This Book Has Balls Page 3

  You didn’t do it Hollywood style either. This wasn’t some “Have my agent call Scarlett Johansson and meet me at the Four Seasons” shit. You weren’t clipping a Victoria’s Secret model on the roof of the Ritz. You kept it grimy like an American Icon should. Was calling yourself Cablinasian some dumb shit and something I’m sure you regret? Yes. But you were fucked up in the head, and it could have been handled better. They should have sent Jim Brown to save you, but you weren’t on his radar. He would have straightened you out in one sit-down.

  Sponsors started dropping you like a bad habit. I know it sucked. But guess what, Tiger? Fuck Nike and Coke. You know how much Trojan would pay you for not wearing a condom? Get out there and do a Trojan commercial. Look dead-ass into the camera and tell the world, “I keep a Trojan in my pocket, and that’s where it stays!”

  Your Gatorade commercials were awesome, but you don’t need that shit anymore. That shit gives people stomachaches and dehydrates them. You need to do a Schlitz Malt Liquor commercial and demand a percentage of the company, because you’ll boost sales with ads like this: “When your wife smashes your windshield with your favorite golf club after suspecting you of cheating, the best way to forget this ever happened is to sip an ice-cold forty of Schlitz Malt Liquor and call your homies to vent.” You’ll break the bank with that one, Tiger.

  I understand fame has its drawbacks. I get it. I see it every day, man. People lose it. It’s a tough racket. So the fuck what? You weren’t on heavy drugs, you weren’t homeless with the bottle. You fell for some rug monkey, and that’s it. Powerful men of industry have seen the kingdom crumble from the Pink Palace for years. Entire corporations have gone broke from one great piece of snapper. We get it, and we got you.

  You need a harem of beautiful women at every hole waiting for you with water, sunblock, and a massage chair. Show up to the Masters in a pimp hat, bellbottoms, and six fine Brazilians on loan from Leonardo DiCaprio’s pool! And bring a barber, too. Get yourself tightened up out there with some nice side clippers. No more lames in your entourage either.

  You get yourself a real crew you can trust, not some frat boy who ratted you out cuz he didn’t like you cheating. Fuck that. It’s none of his business. You get some real road dogs. The way real players used to do it. You get one to wrangle, one to hold the money, and one for protection. That’s what a real crew does. And get a cool celeb in your mix, too: fuck Michael Jordan. He’s just going to try to take your fall-off chicks. Most people want to be like Mike, but he wants to be like you, Tiger. You don’t need him. Get a crew with some flavor and credibility. Call Snoop Dogg. You and Snoop get some beautiful apple ass ready to quit the day shift at Denny’s and win back what’s rightfully yours! And ours! The game needs you, man. The people need you. Come back, Tiger. Call me, man. Seriously. Get back to your old self again. I can help you out.

  My Gold Medal Sweetheart, Mary Lou Retton

  When I think of the 1984 Olympics, the first and most important thing that comes to mind is Mary Lou Retton. I’m not exactly sure what happened with me and Mary Lou, but in the summer of 1984, I fell head over heels in love with her. This is totally strange, but totally true. This shit was real. When I say “fell in love,” I’m talking about that “Show off in front of my girl, bring her fresh flowers, and make her father like me” type of love. I fell for real.

  Yes, I watched Michael Jordan and Team USA win gold. I watched Carl Lewis do his thing. And I even remember Greg Louganis doing his dives. But none of them held a candle to my sweet Mary Lou.

  As soon as she walked out onto the mat with those thick little baby feet, lightning struck. Maybe it was her smile, maybe it was her bubbly personality, or maybe it was her amazing apple-shaped booty. At fourteen I didn’t realize I was a butt man, but it turns out I was. I was smitten, Mary Lou. I started planning our summer together, when I would bring you back to New York City to meet the family. I saw it all happening like I had a crystal ball.

  She would come to the seven Bar Mitzvahs I was invited to, and everyone would love her just like I did, laughing and dancing and asking her to help hoist the parents in the chair because they knew she had strength and a great low center of gravity. And then on Sundays she would come to the park with me while I practiced free throws and she ate Mr. Softee ice cream and twirled around on the jungle gym waiting for me. You see what was going on here, right? I had entire conversations with her in my head.

  Me: Hey, Mary Lou, hope you had fun at my dad’s place over the weekend.

  Mary Lou: Of course I did. He was so cool, and I love the long walks you took me on in the city. I never get to rest like that.

  Me: You need me to rub your feet?

  Mary Lou: Why?

  Me: You said you never rest, so I figure your feet might be sore. I have strong hands, if you didn’t notice.

  Mary Lou: Thanks, Michael, but we have professionals who do that.

  Me: I’ll kill them.

  Mary Lou: Huh?

  Me: Oh, nothing. I meant, that’s great.

  Mary Lou: Yeah, it feels amazing.

  Me: They’re stupid.

  Mary Lou: Why would you say that?

  Me: I love you.

  Mary Lou: What?

  Me: What?

  Mary Lou: Um, I have to get back to the hotel. They’re honoring me tonight for my medals.

  Me: Should I come? I could be there by seven, as long as I’m home by nine.

  Mary Lou: Will your parents let you?

  Me: Well, I’ll have to ask my mother. Or maybe my brother can drop me off, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem.

  Mary Lou: Sure, I guess.

  Me: Great. Then we can go to Nathan’s for a dog and a Coca-Cola.

  Mary Lou: Sorry, Michael, I don’t drink soda.

  Me: Fuck!

  Mary Lou: Language, Michael!

  Me: Sorry, Mary Lou.

  I was so fucked up, I played out our married life, too. I was the comfortable husband, and she was the breadwinner.

  Married Me: I’m starving, baby.

  Mary Lou: I’ll make some chicken pot pie.

  Married Me: Yo, Wheaties called, you’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow at six a.m. Do the whole thing in a leotard, babe.

  Mary Lou: Okay. What are you going to do all day?

  Married Me: My boys are coming over to watch the Knicks game.

  Mary Lou: Don’t they work?

  Married Me: Huh?

  I’m telling you, it wasn’t right. I was obsessed. This wasn’t healthy. I’m still confused as to how or why this happened, but she became my primary focus during the summer of ’84.

  I was cheering her on for the few days she competed for the gold. And I knew nothing about gymnastics. I couldn’t tell the difference between a backflip and a cartwheel. But I watched Mary Lou compete for the All-Around, and when she landed her pressure-filled perfect 10 to win the gold, I thought I had won, too. I was in my sister’s room and jumped up when she stuck her perfect landing, and I was jealous when Coach Béla Károlyi hugged her and carried her off the mat. “Put down my girl, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

  My love for Mary Lou Retton was real. It was unshakable, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. After she won the gold I would follow all her TV appearances and interviews. I was in front of the TV doing full-blown Mary Lou Retton searches. I was changing channels all night like Rain Man waiting on Judge Wapner. Those were also the days of TV Guide magazine, where you could skim through and see who was on every night. I was speed-reading for the first time in my life, just looking for the word Mary.

  I saw her on Johnny Carson, and I laughed when Johnny laughed when she was funny, but I also laughed when nobody laughed because I felt like I knew and understood Mary Lou Retton better than everyone else in the viewing audience. I would never let my apple-bottom bunny fall flat on national TV. Then I asked my dad to buy me the Wheaties box with Mary Lou on the cover, and he did. I really ate the damn cereal, too, because I was sure Mary Lou did. No way would
my honest, sweet Mary Lou represent a brand she wasn’t truly into. I just knew she was up every morning before practice in her PJs eating Wheaties. Well, guess what? So was I.

  I kept one box in my closet next to my collection of Sports Illustrateds. I even bought an extra copy of the SI with Mary Lou on the cover that read, “Only You, Mary Lou.” I needed an extra copy because I Scotch taped a mini shrine of my angel over my bed. True story.

  This is the shrine to my sweet Mary Lou that hung above my head in 1984.

  My friends would come over and be like, “What the fuck, man? Why do you have Mary Lou Retton shit on your walls?” I would make up excuses about it being for a class project or that my brother, Eric, put it up. I always felt ashamed that I didn’t just own up to it and say, “I love Mary Lou Retton, and you motherfuckers just don’t know what true love is yet, so when you find someone you truly love, you’ll know what all this is about. Now get the fuck out of here.” But I never said any of that. I was confused and filled with overwhelming man feelings. I didn’t know what the hell was happening in my heart.

  I was out of my mind. I really thought that somehow Mary Lou Retton and I were gonna meet, she was gonna be my girlfriend, and I would be the supportive boyfriend who would carry her gym bags. I was ready to go three bags deep on both shoulders like a lost father traveling with his family in the airport. I didn’t care. Then we would be married and move back to her hometown of West Virginia, where I’d go to college, emerge as a great basketball player, make the NBA, finally let her rest her sweet puffy feet, and we would live happily ever after . . . I was fucking gone! And it didn’t stop there!

  The 1984 Olympic team had a traveling exhibition that made its way to Madison Square Garden. And I knew I would die if I didn’t go there and meet her. I asked my father to get me a ticket, just one ticket. I’d have to go alone to meet Mary Lou to begin our life together. I remember my dad asking me, “What the fuck do you wanna see gymnastics for?” I honestly can’t remember what I said, but I told him that if he got me one ticket to the event, it would be my Christmas present. We only did Christmas presents in my home, even though we were Jewish. I don’t know, as a kid, the Christmas tree was just more fun. He got me the ticket, and it was game on.

  The event was on a Saturday afternoon. I got up early and picked out my outfit: a white turtleneck shirt, a pair of burgundy Levi’s, my “WhiteMike” nameplate belt buckle, and a gold Cuban link bracelet that I borrowed from my friend Randy. Of course, I also had on my Polo cologne. I sprayed that shit in the air, did the walk-through, then hit the neck and the shoulder area in case the hug from Mary got tight.

  I got to the Garden extra early and tried to settle into my seat. I had to dab out my neck sweat from being in a turtleneck. It was a lot for a fourteen-year-old kid to be draped in. I remember being in my seat, looking around and seeing parents with young girls and some with boys who also loved Mary Lou Retton. (But not the way I did, of course.) There was every demographic there except mine: a lonely fourteen-year-old boy dressed like a displaced member of the Rock Steady Crew. I really had no business being there.

  Before the exhibition started, the announcer invited the crowd down to the mats to watch the gymnasts warm up and do flips. I stood up, adjusted my nameplate belt, and followed the crowd down. This was my chance. This was my moment, and I was not gonna miss out. I found my spot and posted up like that cool-ass kid playing the wall at the party. I stood along the mats on the floor of MSG surrounded by a bunch of little kids who were screaming and yelling and oohing and ahhing at every flip the gymnasts did. I was like, “Chill out, cornballs, you’re fucking up my concentration.” I was trying to focus. Where was my girl? Where was my Mary Lou?

  And then I saw her. She stepped out of the tunnel like a tiny lone wolf: brave, strong, bowl-cutted out, and smiling, teeth looking extra white and perfect. She turned to wave to the other side of the arena, and the Garden went ape shit. Everyone was screaming and yelling her name.

  Sweet Mary Lou walked the perimeter of the mat, touching the kids with only her delicate fingertips and waving hello to everyone. I remember thinking that she must be freaked out by all these screaming kids. And then my young life went into slow motion. Mary Lou Retton was coming over to my side. My heart was racing, my palms were sweating, but my hair gel was holding. She was twenty feet away, and we made eye contact. The only words I could get out were, “I love you, Mary Lou. Me and you, Mary Lou!” This was not planned. What the fuck? It just came out of me, and I know for sure she heard me because the eye contact stopped immediately and she looked away to her brother Ronnie or Donnie, whom I recognized from her People magazine spread but who didn’t make it onto my wall cuz I trimmed him out. She said to him, “That guy looks weird.” I literally saw her say that with my own eyes. I was crushed. I was humiliated, but she was right. I looked fucking crazy. She had every right to be concerned.

  I had to go back to my seat to process what had just happened. Why didn’t she come over to me, hug me, and take me on the mat like I’d planned? I had to talk myself through this. “Michael, did you really just scream ‘Me and you, Mary Lou’? Fuck, man.” I knew it was over. I had really wanted things to go a different way for us.

  I left early and walked all the way home. I was ready to rip down my mini shrine to Mary Lou, but decided instead to take it off gently and keep it in my magazine collection just in case we reconnected. I replaced her shrine with the Kurtis Blow mini poster my dad got me. I never felt the same for her again. I was heartbroken, but I had to move on.

  I wound up giving my “WhiteMike” belt buckle to my first real girlfriend, Elsie from Wagner Junior High School. To this day, I have never met Mary Lou Retton again, so if you’re out there, holler at your boy.

  Good Men in Bad Pieces

  What the fuck are they doing to my broadcasters? The gods of the play-by-play and kings of color commentary are being shamed before our eyes. These men are our national treasures. I’m talking about Al Michaels, Marv Albert, Dick Stockton, and my man Hubie Brown, just to name a few. These are the greatest broadcasters ever to get behind the microphone, and they’re WEARING FUCKING WIGS on TV? Mike the Czar Fratello, I’m throwing you in there, too. Your hairpiece is off-center and wrong. The point is simple: These men should be free to be wigless and bald! Let the rug go! Toss them in the garbage and let your lumped-up heads shine bright. You’re too good for this shit.

  These men narrated every amazing sports moment in the last fifty years, and this is how you treat them? Every incredible moment you remember from the hardwood, the turf, or the diamond, these wordsmiths have called for you. When Dick Stockton called the 1975 World Series, you think he ever thought he’d be forced to put a spider monkey on his head? You think after calling Carlton Fisk’s home run for the Red Sox he was envisioning himself with a bird’s nest attached to his skull? Hell, no.

  Al Michaels called the Miracle on Ice, one of the greatest events in American history, and now you’re forcing him to lay a rug down because you want us to think he’s not losing hair? Let me repeat that: he called the Miracle on Ice! “Do you believe in miracles?” When I see the goalie Jim Craig looking for his father in the stands, I still cry on the spot. Big Al, live the life you want to live. You’re a great man in a bad piece!

  I know Marv Albert bit a hooker in ’97, but that doesn’t mean you need to shame him with a forced mop top that leans left and looks like it was ripped off a twelve-year-old boy’s head. This is the man who gave us “Yes! Serving up the facial” when Kobe dunked on Yao Ming. Marv Albert is a goddamn diamond, a one-of-a-kind Jewish diamond. I’ll tell you something, Marv, sports fans couldn’t give two shits about the hooker incident. We’re sports fans, not parole officers. We fucking love you, Marv, and we loved you even more after the hooker incident. It made you human. Who among us hasn’t had a regrettable hooker incident? But we can’t overlook the wig, man. You deserve better. I’m not offering a solution because I don’t have one, Marv. I don’t kn
ow psychologically where your head is at with this. I don’t know what you’re seeing when you look in the mirror, but I can tell you what we’re seeing. We’re seeing a legend of the game embarrassed on national television, forced to wear the hair of a young Brad Pitt. You deserve better.

  Maybe this is all Howard Cosell’s fault. I don’t know. Maybe he started it all by wearing the first toup that was made for someone else’s head. Howard, I loved you, but you started something that can’t be reversed. Of course, most men struggle with some sort of hair issue later in life, and if you’re not Bruce Willis, Michael Jordan, or my man from The Shield, a shaved head may not be for you. I mean, could you imagine Hubie Brown with a shaved head? Nobody wants to see that. But what the hell have they done to Hubie? I’m not saying we need him bald. I don’t want to see it and his family and friends don’t want to see it, but, Hubie, what the fuck is going on? You look like Billy Idol fucked Ellen DeGeneres! It doesn’t make sense. You look like you stole that bad boy from the set of Spartacus. Your shit is old and young at the same time. Come on, Hubie!

  * * *

  I know damn well these icons are having the same thoughts, but they can’t bring it up ’cause it’s in their contract to never bring up wigs. I get the whole Hollywood “You have to look young on TV” of it all, but guess what, fellas? We were never watching you for your jawlines and great skin. We love you for your wordplay and game calling! Damn it. What really gets me is that we know this is not your doing! There’s a Wig Conspiracy out there! The powers that be are forcing this on you. They’re coming into your dreams and whispering shit like, “Hey, man, you’re much better-looking with gray cadaver pubic hair on your head.”

  And Quick Dick Stockton, you’re my man for real. I’ve loved you since the early Eighties, listening to you call all the CBS Sunday afternoon games. You walked me and the rest of the sports world through the highs and lows of so many great moments with that Golden Baritone voice. The fucking Barry White of the sports world. I love and appreciate you and your work. It’s amazing that you’re still calling games and your voice still sounds fantastic. Hearing you call an NBA game is like listening to Marvin Gaye while getting a foot massage. You’re great, Dick. You’re smooth. There is no one in the game who sounds like you, but you look fucking nuts! You look homeless and scared.