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....

Big Mike: The Guilt Trip

I worry about the damnedest things. And I'm not even thinking about how I'm fretting these days over the Cubs' offensive woes.

Living apart from my beloved lovely bride five days of the week is an ordeal. Living without a car in a town that values public transportation about as much as Chicago values honest politicians is almost as bad. Being stuck in the Murray Hill Pike ranch house from Monday through Friday is not quite a prison but it'll do as a metaphor.

It's gotten to the point that I've begun talking to the cats. No not, baby-talk, goo-goo, daddy-loves-his-little-girl pap. I leave that for The Loved One. Er, I mean, I leave it for her to talk to the cats that way - not that I talk to her like that. My contributions to our colloquys are usually limited to grunts and shrugs.

By talking to the cats, I mean, for instance, that when I finish writing a story I may read it out loud just to hear the sound of it as the female puss, Terra, dozes next to my laptop. My orations never fail to awaken her. She stares at me, probably trying to figure out if I'm barking out a warning or I'm just losing what's left of my mind. When I finish my recitations, I ask her, "How was that? Pretty good, huh?" To which she responds by licking her nether areas and then drifting back to sleep.

Or, say the male, Boutros, decides to emerge from whatever hiding place he's chosen for the morning. As he pads by, I might say, "Well, hello Big Man! How are you? Where've you been? Do you want to hear me read my piece as well?"

He merely keeps an eye on me as he digs into the litter box, does his business, and then goes back into seclusion.

Now I know how The Loved One feels when she tries to start a conversation with me.

Anyway, it wouldn't be a shock for anyone to hear that one or both members of a couple in a long-distance relationship have dallied about in infidelities. Not that I've even considered sowing a single stray oat. Heaven forbid! Why, I'm an honorable man and I have too much love and respect for my partner-for-life to break our trust. Besides, I'm 53 years old with a bad heart and an enlarged prostate. Women aren't exactly clawing at each other to get at me these days.

As for The Loved One's adherence to our bond, I believe that she's remaining pure in south central Indiana. Now that doesn't sound like a hotbed of flaming desire but she is, after all, still quite a hot number and there are probably more than a few randy cougar-hunters prowling around the environs of Indiana U. But marriage is nothing if it doesn't include trust.

Does The Loved One react to her own doubts in kind? Maybe not. She seemed awfully curious about someone I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. I told the story of Tammy, who considers herself, like me, as good or better an ex than a spouse.

"So," The Loved One asked, trying to sound casual, "is she pretty?"

Shrug.

"Do you see her over at Dick's Pizza often?"

Grunt.

"You two are pretty friendly, huh?"

Shrug and grunt.

Finally, she cut to the chase. "Well, do you like her?"

Now honey, I said, don't be silly. There's nothing going on. Besides, if I was trying to hide something from you, would I write about her in a public blog?

This seemed to mollify her. I'd hate to think of her tossing and turning in her sublet apartment wondering if I'm in the throes of passion with another but, then again, it's nice to know this old gasbag can still ignite a spark of jealousy. Not that I'd go out of my way to do so.

For instance, after I won this week's Trivia contest at Dick's, Icepick Mark (so-called because the Icepick is his cocktail of choice) offered me a ride home. I was feeling lazy so I took him up on it despite the common knowledge that he feels an evening is wasted if he hasn't indulged in at least a half dozen of his favorite refreshments.

I got in, tightened my seatbelt, grasped the oh-shit handle above the door for dear life and off we went. As we lurched out of the parking lot, Icepick Mark began telling me some convoluted tale that I'd have difficulty following under normal circumstances. His narration, though, now was competing for space in my mind with images of me flying through his windshield like a bald bullet.

To top it off, Icepick Mark was heading in the wrong direction. I hoped to interrupt him the next time he paused for air, but his tale ran non-stop. Finally, about a mile down the road, I said, "Pardon me, Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, where are we going?"

"Well, it would seem logical that we're heading toward your house."

"Yes, that's true. Only my house is in the other direction."

"No it isn't."

"Hmm. I'm guessing I'm right on this point."

"Well, the last time I took you home, you had me drop you off at an apartment behind the shopping center."

"I've never lived behind the shopping center."

"Oh yeah. I remember distinctly."

"Be that as it may, I live in the other direction."

"Okay," he said, as if indulging me in a whim. "But I distinctly remember dropping you off there. You must have a girlfriend there."

To which I responded, Ha ha.

"No, really. You've got something going on over there. I know it."

With that, Icepick Mark executed a breathtaking u-turn and drove me home. As I exited his pickup truck and thanked him for the ride (and my lucky stars for my safe arrival), Icepick Mark iterated, "You've got a girlfriend over there. I know I dropped you off there."

I shrugged and grunted.

Now I'm worried. What if The Loved One happens to come with me to Dick's one day and Icepick Mark, lubed with his favorite refreshment, decides to tell the tale of my girlfriend who lives in an apartment behind the shopping center? I'll deny it, of course, because I'm innocent. No matter, though, philanderers always claim they're innocent as well.

Sheesh. The damnedest things.

Randolph Street: The American Carnival

... But yes, I think it can be very easily done

We'll just put some bleachers out in the sun

And have it on Highway 61.

from "Highway 61 Revisited," Bob Dylan, 1965

Here's the third and final installment of Jon Randolph's series of pix taken along US Route 61 following the Mississippi River, from 1976 through 1985.

"Mailboxes," Keeler, Wisconsin

"Three Gents," Mississippi

"Eagle," Davenport, Iowa

"Edsel," Burlington, Iowa

"Hat," Mississippi

"Wait," Minnesota

Good old Jon Randolph - as we speak, he's sitting back in a fishing boat on a crystal clear Canadian lake, keeping an eye on his line for action, pulling his cap low against the morning glare, perhaps even enjoying a cool libation. That's the life. We have only one thing to say - get the hell back to work, you bum!

Randolph Street, featuring the work of Chicago's premier photojournalist, appears here every Friday. The Third City brings you the best in writing, opinion, memoir and other gibberish every day. Keep an eye open for the move to our very own website - swear to god, it's coming soon!

Letter From Milo: Dropping Like Flies

I've run my own small business - make that a very small business - for about 15 years. I'm not saying I run it well, I'm just saying I run it. I've made good money, decent money and chump change. I've seen good times and bad times, but I've never seen times as bad as these.

The way the economy is going you have to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. Like hunter-gatherer societies, barter economies and the colonial system, maybe true capitalism's time has passed. Maybe it's time for a new economic system to emerge, something that still rewards individual initiative but takes into consideration the immense disparity in the distribution of our planet's natural resources.

Why should a few nations, blessed with an abundance of natural resources, prosper while other nations, blessed with an abundance of sand, rocks, snakes and AK-47s, teeter on the brink of collapse. It doesn't seem fair. It's a small world, dangerous and very crowded. Such obvious disparities in wealth serve only to inflame the have-nots. New chickens are hatching every day and they'll all be needing a place to roost.

Whoa! I'm getting in over my head here. My world view is basically limited to what I can see out of my window. If I try to go beyond that I generally get a headache and have to retire to my couch with a cold Blatz and the remote control.

I was just reading an editorial about about the bankruptcy of General Motors. The writer opined that GM was too big to fail. What kind of bullshit is that! Too big to fail! The dinosaurs failed. The Roman Empire failed. The Soviet Union failed. Everything eventually fails. Do people think GM is going to last as long as the pyramids? Let GM succeed or fail on its own merits. I've got no sympathy for a company that foisted a monstrosity like the Hummer on an unsuspecting public. I mean, who the hell needs to drive a military assault vehicle on the streets of Chicago? Might as well outfit a Sherman tank with baby seats and a roof rack and call it a family sedan.

My concern is not with the GMs, AIGs and big banks of the world. I'm concerned about the little guy. My sympathies lie with the auto worker not the auto company. My heart goes out to the bank teller not the greedy bank honchos who helped cause this economic meltdown. While the fat MBA-festooned bastards are grudgingly accepting the blame, they are not suffering any of the consequences. At the end of the day, they will retire to their gated communities, while the unemployed autoworker and bank teller will be lucky to hang on to their split-levels and bungalows.

Swear to God, if it wasn't for those unreasonable statutes that deprive a man of his liberty for committing even the most righteous of murders, I'd go and...

Ah, never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah. As I was saying, as a small business owner, I rely on a lot of other small business owners to help me provide my advertising services. Several of my clients are small businesses, too, and it breaks my heart, not to mention my wallet, to see them struggling to stay afloat and, and many cases, drowning.

Small businesses are dropping like flies. I've seen mom and pop print shops go out of business. I seen advertising specialty suppliers, the people that provide coffee mugs, ball caps and ink pens with logos on them, go under. I've listened to the sad stories of print makers, rubber stamp manufacturers and silk screeners. I've commiserated with photographers who had to close their studios and designers who wonder where they'll get the money to update their computer equipment. I've listened to people who have worked hard and honorably all their lives wonder if they'll ever be able to retire.

I listen and listen and listen, and all I can do is quote the great Marvin Gaye: "What's Going On?"

In my very first posting on this blog site, I promised that I would never lie to the American people. Although I've fudged on that promise a few times, I'll be completely honest now. I'm suffering, too. My business is going through the same problems that other small business are dealing with - budgets slashed or eliminated, lack of credit, longer payment terms and clients defaulting on invoices.

I don't now how much longer I can or want to keep it going. If things don't pick up in the next six months I'll have to make some tough decisions. As it is, I'm probably going to have to get a night job, something to help make ends meet. The only problem is that half the people in the country are looking for night jobs to help make ends meet. As W.C. Fields said, "It's a tough old world, you're lucky to get out of it alive."

Anybody wanna start a riot?

Benny Jay: Swimming With Sharks

In the middle of the day, I get calling from my old friend, Pamela, the school teacher, calling from her class up in Evanston.

Must be the end of the school year cause I can hear the kids in the background, chattering quietly among themselves.

Pamela starts in where she left off the last time we talked just a few days ago. There's this used Mercedes she wants to buy from some dealership out in the western suburbs. She thinks the salesman is trying to rip her off -- he offered to sell it to her for 24-something but at closing he wanted 25-something. Or something like that. I never could get this car stuff straight.

"It's because I'm a black woman -- they think they can rip me off," she tells me. Just like she told me before. "If I was a white man, they wouldn't play this game...."

"Pamela -- white or black; man or woman -- it's all the same. They always try to nail you by adding on money at the end," I tell her. Just like I told her before. "This is what they do...."

Then I launch into the same story I'd already told her about how a different salesman at a different dealership in a different town pulled the same stunt on me and my wife when we bought our Ford.

But, Pamela's not buying it. She barely listened the first time I told her the story, and she's definitely not listening now.

"Here's what I want you to do," she says.

Uh-oh. Right away, I know, trouble's coming. She wants me to call the dealership and pretend I'm interested in buying the car and see what they offer. "Make sure you talk like a white guy -- use your best white guy voice. They have to know you're white...."

"Pamela, I can't do this...."

"What do you mean, you can't do this. You the president, ain't you?"

About four years ago, I hooked her up with someone she needed to know in a completely different matter and ever since she's been calling me the president -- like I'm the man with the amazing connections.

"Pamela, I don't know anything about cars...."

"So what -- I'll tell you everything you need to know...."

She goes into this recitation of everything I'll have to say. And, like the dummy that I am, I'm taking it all down -- literally. I mean, I'm writing a script of what I will say.

"It's a Mercedes CLK 350," she says.

"DLK 350?" I ask.

"No, C...."

I'm all mixed up. "Did you say C or D?"

"C -- like cat. Not D -- like dog. There's no DLK 350. Don't you know nothing about Mercedes?"

"No, nothing. How many times do I gotta tell you -- I know nothing about cars...."

"C'mon, president -- pay attention. Now, they wanted me to pay 25,800. But they're going to offer you 24,000. I know it. Just ask them for the advertised price...."

So I call the number she gave me and I wind up talking to a saleslady named Liz. Reading from my script, I say: "I want to buy a CLK 350. How much will that cost?"

Pause. Then Liz says: "Did you say CLK 350?"

"Yes," I say, desperately trying to sound confident, even though I'm having a panic attack because I just can't remember -- is it DLK or CLK?

Another pause. Then Liz says: "Sir, this is a BMW dealership -- we don't sell CLK 350s...."

Damn! Pamela gave me the wrong number. I try to play it off, like -- ha, ha, ha -- it's an innocent mistake and that I really know the difference between BMWs and Mercedes. "Oh, yes, of course," I say with a phony chuckle. "Sorry...."

But Liz is not done with me. As long as I'm on the line, she's gonna take a bite. "Sir, I have an LLS 500 on the lot. 2006. I'll sell it to you for 33-9. That's the best I can offer...."

At least, I think that's the car model she mentioned. Lord, only knows what she really said. "Ugh, no...."

"That's better than you'll find anywhere for a comparable Mercedes...."

"I gotta go...."

"What's your name?"

Not knowing what else to do, I hang up and call Pamela. "Okay, Miss-just-do-what-I-tell-you, you gave me the wrong number...."

"What!"

"You gave me the number to a BMW dealer. I called a BMW dealership to buy a Mercedes...."

"Oops...."

I hear the whole class cracking up. I swear, she's got me on the speaker phone. Guess I'm the entertainment for the day.

She gives me another number and I wind up talking to a salesman named Tony. I play it hard. I'm starting to get into this. I'm talking with a thick Chicago white-ethnic accent -- like I'm a Mobster from the northwest side.

"What's your advertised price for a CLK 350?" I ask.

"28,991...."

"Naw, naw -- your best price. I walk in there right now -- cash in my hand -- what are you gonna give me?"

"To be honest, sir, the only way I can do this is if you come in here," Tony says. "I have to run these things by my manager...."

I'm really getting into my mobster routine: "Forget the manager. It's just me and you, Tony. Gimme your best offer...."

"Sir, I can't do this over the phone...."

"Forget it, then....."

"Sir, what's your name?"

I say the first thing that pops into my head: "Harry...."

"Okay, Harry, what's your phone number?"

I start to panic again -- like what if this guy tracks me down? My mobster accent disappears. "I can't talk now," I say.

"Your email, Harry -- what's your email?"

"Oops, got another call coming in...."

I hang up the phone. My heart is pounding. I wait to see if Tony uses the caller ID to trace my number and call me back. Nope -- phew. I call Pamela. "This guy was a freakin' shark," I tell her. "You got me swimming with sharks. Five more minutes and he'd have sold me a car...."

Pamela and her class are howling.

"Find some other white guy to play this part," I say. "I don't even like cars...."

Big Mike: Ma, The Homewrecker

When I was younger (read: the week before last), I operated under the assumption that all the puzzles, uncertainties, traumas, heartbreaks and flat-out stupid decisions that accompany romantic life would magically disappear once I'd reach a certain age.

From the age of 13, when I discovered the opposite sex (the thought of the young, long-haired, curvy Kathy Chelini still makes my breath catch) I realized that the irresistible urge to reach an understanding with a female for the two of us to provide each other with friendship, affection, wise counsel and occasional nudity was a journey fraught with landmines.

At that age I realized that the emotions, strategies and overall thought patterns of those members of homo sapiens sapiens whose cells carry 23 X chromosomes are utterly baffling to me. I concluded that it was difficult - if not impossible - to accurately gauge when and if a girl was interested in me and whether that interest might culminate in pal-hood or true love. And then, once the game rules had more or less been laid out, it became even more challenging to determine whether at any given point my new gal pal/love of my life was secretly angry, sad, resentful, bored or suddenly curious about that new guy who just moved into the neighborhood.

So, when it came to girls, at 13 I was lost. Suffering from blissful optimism, I assumed that I'd figure the whole thing out long before I was 20. But I was still lost at 18. As well as 21. And 25. Thirty-three. Forty-two. Fifty. Even as recently as this past weekend.

I'm not so clueless to think that the women of my life haven't also been dumbfounded by me. Heck, my chaotic, inscrutable psyche has left enough dazed girls and women in its wake to populate a small town.

Fair enough. Still, I foresee a time when I'll no longer be bewildered by the mating imperative and all its attendant jealousies and misconceptions. Now, the age of 60 seems a fairly good target. How many 60-year-olds do you see running around fretting over love? Certainly by the age of 70 my worries will be over. At 80, such concerns will be dim memories.

That's why the phone conversation I had with my mother yesterday nags at me.

Ma turns 88 this year. Born in 1921, she remembers streetcars and horse-drawn milk wagons. She has lived through Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination and 9/11. She's been toughened by life.

Yet she cried on the phone yesterday.

"Mike," she began dolefully, "I've been having trouble at church."

"Trouble at church!" I exclaimed. "How can you get into trouble at church? Whadja do, nail a list of theses to the door?"

"This isn't a joke!"

"Okay. Sorry. What happened."

"Well, there's this usher...."

Uh oh.

"... I think he likes me. He always goes out of his way to say hi to me. He flirts with me. He smiles at me. One time, during the collection, I had to dig for my envelope in my purse while he stood there holding the basket. He patted me on the shoulder and said, 'Don't worry, that's alright.' I think he liked standing next to me for so long."

"Well Ma, that's nice, isn't it?" I offered, trying to erase from my mind the image of a bent, wizened old buzzard lurking over my mother's pew.

"No it isn't! He's married!"

Oy.

"His wife knows what's going on. She watches us like a hawk. Now she's always giving me the evil eye. Every time I turn around, I see her staring at me. After mass, she stands at the back of the church and I have to pass right by her. It's so uncomfortable!

"Mike, I would never come between a man and his wife. She looks at me like I'm a hoor! It's getting to be too much. Ever since your father died, I've never even wanted to see another man. Now this woman thinks I'm trying to steal her husband."

With that, Ma began to weep.

"Ma, Ma, you can't let this lady get to you. It's her problem if she's jealous."

"I know," she said between sobs. "But she's friends with everybody at church. I don't want her telling everybody I'm a bad woman.

"It's gotten so bad, I even stayed away from church for a few weeks."

That's bad. Ever since Ma started catching sight of the end, she's been hedging her bets with the putative creator of the Universe, praying like a monk and attending mass, well, religiously. Now she's afraid to go to church and beg her god not to banish her to everlasting hell. All because of some jealous wife.

Has anybody ever figured this stuff out?

Benny Jay: You Shoulda Seen the 800

I drive all the way to Eastern Illinois University to see the boys high school track and field championship.

It's a three-hour drive -- all the way to Charleston, Illinois. Hit the road at 7, get there at 10. What can I say -- I love this stuff.

Bobby Gee, the track guru who knows everything about everything, tells me I absolutely, positively can not miss the discus. They got two behemoths -- Dan Block and Marcus Popenfoose -- battling it out.

I'm not really a discus guy, but the way he's talking about it, well, how can I resist? The problem is that the discus is held outside the main stadium for all the obvious reasons. I mean, those big boys throw it so far there's no way you can have it in the stadium without someone getting hit upside the head with a discus. And, man, that must hurt.

So I go over the schedule and I come up with a great plan: I'll miss the 800-meter run and check out the discus. That's my great plan.

I leave the stadium and join the crowd watching the discus competition. By the way, you'd be shocked by how many people were out there. I mean, there must have been -- I don't know -- over 200 people lined up around that discus field. And they were really into it -- never knew so many people were so serious about discus throwing. When a guy walks into the throwing ring, folks get really quiet, like it's a golf match and they don't want to disturb his concentration. And you could tell how far the throw goes by the crowd's reaction. If they go "aw" it's like they're disappointed and it means bad throw. If they go, "yeah," it's like they're all excited and it means good throw. Get it? And after every throw you got people marking the distance in their score books. I mean, keeping score at discus competitions -- who knew? Then they have all these incredibly intense conversations about each throw -- breaking down the approach, release, follow throw. I mean, to quote the great Brian Scalabrine: "This shit was ridiculous."

Anyway, I'm looking all around for Block or Popenfoose, but I can't see them anywhere. So I ask this girl, who's keeping score, and she tells me -- no, no, this is the 2A discus competition. You know, for throwers from mid-sized schools. And Block and Popenfoose are in the 3A competition -- for throwers from bigger schools.

"So I'm at the wrong competition?" I ask.

And just about as soon as I say it, I hear a roar coming out of the stadium like some major stuff is going down.

And instantly, I think: Uh, oh -- what did I miss?

Then these three kids from Oak Forest High School come racing up from the stadium, and they run over to their friends, who are standing by me. They're so excited, they're almost out of breath as they try to recreate the wonder they'd just seen.

"Oh, my God, you shoulda seen the 800...."

"It was fucking unbelievable, man...."

Turns some kid came out of the pack to pass the front-runner on the final stretch in record time.

And I'm thinking -- damn! There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- more exciting than watching one runner come from behind a bunch of other runners to win the race down the stretch.

So I run back into the stadium. Not sure why. I mean, the race is over, what's the point? It's not like I'm going to see anything. They don't do instant replays on the giant screen. They don't even have a giant instant replay screen.

It's like -- I don't know, I just have to be where the action was. And sure enough as I reach the main field all the reporters and photographers are still buzzing about that 800.

"Oh, my God...."

"Amazing...."

"Best race of the day...."

And so on.

A coach asks me if I saw the 800 and I tell him that, no, I was watching the discus.

He looks at me like I'm an idiot and says: "The discus? Why would you be watching the discus?"

"I wanted to see Block and Popenfoose...."

"They're not up for another thirty minutes...."

So rather than repeat this conversation with everyone who asks "did you see the 800?" I start to lie. Oh, don't hold it against me. It's not really a lie. Cause I don't actually tell people that I saw the 800. What I do is -- I sort of muddy the waters.

They go: "Did you see the 800?"

And I go: "Amazing race...."

And so on....

By the way, I did see Block and Popenfoose throw the discus. And they were amazing, especially Block. He threw that sucker over 200 feet -- and that's a long, long way. It went so high -- I swear, I thought it vanished in the sun.

When it's over, I race back to the stadium to tell all the photographers and reporters: "Did you see Block throw that discus?"

Do you think they care? Hell, no. All they want to talk about is the 800. Block coulda thrown that discus all the way to Kankakee, and they're still gonna be talking about the only freaking race that I happened to miss.

Well, whatever. I drive home and Saturday turns to Sunday and next thing you know it's Monday morning and I have an appointment with my doctor, who happens to be a big-time track fan.

He gives me a checkup and tells me I'm doing fine. And as I'm about to leave, I mention I saw the boy's state meet.

And he says -- "oh, my, did you see the 800?"

I wince and then I say: "Amazing race...."

Okay, okay, so I didn't really answer his question. But give me credit -- at least I told the truth.