than they probably already think I am. I cross my fingers. I actually cross my fingers. I have officially lost my freaking mind.

The phone vibrates. It's Norm. He has this tone of wondrous satisfaction: "We won, Benny...."

"Yeah?"

"Thirty-six points and eleven assists for Derrick Rose, Benny. I told you, dawg -- Dee Rose is the real deal...."

The phone vibrates. It's my sister. "They did it; they did it," she says.

"I know, I know...."

The phone vibrates. It's Young Ralph: "Did you see this?"

"No, I was at a track meet...."

"Tyrus Thomas won it with a jumper -- Tyrus Thomas!"

Daddy Dee's phone rings. It's his son, Jordan. "Yeah, I know," I hear Daddy Dee saying. "Hold it." He tells me: "Jordan says the Bulls are gonna sweep `em!"

All around me I heard the sounds of people officially jumping on the Bulls bandwagon, as calls come in telling people the unbelievable news: Bulls win! Bulls win!

My phone vibrates. It's Milo: "Did you see this?"

"No, I'm at a track meet. But I heard."

He can't resist. He says: "Why would you care, Benny? I thought you were through with the Bulls -- remember?"

Ha, ha, ha. Funny man -- a regular George Carlin. As the gun goes off for the start of another race, I tell him: "Well, Milo, I guess I changed my mind."

Benny Jay: Track Talking

Oh, man, life is good. I wake to a bright, sunny day -- a little cool, but not too windy. Perfect weather for the opening of the outdoor high school track season.

Other folks welcome spring with the crack of a bat against a baseball. For me, it's the echo of a starter's pistol -- 'cause I just love track `n field.

I drag my bike out of storage -- haven't used it since November. Stop by the bike store to fill the tires with air, and bike down Lincoln Avenue to Ainslie Street and over to River Park for the Mather High School meet.

It's a big field filled with kids wearing uniforms in all shades of yellow, green, gold, blue and red. It's too warm for my wool cap, so I replace it with a baseball cap and raise my face to feel the rays of the sun.

Right away I'm looking for someone to talk to, 'cause for me half the fun of watching sports -- any sports -- is talking. I don't know if university researchers have done any type of sociological study on this topic, but for some reason track seems to draw the best talkers: Older guys, forty to sixty, standing on the sidelines, stopwatches in hands, talking politics, weather, the Bulls, things we should have done in our lives, girls we used to date, fights we won and/or lost, and, our all-time favorite: Why things were better back in the day.

I spot Alonzo -- pay dirt. In the pantheon of great guys to talk to while watching a track meet -- an illustrious list that includes Daddy Dee, Ray and Lavinia's Uncle John, just to name a few -- Alonzo is right at the top. It would be an interesting study to see who talks more -- him or me. I say me. But, then, I'm biased.

It's Alonzo's first meet of the year -- his daughter just finished basketball -- yet he's already in mid-season form. The truly great ones don't need a warm up. Within a few minutes, we're well into an intricate and passionate discussion about coaching strategies in a girls high school basketball game we saw about, oh, 15 months ago. I'm telling you, this is serious stuff.

While we're talking, the hurdlers take the track. I love the hurdle races at the Mather meet -- it's like a demolition derby. This being the first outdoor meet of the year, a lot of coaches are experimenting, just to see if they have anyone who can actually compete. I mean, some one's got to do it. A lot of these kids have probably never even seen a hurdle in their lives. Coach's fed them a line: "I think you'll be good at -- you got the body for it. Try it, you'll like it...."

The wide-eyed rookies take off with eager determination, running as fast as they can, and then -- wham -- they crash into that first hurdle, hit it hard, cause, let's face it, this is way harder than any coach will tell you. By the time they get to the final hurdle, they're practically limping, ankles and shins screaming in pain, and looking like they can't wait to quit. As in retire from sports, go home, have a cold one and watch it all on TV.

At last year's Mather meet, there was a boy -- I think he hailed from Roosevelt High School -- who crashed over the final hurdle, landed on his face and just crawled off the track. On the sidelines, the other old timers and I were yelling: "Finish the race, finish the race!" As in, back in the day we woulda never have walked off the field. The boy said: "Fuck this shit." Daddy Dee and I busted out laughing when he said that -- laughing so hard, we damn near fell over. "Fuck this shit." What more can you say?

It reminded me of the time I came in dead last in a high school cross country meet. As I came around the back stop, head down, wheezing in agony, for the final fifty or so yards, I saw David Simms, a kid from my freshman algebra class. He had his wry smile, almost a smirk, as he watched, like he was enjoying my misery. Within a week we were best of friends. Later he explained that he had thought I was stuck up 'cause I came from the richer side of town. But after he saw me running dead last, he figured I was no better than anyone else. So you see, there are some benefits to finishing last.

I'm all set to tell Alonzo the story. But we get sidetracked by a coach who wants Alonzo to give some avuncular advise to a great runner who's goofing off in class. The kid comes over and Alonzo -- a former track coach himself -- talks about how life is short and you have to make the most of it and if you have the gift of speed that you have -- well, son, you got to run your race! The whole race -- class work too.

It's a great speech. Has me fired up. Wish to hell I had someone like Alonzo pumping me up way back when.

By then the meet's over and the sun's going down an the wind picks up. Typical Chicago weather, changes on a dime. I replace my baseball cap with the knit one.

Alonzo and I walk over to my bike. We're still talking. His daughter, Ashley, stands off the side, patiently waiting. I can see she wants to go home. Just as I say, "I'll let you go," I remember that I never got around to telling him about running last in cross country. Oh, well, I can save it. We have another track meet in week. I'll get to tell him all about it then.

Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

It's the greatest basketball night of the year: Bulls-Lakers, March Madness, and the state high school boys championship game. All on TV at the same time. Free TV, too. Not cable. Even I can watch. Is life good, or what?

I'm flipping from game to game to game. Texas is beating Duke. Good. Can't stand Duke. Coach is a Republican -- `nuff said right there. And Chicago's Whitney Young High School is beating Waukegan High School. Go, Chi. Best of all, my Bulls are trouncing the Lakers -- up sixteen. That's double good cause, one, I love the Bulls, and, two, I can't stand the Lakers.

My Wife's out of town, so I get to clap as loud as I can for every Bulls rebound, bucket, steal and blocked shot.

My Younger Daughter and her friend, Brazil, sit at the computer, heads together, giggling. Oblivious to me and my noise.

Then it flips. Texas falls behind. Waukegan catches up. Worse, the Lakers catch fire.

I gotta talk about it -- can't get through this alone. I call my bowling buddy Norm. He doesn't pick up. Must be working. Call Johnny, the Black Forest Gump. He's driving to work -- can't talk.

The Bulls fall behind by seven. I can't bare to watch. I go back to the high school game. Young up seven. I sneak a look back at the Bulls. They're down 12. Back to high school. But I can't get into the game cause I'm too worried about the Bulls. I'm wondering: What's the score? Maybe they're on a roll? Maybe they've taken the lead! I start to change back to the game. I stop. No, I need a new approach -- something to change the Bulls luck. I know! I'll check the score on my computer. That might turn things around, like the game's outcome is, you know, predicated on how I follow it.

This theory, by the way, is not as nutty as it sounds. During the first great Bulls playoff run of the early 1990s, Big Mike, my dear friend and writing partner, used to leave the room to walk around the block during testy moments of close games. More than once, his walks ignited come backs by the Bulls. After awhile, we wouldn't even wait for him to leave. We'd just look at him and he knew: Time to walk. In an other example -- this one back in 1989 -- my neighbor, Janet, wandered into my house while a bunch of us were watching a Bulls-Pistons playoff game. When she took a seat at the far eastern corner of my couch, the Bulls were down about 15. Soon thereafter, they rallied and cut the lead to one. Oblivious to the game, much less her role in it, Janet rose to leave with less than a minute left to, and I'm not making this up, work in her garden. Oh, no you don't, we chorused -- you're the reason the Bulls came back. We made her sit in that same far eastern corner of the couch until the game was over -- won, as I recall, on a Michael Jordan bank shot.

So, anyway, I run up stairs and turn on my computer, hoping that I will be rewarded with good news. But, no. Bulls down 14. It didn't work.

I return to the TV and watch the high school game. The camera shows the cheerleaders. I see Taaj, Johnny's daughter. I call Johnny to break the news.

"Your daughter's getting more TV time than Oprah," I tell him.

He cracks up. "That's a good one...."

We hang up. I race upstairs to check the computer. Damn! Bulls lost. I call Norm. No answer. I leave a message: "I can't stand the Lakers. Can't stand their players, coaches, owner, stadium -- nothing. I don't even like their uniforms!"

I hang up. I watch the high school game. A few minutes pass. This is how desperate I am for some basketball conversation: "Yo, Ray; Zilly," I call out to my daughter and her friend. "C'mon watch your school win the state championship...."

To my utter astonishment, they leave the computer to watch the final moments -- a dunk, a steal, some free throws. The buzzer sounds. As Whitney Young's players pour on the court in jubilation, the camera shows the cheerleaders.

"Oh, my God," says my daughter. "It's Taaj...."

I repeat my killer line: "That girl's getting more TV time than Oprah...."

Total bomb. They ignore me.

The Young team lines up to get their first-place medals. Dr. Kenner, the school's principal, hands them out.

"Okay, Dr. Kenner," says my daughter. "I see you...."

The team manager steps up. "Oh, my God," says Brazil. "It's Preston...."

"That boy is too thirsty to get his medal," says my daughter.

The star scorer gets his medal. "That's the boy who keeps texting my sister," says Brazil.

"For real?" says my daughter.

"For real...."

Another player gets his medal. "Ugh, he's funny looking," says Brazil.

"Some of the girls think he's cute," I offer, eager to participate in the conversation.

"Not me," says Brazil.

She points to the next kid in line and says: "Now he's cute...."

"He's so obnoxious," says my daughter. "He's so full of himself...."

"I know, but he's cute," says Brazil.

One boy leans in to kiss the principal on her cheek, but she's looking the other way. And he backs away without a kiss.

"Ooh, treated," says my daughter.

When they finish giving out the medals, the girls go back to the computer. I put on my coat and hat and grab the leash. "I'm gonna walk the dog," I tell them.

They got their heads together and they're giggling. I wait for them to say something to me, but they don't. So I clip the leash to the dog's collar, step out of the house, pull out my phone and give Johnny another call. I figure we got another fifteen minutes of basketball to talk about -- at least.

Benny Jay: Walking And Talking To The Black Forest Gump

It's close to midnight and I'm walking the dog on a cold, cloud-free night. The moon's shining bright and there's no one around.

I take out my cell phone and call my buddy Johnny. He works the midnight shift as a security guard out by O'Hare. He's got plenty of time to talk, and no one can talk like Johnny. He calls himself the Black Forest Gump, on account of the fact that he's always manages to wind up in the right place when something big is gonna pop.

"My man, Benny," he says. "You see President Obama's speech to congress? Man, those congressmen were goin' crazy. White people too. I ain't seen so many white folks skinnin' and grinnin' since Lincoln was shot. They gave him 52 standing ovations. When Obama walked down the aisle everybody wanted to touch the hem of his cloth. Took him a half an hour just to get out of Congress cause everybody wanted to shake his hand. The man is Jesus. I say, let's vote him king. Forget president. King Barack."

I ask him if he saw the Republican response by Bobby Jindal, governor of Louisiana. "I saw it. That fool didn't say nothin'. The man's governor of one of the poorest states in the union and he talkin' about he don't want to take any of the stimulus money for Louisiana. That's easy for him to say -- he got a job. Man, I don't know what folks in Louisiana were thinkin' when they elected him governor. They should vote the man out. But you know how it is -- everybody say they want change, but really they lookin' to make some change. Everybody want to go to heaven, but don't no one want to die. We live in a ten-day democracy -- after ten days we forget all about it...."

I walk by the el track as a train roars by. By the time it's passed, somehow or other Johnny's made the transition to talking about a lady he knew a long time ago on the West Side. "We had a sister -- called herself Sister Udahwe. That's ooh-dah-we. She was so pretty we used to call her Sister Ooh-wee. Man, that woman was fine...."

I cut him off to ask about the passing of Norm Van Lier and he starts telling me about the time in "nineteen-seventy-somethin" when Billy "the Kid" Harris, the legendary South Side playground star, tried out for the Bulls. "Man, Billy the Kid lit them up in practice, but he was talkin' so much trash ol' Coach Dick Motta didn't like it. Norm took Billy aside and told him -- `Billy, all you gotta do is keep your mouth shut and you'll make the team.' But Billy wasn't about to close his mouth. I always liked Norm for that. Tried to help Billy the Kid. But the man wouldn't help himself...."

By now, I'm home. I open the door, and take the leash off the dog. Johnny's about to go on for another hour -- what the hell, he has all night. But I need sleep. I tell him I'll talk to him soon. Probably the next time I'm walking the dog at midnight....

Benny Jay: Norm Van Lier

I'm on the phone with Ronnie, talking about this and that, when he breaks the news in a casual sort of way: Oh, by the way -- did you hear that Norm Van Lier died?

At first I don't want to believe it. Like Ronnie got the story wrong.

"You're talking about Norm Van Lier -- Stormin' Norman Van Lier?"

"Yeah...."

"Of the Chicago Bulls?"

"Yeah...."

I can't talk. I don't know what to say. Can't really feel the full impact cause my mind has gone somewhere else.

We finish our conversation and I go on with my day. But it never really leaves me. I check the Internet coverage. I call a few friends. I listen to remembrances on the radio: Oscar Robertson, Rick Barry, and other great basketball players .

I walk around the house in a daze. I dig out my old diary, circa 1973. It's lying beneath some papers in the bottom drawer of my desk.

I open it gently, afraid it's gonna fall apart. He's there on almost every page. Sometimes I call him Norm Van Lier. Sometimes Stormin' Norman. Sometimes it's just Norm.

I'd quote some of the passages, but, I don't know, it's really a little too embarrassing. The gist is this: Norm Van Lier showed up with the Chicago Bulls back in the early 1970s when I was going through a particularly vulnerable time in my young life. Felt self conscious and insecure. Didn't think any of the girls would ever like me and, believe me, I wanted them to like me. I was crazy about girls. Thought about `em day and night.

Norm Van Lier had no trouble with girls. He drove a snazzy foreign sports car. I think it was red. Had an Afro and beard. Hung with rock stars. Partied all night and somehow or other made it to practice in the morning.

He played like a demon. Skinniest, smallest runt on the court -- he walked away from no one. He dove for balls, skidded across the floor. Scraped the skin off his elbows, arms and knees. He drove the hoop. Knock him down and he got right back up. You couldn't keep him down.

One time he went after Sidney Wicks with a chair. The man was eight inches taller. Norm didn't give a shit. He told reporters: "Wicks hit me in the throat with an elbow. Well, I went after that son-of-a-bitch with a chair."

I was listening to that game on my radio. I listened to damn near every Bulls game on my radio -- a tinny-sounding transistor. Alone in my room. Door closed. Keeping score. I remember the disbelief in the announcer's voice: He's going after Wicks. He's got a chair. They're holding him back. Holy, moly -- Norm Van Lier!

It wasn't just that I wanted to be like Norm. He was absolutely everything I wanted to be. And it was more than the girls or the sports car or the rock stars. It was his attitude. I was weak and he was strong. I was afraid and he was brave. I cowered in the corner and he stormed onto the center of the court. I stayed clear of fights, he fought anyone who got in his way. I needed him as presence or a spirit or an inspiration to show me how to get through my life.

So I took on his identity as my own. I wrote his name in magic marker on my Converse All Stars. I bought a Norm Van Lier T-shirt which I wore until it fell apart. When I scored a basket in a pickup game, I'd yell out: "Norm!" I wrote his name in my diary in big, bold letters. I talked about him all the time. I had arguments with my friends. I said he was the best guard in basketball. They came back with other guards -- Jerry West, Walt Frazier, Nate Archibald -- they said were better. It didn't matter what they said. I argued `til they got tired of arguing. I argued the way Norm played basketball -- just wore `em down.

On March 27, 1973, my buddy, Josh, and I went to the old Chicago Stadium. It was Fan Appreciation Night. They let us on the floor. I waited in a line to shake hands and get autographs. Norm Van Lier signed my Bulls poster, which I hung on my bedroom wall. Josh snapped a picture of me watching Norm sign the poster. I'm looking at that picture now. It's giving me chills. I was 17 -- he was 25....

Years pass. Norm retired from basketball. He left town and came back and became a TV personality. I watched him grow older. But it didn't really matter what he looked like now cause I didn't need him the way I used to. It's like "Puff the Magic Dragon." You outgrow that stuff. I got stronger, smarter, more confident. I didn't need a fantasy figure at my back.

But that's not the point. The point is this: When I needed him, he was there. Norm Van Lier, stormin' the court, swingin' that chair....

Rest in peace, my brother.

Benny Jay: Howling At The Moon

I get a call at seven thirty or so from Norm. He's at the Bulls game with his stepdaughter, Audrey.

He tells me it's halftime and the Bulls are losing by eleven to Miami.

Damn! I hate Miami. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to face another Bulls loss. I can't take this season. Win one, lose one, win one, lose two -- the inconsistency is driving me nuts.

Norm starts in about Ben Gordon: too short, can't play d, can't dribble....

I can't take it anymore. I love Ben Gordon.

We hang up. I get busy. Time passes. I forget about the Bulls.

I go to the kitchen to have a delicious glass of chocolate milk.

I turn on the radio. There's six seconds left in the game. Bulls down by three. And Ben Gordon has been fouled in the act of shooting a three-point shot. Can you believe this! He's going to the free-throw line to shoot three free throws and possibly tie the game.

I turn off the radio. Too scared to listen. Then I think -- be a man! I turn it on again.

Gordon dribbles three times. Takes a Breath. Shoots. Good!

I pick up an orange and start tossing it in the air.

Gordon dribbles, breathes, shoots -- Good, again!

I close my eyes. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. I say: "Please, please, please...."

Gordon breathes. Shoots. Good!

He did it. He did it. He did it. Ben Gordon tied the game!

I call Norm.

No answer.

I leave a message: "I told you not to hate on Ben...."

I rush back to the radio. Miami's inbounding the ball. Chalmers looks, looks, looks -- he throws it in. Intercepted by Hinrich. Bulls ball; Bulls ball.....

The crowd's howling. I'm howling. I call Norm. No answer. I jump up and down. I sing. I dance. I rework the Cubs fight song, which I sing as I loudly clap along: "Go, Bulls, go; go, Bulls, go -- hey, Chicago, what do you say, the Bulls are gonna win today...."

Nicky, the dog, comes into the kitchen. I pound her on the back: "The Bulls have the ball, Nicky; the Bulls have the ball....."

The commercial ends. The teams return to the court. Six seconds left. The Bulls have a chance to win the game.

Thabo Sefalosha's inbounding. He's looking to pass it in. He's looking.....

"Pass the ball," I yell.

He throws it away. Miami's ball. "Noooo!" I yell. "Noooooooo!"

I actually moan.

The phone rings. It's my older daughter calling from Iowa. She's been watching the game on TNT. "Can you believe this?" she says.

"They threw away the ball," I say.

"I know, but what a great game...."

"I can't believe Thabo threw it away...."

I don't wanna listen. But I do. Wade gets the ball. He throws it to Marion. He dunks. Bull lose.

I turn off the radio. I slump in a chair. I can't talk. Norm calls. But I'm too sad too talk. I walk the dog. I call my daughter. "I'll call you tomorrow," she tells me. "I'm going to a friend's...."

She's already over it -- she forgot about this game as soon as it was over. But not me. I can't forget.

I walk on. I don't even feel the cold. I take out my phone. I start to call Milo. I need to talk to someone. I'm halfway through dialing when I realize -- he goes to bed early. He's probably asleep. He's too smart to stay up late for this crap. I put away my phone and keep walking.

This love for the Bulls -- it's insane. It's irrational. I'm a lunatic. It's a curse.

I make a decision. That's it. It's over. No more. From here on out, I'm through with the Bulls.

I look at the moon and I howl....

Benny Jay: Dinner With Dad

For my wife's birthday, we eat at an Italian restaurant.

My father's feeling good. Apparently, he drank a scotch (or two) at home before he got here, where he orders a Manhattan. That makes two drinks -- or three -- but who's counting.

My wife's drinking a Cosmopolitan, my mother got a Manhattan, and my sister's sipping wine. I'm nursing a beer. In a family of serious drinkers, I'm known as the wimp.

It's noisy in the restaurant. We have to speak up to be heard.

Two guys walk in. My sister leans toward me. "Isn't that Eddie Arruza?" she says.

"Who?"

"Eddie Arruza -- the TV guy from Channel 11...."

I act like I'm too cool to care about a TV personality: "I dunno...."

She's annoyed: "You didn't look...."

My father orders a second Manhattan. My wife mentions that we recently saw "Macbeth." My father starts quoting Lady Macbeth -- at 83, he's got this amazing ability to quote from songs, plays and poems: "I have given suck, and know how tender `tis to lose the babe that milks me; I would while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out...."

He gets really loud when he gets to the part about nipples, boneless gums and dashed-out- brains.

My sister tells him he's talking too loud.

"What did you say?" he says.

"You're being obnoxious," she says.

He puts his hand behind his ear, like he's straining to hear her: "What was that word?"

"Obnoxious...."

"Oh," he says. "Obnoxious. Say it clearly: Ob-nox-ious...."

"Stop yelling," she says.

"I'm not yelling...."

"You're talking too loud...."

"I don't yell -- I project. There's a difference."

Emily, the waitress, stops by to say hello. She's a voice major at Northwestern University. She tells us she'll be performing in an upcoming student opera production.

"Will you be singing, `Una Furtiva Lagrima'?" asks my dad.

She smiles. Months ago she played the role of Adina in a student production of "The Elixir of Love." Adina doesn't sing "Una Furtiva Lagrima," and my father knows it. But it doesn't matter -- cause he enjoys asking her that question.

"I'm not a tenor," she says. Which is what she usually says.

"What's the name of that song?" I ask my father.

"Una Furtiva Lagrima -- a furtive tear," says my father. He explains that in the opera a young man is afraid of women so he drinks a bottle of wine -- the elixir of love -- that emboldens him. His eyes filling with tears, my father starts singing: "Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suio spunto...."

"Dad, stop," says my sister. "You're too loud...."

It's true. He's very loud. But no one seems to notice. 'Cause it's so loud in the restaurant.

I make my way to the bathroom. I see the man my sister thinks is Eddie Arruza. I don't want my sister to know I'm looking, yet I'm curious. Is it him? I sneak a quick look. But his head is down and I can't be sure.

On the way back, I sneak another look. But it's dark in the restaurant. I keep looking. Don't see where I'm going. Oops, I walk into a waiter. "Sorry," I say, "my fault...."

Back at the table, my father, well into his third drink, is back to Lady Macbeth and her nipples.

We drive to my parent's house to give my wife her presents. My dad builds a fire. My sister puts on a CD of big band songs. Frank Sinatra's singing with Tommy Dorsey.

Sitting on the sofa, watching the fire, I suddenly remember -- the Bulls are playing the Mavericks and it's on TV. I look at my watch. The game must be nearly over. I wonder who won. I sneak out of the living room and into the side room where they keep their TV. I turn on the set, but keep the volume low. My father can't stand the sound of sports on TV.

Perfect timing. There's about three seconds left in regulation. The score's tied. Derrick Rose has the ball. He cuts by his man. Drives to the basket. Jumps. Turns. Shoots. Off the rim! Overtime. "No," I wail. "Where's the foul...."

I turn off the TV. No sense in watching. I just know they'll lose. Damn!

I return to the living room. My wife and my mother -- who's beyond 80 -- are dancing the jitterbug to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." My mom's leading. She twirls my wife, like they're Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

"Overtime," I announce. Like anyone cares.

I watch my mom dance with my wife. You never grow old in my father's house.