Life Its Ownself (27 page)

Elroy was only thirty-one when he spun out, which means he out-lived his hero, Hank Williams, by four years. Elroy and all five members of his band were killed when their bus hurtled off a bridge and dropped into a valley about two miles below Aspen. Apparently, the groupies on the bus had been giving everyone a blowjob at the same time and unfortunately this had included the driver.

Life don't owe me a living

But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.

They've sure made it easy

To have all the fun I've had.

If I can't find Willie to thank him

I guess I'll take out an ad.

He said Life don't owe me a living

But a Lear and a limo ain't bad.

When the song was over, I said to Shake, "Maybe everything's okay like it is. If Kathy throws me down in the back seat of a rent car some night, fine. It'll be self-defense. If she doesn't...on with television."

Shake said, "Stop being a starry-eyed 'good friend.' If you don't, she'll drive you nuts and break up your home, man. Then she won't even respect you. Do one of those Jim Tom lines on her and fuck her, get it over with."

"What kind of Jim Tom line?"

Shake said, "Some night when you're with her in a bar, make a confession. Tell her you always have to sit down when you take a piss, the doctor doesn't want you to lift anything heavy."

The distressing news from Fort Worth in early December was that Tonsillitis Johnson's mind had been warped by an East Indian swami—and T. J. Lambert's whole future was heaving in a sea of disaster.

Just when T. J. and Big Ed Bookman had been so sure that everything was under control, that Tonsillitis was as good as theirs—TCU's, actually—Darnell Johnson had brought them word of this sudden and unforeseen complication.

Tonsillitis, it seems, had fallen under the spell of Swami Muktamananda, and the blue-chipper was seriously thinking about giving up football. Swami Muktamananda, also known as Haba, had all but convinced Tonsillitis that he should move to New Delhi, live in a ditch, and seek life's fulfillment by washing down elephants.

"Mooka banana who?"

I had asked the question sleepily because T.J.'s phone call had awakened me in the dead of night at the Westwood Marquis.

"I don't know how you say it," T.J. said, "but the sum-bitch is about to ruin my life."

The point of T.J.'s call was to beg me to come to Fort Worth as soon as possible. Shake Tiller was already on the way. There would be a meeting between me, Shake, T. J., Big Ed, and Darnell to try to figure out what to do about reclaiming Tonsillitis' mind.

Going to Fort Worth wasn't all that much of an inconvenience for me, as it happened. My last telecast of the regular NFL season was scheduled for Dec. 12 in Dallas—

Cowboys against the Giants, my old team. All it meant was going to Texas a few days early.

On the phone that night, T. J. told me some of the sordid details of what had happened to Tonsillitis.

Because of the swami, Tonsillitis had refused to play in his last high school football game, Boakum's annual bloodbath against archrival Eula. Swami Muktamananda had passed through town and had given a lecture at Boakum High. Tonsillitis, being president of the student body, had met the swami. They had talked about "the value of life." And the next thing anyone knew, Tonsillitis had been in a trance before the Eula game and wouldn't move from the bench.

Boakum's coach, Mutt Turnbull, had pleaded with his star to go out on the field and defend the honor of Boakum. Tonsillitis had only mumbled, "What I be wearin' a helmet for? What I be doin' on this planet?"

Darnell, Tonsillitis' older brother, was more frustrated than anybody Darnell had been at the game and he had reminded the running back that big money was at stake, never mind the natural hatred that one had been born with for Eula.

Tonsillitis had said to Darnell, "Folks be hittin' one another for no reason. I wants to quit football and grow my own food."

Darnell had said, "Hey, baby, we're talkin' gusto here, you understand? Mucho Dolores."

"Swami say life don't be measured by numbers," Tonsillitis said. "Swami say happiness don't be livin' in no end zone."

Darnell had almost lost his temper.

He had said, "Yeah, well, swamis be fuckin' with incense and shit. Get your ass off that bench!"

Nothing had worked. Tonsillitis hadn't played in the game, and, as of now, he wasn't planning to play for TCU or any other college. He was meditating and eating rice and lentils.

Neither T. J. nor Big Ed had seen Swami Muktamananda.

Darnell had been in contact with him, however, and was trying to work out an economic solution.

For enough money, Swami Muktamananda might be tempted to persuade Tonsillitis to play football again.

"I ain't sure you can buy swamis," T. J. said.

T. J. sounded very low on the phone.

He said, "It's a hell of a thing, ain't it, son? Here I got me the greatest football player in captivity and somebody's done jacked with his brain. What does that tell you about our God-damn educational system?"

I asked if there was anything new on the Artis Toothis front.

"Looks like we're okay there," T. J. said. "Artis Toothis is an ambitious young man with a good business head on his shoulders. He's the kind of person America can be proud of."

Artis Toothis was ready to wear the purple-and-white and look after his real estate investments. Only the nuts and bolts of his contract were yet to be worked out. For example, he was insisting on a guarantee that he would play the same number of minutes and carry the ball the same number of times as Tonsillitis.

T.J. returned to the mournful subject of Tonsillitis by saying, "Can you believe TCU's luck? I just wish somebody would tell me how a robe-wearin', meditatin' cocksucker can get a nigger worried about the value of life!"

T. J. was badly in need of friends around him.

He said, "I'll tell you the truth, Billy Clyde. I feel like I been eat by a coyote and shit off a cliff!"

With one week of regular-season games left in the NFL, everything was working out splendidly for Dreamer Tatum and the Players Association. There wasn't a team in the league with a record you could sell to a junk dealer.

The best won-lost record in pro football was 8-7.

This record was shared by twelve teams. San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New Orleans were tied at 8-7 in the National West. Green Bay, Minnesota, and Detroit were tied at 8-7 in the National Central. Miami and Buffalo were tied at 8-7 in the American East. Seattle and Denver were tied at 8-7 in the American West. And Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Cincinnati were tied at 8-7 in the American Central.

As for my old division, the National East, the standings were funnier than a society column.

NATIONAL EAST
     
W
        
L
         
T

Dallas Cowboys
         
7
         
8
         
0

Philadelphia Eagles
     
7
         
8
         
0

St. Louis Cardinals
      
7
         
8
         
0

Washington Redskins
 
5
         
10
       
0

New York Giants
        

0
         

15
       

0

Two things about the standings were unique. The winner of the division, Dallas in all likelihood, would be going into the playoffs with no better than a .500 record, and the Giants were having their worst season ever.

Washington's season had been a big disappointment, but not to Dreamer Tatum. He said the Players' Association could be justly proud of its Redskin members. Having begun the year as favorites in the division, the Redskins had crushed the hearts of fans all over D.C.

Dreamer had boasted to me that the union had never been in a stronger position. Mediocrity was rampant throughout the league.

Against the brunt of this mediocrity, the Commissioner's office was strenuously trying to sell the myth that parity was a blessing. Through the TV and radio broadcasters and the few journalists they controlled, the Commissioner and his staff peddled the propaganda that America's fans were excited about the closeness of the divisional races, that the country was ecstatic over the fact that 21 out of the 28 teams still had a mathematical chance to make the playoffs after 15 long weeks.

Most sportswriters knew better and said so. They were attacking the league for killing a great sport.

As of late November, nobody had dropped more napalm on the NFL than Jim Tom Pinch, but of course Shake's article in Playboy had yet to appear. It was due out the week we would be in Texas.

 
One of Jim Tom's columns hit harder than most.

PINCH'S PALAVER by Jim Tom Pinch

Here is a list of things I would rather do than watch a football game in the NFL:

1.
     
Buy a condo in Lebanon.

2.
     
Go to a rock concert.

3.
     
See a movie with special effects in it.

4.
     
Join a religious cult.

5.
     
Sit in the no-smoking area of a restaurant.

6.
     
Discuss wine.

7.
     
Watch a marathon.

8.
     
Talk to a swimmer.

9.
     
Eat a fishhead.

10.
 
Get married again.

 
Here is a list of people I would rather spend an evening with than any coach, general manager or owner in the NFL:

1.
     
Bert Parks

2.
     
Minnie Pearl

3.
     
Renee Richards

4.
     
Boy George

5.
     
Jerry Lewis

6.
     
Michael Jackson

7.
     
Liberace

8.
     
Andy Warhol

9.
     
Sonny Bono

10.
 

10.
The Dukes of Hazzard.

10.

Here is a list of franchise moves that would improve the quality of play in the NFL:

1.
     
Dallas to Bogota.

2.
     
Giants to New York.

3.
     
The Raiders to Vegas.

4.
     
Miami to Cuba.

5.
     
Rams to Warner Brothers.

6.
     
Green Bay to Tahiti.

7.
     
Houston to the Bermuda Triangle.

8.
     
Jets off the board.

9.
     
Natchez to Mobile.