Benny Jay: Weak Signal

I usually have at least two books going at once. But lately I've been in a reading funk, seems like I haven't read a good one in weeks.

Blame it on "The Wire." What a show. I might have gone my whole life without watching it -- never saw it when it was running on HBO, and it's been off the air for months. But Mike, the video store guy, told me about it -- said I absolutely had to see it, said it was the best show ever.

So I rented a DVD and after that I couldn't stop watching it. I'd be renting DVDs every other night. Mike must a made a fortune off of me. I was like a junkie, staying up to all hours, watching up to two or three episodes a night. Ran through five years worth of episodes in no time. Finished with a bang -- four shows in one night. Didn't get to bed `til five in the morning. Woke up in a daze, like I'd been on a drinking binge.

I say this all to let you know that when the night began I thought: Tonight's the night I read a book. But, you know how it goes -- once you're hooked on the tube it's hard to get unhooked. I remember Game Five's on ABC -- Lakers versus Orlando.

I turn the tube to Channel Seven. But Channel Seven doesn't work. Instead, a sign comes on: "Weak Signal."

"Weak Signal?" I mutter to myself. "What the fu...."

I surf around -- Channels Five, Nine and 32. They all work. All the funky little VHS stations work. I go back to Seven. "Weak Signal."

It must be that analog thing. I got the converter box 60 million years ago and Merlin -- our friend, the computer genius -- installed it. It had been working. But now it's not.

I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen. I'm hoping that if I stare at it long enough, it will fix itself.

I turn it on. "Weak Signal."

I call up to the stairs to my wife. "Hey! The TV doesn't work...."

Silence. She's got the radio playing. So I yell louder: "THE TV DOESN'T WORK!"

"What?" she yells back.

"It's that analog thing," I yell.

"You have to reload it," yells my younger daughter.

I'm stunned that she of all people would have an opinion on this. "How do you know?" I yell.

"I heard it on TV...."

I look at the screen. "Did you say to unplug it?" I yell.

"No, reload...."

"Reload?"

"Yes...."

"Reload?" I mutter to myself. "What the hell does that mean?"

I look at the TV changer. I look at the screen. It's like I'm expecting one or the other to tell me what to do.

"How do you reload it?" I yell up the stairs.

"Call Merlin," yells my wife.

I find the phone. I call Merlin. He's not in. I leave a message, something like: "Merlin, you won't believe this, but the TV doesn't work. My daughter says to reload it. But I don't know what that means...."

I hang up. I try again. "Weak Signal." What a joke. It's bad enough I can't watch basketball most of the year cause I don't have cable. Now I can't even watch it when it's on Free TV. They made such a big deal about how getting rid of analog was gonna improve our lives, but they somehow managed to make things worse.

I throw the TV changer on the table, flop on the couch, and lie still for a moment. I hear my daughter and wife moving about upstairs. I casually look to my left and lying on the living room table -- beneath an old, unread copy of Time Magazine -- is a book: "City of Thieves" by David Benioff.

I remember buying it weeks ago on an impulse. Forgot all about it while I was hooked on "The Wire." I pick it up and start reading. It's about these two young men -- one's only 17 -- wandering through Leningrad in the winter of 1942 when the Nazis are shelling the hell out of their city. You figured it'd be ghastly depressing. But Benioff's got a dark sense of humor. The two boys haven't eaten a decent meal in weeks. They're both constipated. They have this one exchange:

"`When was the last time you had a shit?' Kolya asked me, abruptly.

"`I don't know. A week ago?'

"`It's been nine days for me. I've been counting. Nine days! When it finally happens, I'll have a big party and invite the best-looking girls from the university.'"

I laugh out loud when I read that bit. There are few things in life as pleasurable as reading a passage that makes you laugh out loud. I keep reading. I forget where I am. Time goes by. I'm a hundred pages or so into the story. It occurs to me -- the game must be over. I wonder who won. I click on the TV. "Weak Signal."

I know my wife can fix it -- she's freaking genius with this sort of thing (remind me to tell you about the time she fixed my ex-brother-in-law's vacuum cleaner). But it will probably be months before she gets around to taking the time to figure it out. Oh, well, we'll survive.

I return to my book. We're better off without this shit anyway....

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: 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.