“I think I’ve got this David Wells rumor thing figured out,” said the voice at the other end of the phone. He didn’t identify himself, but I knew it was my friend Dee from Atlanta, who, uncharacteristically, had not called to talk sports in almost a week.
“What David Wells thing?” I asked. “And where have you been?”
“I’m in the hospital.”
“Right now?”
“Pretty much.”
“What happened?”
“I had major back surgery two days ago.”
“Yow! Are you OK?”
“Let’s just say a morphine drip is a wonderful thing.”
“You’ve been on morphine for two days?”
“They were going to take it out yesterday, but I persuaded them to leave it in for an extra 24. Anyway, like I was saying, I’ve obviously had some time to think through this David Wells thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The rumor is that David Wells might get traded to the Yankees again, because El Duque is hurt and they suddenly need another pitcher.”
“Yeah.”
“Then in his last start for Chicago, Wells leaves after a few pitches complaining of back spasms.”
“Ri-ight....”
“And I figured out: He’s sending a signal. He’s telling the Yankees he wants to come back to New York. Get it?”
“Do I have to?”
“Wells is thinking that the Yankees will pick up on the message that he can be had cheap. Because the White Sox will figure he’s damaged goods with his injury. It’s as good as him saying, ‘George, I want to come back.’ What do you think?”
“I think they need to seriously adjust your morphine drip.”
“I take it you’re slightly skeptical.”
“I’d be dubious of any theory that requires David Wells to do any thinking beyond his next meal. Plus—and maybe it’s just me—I have a hunch you’re a little preoccupied with the word ‘back.’ ”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“What’s your theory on that Yankee fan packing a gun in the stands the other day?”
“Well, there are some sections of Yankee Stadium that are better armed than the National Guard. So I’d say he was just blending in.”
“Either that or he was showing up a couple of days early for John Rocker.”
“I have a new respect for Rocker after last weekend.”
“What, for the way he mowed down the Yankees on Saturday?”
“Actually, I was thinking of the way he beaned Derek Jeter and Jorge Posada.”
“Your Atlanta-ness is showing.”
“No-o,” Dee insisted. “This is something else I’ve had time to ponder. See if you can stay with me.”
“Well, let me take my shoes off first in case I need to do some extra ciphering.”
“Shut up. Put yourself inside Rocker’s head.”
“There’s certainly room.”
“He’s facing the Yankees’ two toughest hitters,” continued Dee, ignoring me. “Bobby Cox tells him to pitch around them. I’d say a curveball in the back is a literal interpretation of ‘pitching around.’ ”
“Maybe Rocker just hit them because he has a tendency to throw wild.”
“See, that’s the difference between you and me. I try to give people credit, while you just look at the negative side.”
“I give Rocker credit for having the quote of the week.”
“The one where he told New York reporters that he’d rather have a job mopping up in a peep show than talk to them?” Dee cackled.
“With descriptive powers like that, he might have a literary career ahead of him.”
“Now I think you’re mocking me.”
“I know you’re disappointed to see UT get shelled in the College World Series,” I said, easing into a subject that I knew Dee, a Vandy fan whose hatred of the Vols reaches a Balkan intensity, would eagerly embrace.
“Heh-heh. Miami only scored three touchdowns on their pitching staff.”
“Yeah, but they’re still in it.”
“Here’s the UT story you need to look into.”
“What’s that?”
“The president resigning so suddenly. I’ve had time to think about this.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Maybe this fatal-attraction woman administrator is just a red herring.”
“To cover the tracks of what?”
“Did you see where one of the Vols’ tackles got kicked off the team for selling marijuana?”
“You figure there’s a link to Wade Gilley?”
“I dunno. Maybe it was about to come to light that he was a major pot-head. Maybe he was green-lighting hemp studies at the Ag Department.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“I’ve already got the headline: ‘One Toke Over the Defensive Line.’ ”
“Have you gotten bored enough in bed to start watching the NBA?” I inquired, changing the subject again.
“I’m seriously rooting for Iverson.”
“Because you like underdogs or because you’re a hip-hop fan? You know, you get enough heavy gold chains around your neck, and you could have back problems.”
“Don’t make me get out of this bed and come slap you.”
“I like Iverson too.”
“David Stern will get his neck tattooed before he admits it, but Iverson is actually good for the NBA.”
“I’m witchya, dog. Fans like seeing a 165-pound little guy go up against all these giants and shoot ’em out. It’s a lot more interesting than watching Shaq post up, knock somebody over, and dunk.”
“Don’t get me started. You know on The Flintstones, whenever Fred would start running?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And how he would run in place, spinning his wheels, before he took off, and they would have this little wudda-wudda-wudda sound effect?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what it looks like whenever Shaq starts his post-up move. NBC ought to dub in a little traveling music whenever he takes off.”
“You’re saying that the refs bend the rules for Shaq?”
“Why do you think he was so upset when he fouled out of Game 3? Why would he think that elbowing Mutombo in the mouth and then knocking him over is a foul when they never call charging on him?”
“Surely, you don’t think the series is fixed?”
“Why not? We know the refs cheat on their taxes. Plus they upgrade to first class even more than I do.”
“I think you just hate the Lakers.”
“Everybody hates the Lakers.”
“Except Lakers’ fans.”
“Kobe Bryant acts like he was created on the eighth day. Rick Fox is a player-hater (with goofy hair) who thinks he’s a player. Derek Fisher’s headband makes you think he must have Spock ears underneath. Robert Horry needs to be dope-slapped, Tyronne Lue looks like he got assembled wrong at the factory, their uniforms would be in bad taste for even a pimp, and they play for L.A. Other than that, I love the Lakers.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Also, Phil Jackson looks like Satan with that haircut. And I’m thinking, Jack Nicholson is just down the row, and he’s played Satan....”
“Is this you or the morphine talking?”
“Don’t forget Dyan Cannon. She’s obviously sold her soul to the devil. What do you want to bet Al Pacino is in the building somewhere?”
“Who would you root for if the Lakers played the Yankees?”
“Saddam.”
