Angry White Male

by Steven Travers

  Michelle brought in great money. Stan knew she could not make that kind of dough modeling lingerie and bathing suits. She thought she had him fooled. Stan continued to play along. It occurred to Stan that he and Billy Boswell both shared a common irony. Both men had fallen for porn stars.

  Stan checked Michelle out. The video store no longer carried films starring her. He read the trades and saw that she had “retired” from porn films, but was still dancing as a feature. Hustler’s Erotic Video Guide said she had retired to live with a “mystery man” who “doesn’t know about my past.”

  Do I really appear that gullible? Stan thought to himself. Well, he had played it that way. Furthermore, his parents still did not know anything. They knew she modeled lingerie and bikinis. They did not even know that she had been in Penthouse and Playboy. Stan could have handled that, but the porn career? So far, so good.

  Stan had finally gotten on-line. He searched for his girlfriend on the Internet and found her. She may have retired from making films, but she had not retired from having sex for money. She was available through Nici’s Girls, an Internet escort service that specialized in adult film stars. For $1,200, she could be had for the entire night.

  Now Stan was pressed with a new dynamic. It was one thing to date a porn star and a stripper. Now she was a hooker. What would be worse, for his folks to lean that his girlfriend was a porn star, or a hooker? When first we practice to deceive…

  This situation is getting ridiculous, he thought.

  Michelle pressed two things. She wanted a commitment. She wanted marriage and kids. She wanted Stan to take over as the breadwinner.

  “I want to go back to school,” she told Stan.

  Stan had come into the relationship with his New York debt. He managed to get that paid off, but what he made as a struggling screenwriter was not close to what Michelle made as an adult film star. If he wanted to keep this woman, though, he needed to improve his professional status. He wanted to make enough money to get her out of “the life.”

  “Stan,” she told him. “I’ve supported you in every way, but I get nervous when you go more than a few weeks without work. Working at home just seems strange to me. I need you to find regular work. I want you to get a regular paycheck. We need enough stability in this household for me to go back to school and for us to get married and start a family.”

  How does the grandson of a Congressman, the nephew of the Secretary of State, an upstanding Republican like me, manage to get into a situation this complicated? He wondered. Stan did not have the answer. What if he wanted to get into politics some day? His relationship with this girl could never survive public scrutiny. He pressed on.

  Stan started contacting publications, looking for staff writing jobs. He needed to build up a body of work, so he did freelance writing outside of Hollywood. He wrote some opinion/editorial and feature stories for Rolling Stone, Penthouse and other publications.

  The issue of reparations for slavery had become a hot topic. Stan wrote a piece that was received with some controversy. It was called “America: Where Slavery Came to Die”. Stan conceived the idea after watching Steven Spielberg’s “Amistad”. Walking out of the theatre, Stan felt a deep wave of American pride and patriotism. This seemed an odd feeling to have, having watched a film that showed in graphic detail the evils of slavery in America. However, what struck Stan about the true story of the slave ship Amistad was that the slaves had won their freedom using the American legal system. The premise of his article was that slavery had existed for thousands of years, was brought to America’s shores by Europeans, working in concert with African natives. The United States had been born of revolution, and in the wake of that revolution, laws were written, embodied within the Constitution, Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence, and other works.

  The question of slavery had become the overriding political topic in the U.S., resulting in a war in which thousands of lives were lost. Many white Americans had lost their lives fighting on behalf of the principle of abolition. Through the Emancipation Proclamation, and other laws, slavery and in later years Jim Crow, segregation and other laws were overturned. All these events were accomplished using laws written by Americans, in America, on behalf of Americans. No other country had come to America, fought America, defeated America, and forced America to “do the right thing.” America had done the right thing on its own, by virtue of it’s own revolutionary laws. The laws of America had been used as an example for other countries to create and enforce enlightening new civil rights for their citizens. In essence, it boiled down to the fact that, after slavery had been around forever, there eventually came to be a country called America. Within 90 years of the formation of this country, slavery effectively ended, not only in America, but as an institution in the world, because of America.

  Stan also had the temerity to point out other uncomfortable Truths. For instance, he posited the notion that while Africans may have been absconded and forced into slavery in America, their ancestors were better off for it! The logic behind this is that if their ancestors had not been forced into slavery, they never would have come to America. Had they stayed behind in Africa, the chances are good they would have met a bad fate. Other Africans could have enslaved them. They could have died of diseases and famines in Africa. They could have been killed in African wars, riots, revolutions and coups. African ethnic cleansing could have victimized them. They could have become political prisoners. Instead, when America ended slavery, the Africans in America became American citizens. They benefited from the rights of U.S. citizenship. Of course, many did not “benefit” as much as white people, but Stan was not afraid to point out that the poor treatment of blacks, particularly in the South, was much better than the treatment they would have gotten under some African despot like Idi Amin. American citizenship was reparations.

  “Truth be told,” Stan wrote, “the American government could make the case that blacks owed America, not vice versa.”

  It contained the kind of logic that the Politically Correct cannot stand. It exposed their frauds. Conservatives loved it. Liberals hated it because it contained too many true facts. It did not advocate hatred towards the American ideal.

  Everything had not always gone Stan’s way, but he felt lucky. He felt a need to give back to the community. Over the years he had contributed his time to charitable causes, volunteering to help kids in school, working with them on developing writing skills. He worked with prisoners to develop computer skills, and to create resumes that would enable them to find work when they got out. Michelle and Stan volunteered to help abused women. Stan worked with them on communication, writing, and computer skills, so they could find employment after escaping from abusive husbands and boyfriends.

  Stan still hung out with Brad. Stan tried to get him to move to the beach, but Brad was one of those guys who thought that if you worked in Hollywood, you should live in Hollywood. A lot of people who reside in Beverly Hills and the Westside think of the South Bay as if it was the hinterlands, even though it is a relatively easy commute into the city. Stan loved the lifestyle down there and would never trade it for the helter skelter pace of Los Angeles proper, with its crowded streets and overstuffed strip malls. He loved the idea that he could go there any time he wanted. At the end of the day, he returned to the gleaming ocean, with its fresh air and beautiful women roller blading on the sidewalks. It was like living a Jan and Dean song.

  Stan tried to entice Brad to come visit him in the South Bay more often. Pier Avenue in Hermosa had been closed and turned into a mall. Sharkey’s and the Beach Club were among the hottest new bars in L.A. Every night, long lines waited to get in to the surf motif bars. Going there with Brad, both men had a startling realization. They were no longer kids. The Sharkey’s crowd of was very young, college boys or recent graduates. The girls were gorgeous, but Stan and Brad were of a different era. They preferred not to stand in the lines, going to low-key places on the other side of Hermosa Aven
ue instead.

  “Let’s find some adults,” Brad said.

  When Michelle was out of town, Stan ventured up to Hollywood, and the two visited old haunts, usually the Rainbow. Stan refused to cheat on Michelle, and for this he took a ton of heat from Brad. Brad’s European experience had turned him into a real bohemian. He was a terminal bachelor who had no desire to be weighed down by a wife and family. He had no problem with people being married, as long as they were not fanatics about it.

  At the Rainbow, they ran into a beautiful French model named Suze. She looked like Bridgitte Bardot. She took a liking to Stan, but because he was involved with Michelle, Stan directed her to Brad. They hooked up and started going out.

  Brad called Stan and told him about a party in Marina del Rey that Suze had been invited to. She could bring a couple of friends. Would Stan like to go?

  It was at the beachfront home of a top clothing designer. The place was crawling with hot models, many in bikinis - some in less than that. When Stan entered, he was asked to put his name and address in the guest book. He and Brad had a terrific time. Stan was surrounded by hotties, but again he maintained faithfulness to Michelle. This seemed incongruous to him. For all knew, she was sandwiched between a couple of guys at that very same time.

  Oh well, thought Stan.

  A few months later, Stan got a request to RSVP in the mail. The clothing designer who had thrown the Marina del Rey beach party was hosting an Academy Awards night shindig. Stan and a date were invited. He sent the invite back saying he and Michelle would be there.

  He and Michelle went all out. They rented a hotel room in West Hollywood and Stan wore a tux. The affair was held at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They came out of their cab, and had their photos taken by paparazzi as they entered the hotel. Stan, 6-6 and handsome in his tux. The gorgeous Michelle, wearing a revealing black dress. They looked the part. There was not a better-looking woman there than Michelle. Stan thought about Michelle being recognized as a porn star. Then he recognized other porn stars on the arms of well-known entertainment types. They were escorts. That was how it was done in Hollywood. The only thing was his girl was not an escort. She was his real girlfriend.

  Only in L.A., he thought to himself.

  They got to the party’s entrance, and Stan checked in with the man up front. He had an annoying New York accent and called everybody babe. He was a caricature of the Hollywood phony.

  “What’s the name, babe?” he asked.

  “Taylor,” said Stan.

  The man went down the list.

  “Yeah, Taylor,” he said. “Welcome.”

  Stan began to enter the party with Michelle at his side. The man saw her.

  “Hold it,” he said. “Whose this?”

  “This is my girlfriend, Michelle,” Stan said. “I sent her name with the RSVP.”

  “Her name’s not on the list,” said the New York phony. “Sorry.”

  Stan and Michelle stood arguing with the man for 10 minutes. They started to walk off in anger, and the guy said, “No, don’t go. Work with me here.”

  They tried to work with him, but that still meant that Michelle could not come in.

  “You go,” said Michelle. “I’ll wait.”

  “No,” said Stan. “Are you kidding?””

  “You’re a screenwriter and it’ll be good for your career to meet the people in there,” she said.

  Stan was not about to do that. They sat at the nearby bar. Michelle sulked and Stan got drunk. They watched a coterie of “B list” actors enter the party. There was the gal who played Lamb Chops. Robert Conrad. Fred “The Hammer” Williamson. Don Adams. People like that.

  Michelle went to the bathroom, and started to cry. The wife of an industry executive saw her, and took pity on her. Michelle explained what had happened. The lady assured her that she could get them into the party. However, Stan was so pissed that when Michelle told him that, he just said, “”Fuck `em. I don’t want to go to their fuckin’ party.” So they left.

  Michelle did not allow Stan to be pissed around her. Michelle got mad, even though he was not mad at her and he had every right to have that reaction. That did not matter. Michelle was a moody sort and just wanted Stan to be cheerful. So they did not talk to each other. Stan left the hotel room and went to get even drunker at Barney’s Beanery. He watched the Oscars on Barney’s TV. “Titanic” took every award for 1997, while Celine Dion sang her song of love for Leonardo DiCaprio.

  “Fuck `em all,” he muttered to himself.

  Michelle, like most women, always felt the need to talk about it. Whenever he had a disagreement, Stan preferred to just let it pass. That was how he had grown up. It was his survival mechanism against Dan. It had worked so far. He just wanted it over with. With Michelle, these spats always required a long post-mortem, and it never worked in his favor. The only way to get out of the doghouse was to apologize and grovel. Every time.

  That’s what happens when you’re arguing with somebody with 44 double-D tits who sucks dick like there’s no tomorrow, was Stan’s reasoning.

  In 1999, Stan took stock of his writing career and decided to make some changes. Michelle wanted him to find stable employment, and even though she did not say it, she had given up on his screenwriting chances.

  “You need to go down there and pound the pavement,” she told Stan. Michelle did not understand Hollywood at all.

  “Go to the studio and take a job throwing out garbage,” she told him. Stan made no attempt to explain certain realities of the entertainment industry to her. A screenwriter was going to break in on the strength of spec scripts. He needed an aggressive agent. Lon Robertson was a patsy. “Meeting people,” “knowing people,” “pounding the pavement,” and “getting people to see your face” were great clichés. They were not necessarily recipes to success in Hollywood. Certainly not as a writer; that odd, necessary evil hybrid of Tinsel Town.

  “You’re such a good-looking man,” she told him, “if they’d see you, nicely dressed, they’d like you.”

  Michelle was partially right. Looks count in Hollywood. But she did not understand talent, opportunity and timing. She did not understand how many writers are vying for a few slots. She did not differentiate between television writing, cinema writing, or stage writing. She only knew her world. That was a world in which looks opened doors. Females breaking in to acting and modeling could impress men with their looks, their smiles, and their clothes. They could sleep their way in.

  Men, Stan wanted to tell, could not sleep their way to the top. Not the good jobs, the ones that count. Yes, there were gigolos. Stan had known one guy in high school and another former teammate who had gone into gigolo work. He had seen the first baseman for the Arkansas Travelers, Greg Rosales, primping in front of the mirror in the men’s room at The Mirage one night. The same Greg Rosales who told him, when Stan discovered the 16-year old girl servicing his team, to come in and “get some head, man. It’s free.”

  “What the hell are you doin’ here,” asked Stan, “lookin’ all slick and shit?”

  “Hey, dude,” Greg told him, “I’m a gigolo.”

  “You’re shittin’ me?” said Stan.

  “I shit you not,” said Greg. “I make three Gs a month doin’ old ladies.”

  “Did you learn this trade at San Jose State?” asked Stan.

  “Dude,” said Greg, “I rented ‘American Gigolo’ a couple years ago. Richard Gere changed my life.”

  “Oh,” said Stan, laughing, “I was wondering why I couldn’t find that movie. I shoulda been lookin’ under ‘vocational training films.’”

  Greg told Stan he could “hook you right up.” Now Stan was almost wondering if he should have taken him up on the offer. Sometimes he felt like a prostitute anyway, for some reason. Not a highly paid one, though.

  No, the jobs that guys like Stan Taylor worked had panache and respectability. Gravitas.

  So he could not sleep his way to the top. Not like Michelle. Rebec
ca could have done it she had had ambition. No, the world had changed, and Stan Taylor had to fight, and scratch, and claw his way up the ladder. In Hollywood, he was just another white guy, and not all that young any more. Everybody seemed to want something he was not. Women. Young women. Gen Xers. Hispanics, Orientals, people of color. Ethnic sensibilities. The old White Anglo Saxon Protestant world that his grandfather and his uncle had dominated was not the one he was living in. The invitation into its privileged clubs had somehow never been sent to Stan. He had missed the boat. He was the guy on the outside looking in. Michelle thought she had the answers. She thought if he offered to press Steven Spielberg’s suits, Spielberg would option one of his screenplays.

  With reality staring him in the face, Stan took what he could get. He tried for the big jobs at first. He had written some good freelance articles, some for national magazines. But getting hired as a full-time staffer was another story. He had sent his resume and writing samples to Esquire, the New Yorker, and the Saturday Evening Post. He had tried with the L.A. Times, the New York Times, and the Washington Post. He accumulated a large drawer full of rejection letters.

  Finally, he started stringing high school sports for the Los Angeles Times. The pay was low, but he hoped the right people would notice. He sat in the press box with the other aspiring writers, mostly 20-something freelancers for various papers, thinking to himself, Little do these guys know that when I go home at night, the world’s sluttiest porn star waits for me in nasty lingerie. It was a thought that helped sustain him through more than a few boring prep football match-ups. He developed great respect for high school football writers, though. The games were not interrupted by television time-outs. There were no media relations specialists handing out stat sheets every quarter. Half the time, the public address announcer spotted the wrong player making a tackle or a catch. There was usually no phone line for Internet access. After the game, he had to get some quotes from the star and the coach and write his story before the janitor turned out the lights. Sometimes he was the last one to leave and had to hop the fence because the field was locked up. Some of the neighborhoods were not so safe, either. He called his stories in, word for word. He was good at it, and the people at the Times did notice.

  Stan was a resourceful fellow. He had writing talent. He had accumulated a tremendous knowledge base, the result of his insatiable desire to read and learn, but also because he had traveled, lived in different places, and had a wide variety of exotic experiences. He also began to send out articles on the Internet to members of the media, calling it Stanley Taylor’s Journal. Stan calculated the cost-benefit of doing this. The “cost” was that some people thought he was “a yahoo and a self-promoter.”

  “Hey,” Stan emailed back, “I resemble that remark.”

  The benefit was that it made his name and his work known to influential people. It quickly became apparent that a few complaints about unsolicited emails were no comparison to the contacts he made with columnists and editors who liked his work. His email journal would prove to be of great value to his career.

  His favorite writer was Jim Murray of the Times, and Stan developed a similar style.

  “You’re a good writer,” the Times’ prep editor told him, “but high school sports is not the place to talk about ‘Thundering Herds’ and `Galloping Ghosts.’”

  “You mean if I see ‘Four Horsemen,’” laughed Stan, “I can’t report it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the prep editor replied. “You ought a be a columnist.”

  “Now that’s the best ideas I’ve heard yet,” replied Stan. “Can you put a good word in for me?”

  “I can,” he said, “but with your background, you’ve got very little shot at getting that with this paper.”

  The prep man did mention Stan to the paper’s sports editor, Bill Dwyre. Dwyre was a gruff Notre Dame man who loved tennis more than any other sport. He had come to Los Angeles after years covering Lew Alcindor, later named Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel. Then Stan started to contact him on his own. Finally, Dwyre got back to him.

  “I know you’re doing a good job with the preps,” the sports editor told him, “but do you really expect me to give you a column?”

  “To quote from one of my favorite films, ‘The Player’, `no stars, just talent,’” said Stan. “I’ve got what it takes. I have a similar background to Jim Murray, who wrote about Hollywood, and carried that flair for entertainment and social pathos when he became a sports columnist. I love what he wrote in 1970, after Sam ‘Bam’ Cunningham led USC to a trouncing over Bear Bryant’s last all-white Alabama team. ‘We welcomed Alabama back in to the Union yesterday…The Constitution was ratified in Birmingham, courtesy of a black sophomore running back from Santa Barbara, California named Sam ‘Bam’ Cunningham.’ Or he’d write ‘USC wasn’t a football team. They were the Wehrrmacht during the blitzkrieg…’ ‘Woody Hayes in the press box must’ve felt like a Prussian military commander with a birds-eye view of Napoleon’s Italian Campaign.’”

  “Young man,” said Dwyre, “I loved Jim Murray, but quoting a veritable ‘Great Moments in USC Football’ is not the best way to get these Irish eyes smiling. Besides, there aren’t many writers who can pull off that kind of writing.”

  “I understand that,” said Stan, “but I’m one of `em.”

  “Stan,” said Dwyre, who had read Stanley Taylor’s Journal regularly and, because of it, recognized Stan’s talent. “I appreciate you’re enthusiasm. I see something in you. You have no idea how rare it is that I would even call somebody back, but I see something in you. Still, the Times only hires from within, or from other major metropolitan dailies. Writing preps is a start, but frankly I have too many other writers ahead of you, and that’s just talking about staff positions. You’re shooting for the moon if you want to get a column.”

  “Okay,” said Stan. “I can appreciate that. Let me propose this. At the end of this year, you’re gonna have all the Millennium stories. I have one I want to contribute. The all-time high school all-star teams in baseball, basketball, football and track from Southern California. Going back to Walter Johnson at Fullerton High School in 1905. Jackie Robinson from Muir. Bill Walton from Helix. Pat Haden of Bishop Amat. It’ll be a big spread. If I pull this off - all the research, everything - will you consider me?”

  “I’m intrigued,” said the editor. “I’ll give you the assignment, and see where we go from there. But I can’t promise you anything, you understand that? Frankly, if you’d come to me 10 years ago it’d be different, but you seemed to have done everything ass-backwards, at least as far as newspaper work is concerned.”

  “Bill,” said Stan, “sometimes you gotta go against the grain.”

  “You’re not average, are you?” asked Dwyre.

  That was all Stan Taylor needed to hear. You’re not average, are you? He went on a major research binge. He discovered the Amateur Athletic Foundation library on West Adams, which had been opened with money from the 1984 Olympic Games. It was a sports fans’ paradise. Stan set up base camp there, coming up with all the great names from Southern California’s glorious prep sports history. No other area in the world approaches Los Angeles and the surrounding counties when it comes to producing sports heroes. Stan put it all together. He also included a special section on famous people who had played sports in Southern California high schools. This included former President Richard Nixon, who had played football at Whittier High, and actors like Robert Redford, who had been a teammate of Don Drysdale at Van Nuys High (where they were both classmates of an actress named Natalie Wood).

  The piece ran during the 1999 Christmas season and drew a tremendous public response. Fans wrote in that they remembered Ralph Kiner of Alhambra, Greg Goorjian of La Crescenta, and the many other great stars - some world famous, some obscure, all of them great heroes of the Southland at one time. The ambitious article brought Stan to the forefront of the editor’s attention.

  He gave
him a few more special assignments. Stan responded beautifully. He wrote a long feature called “The Poet of Venice”, which was about a football player from the 1950s named Ronnie Knox. Knox starred at four high schools in four years, including Santa Monica and Beverly Hills. His rich stepfather had moved him each year because he had disagreed with the offense the coaches ran for his triple-threat quarterback/running back stepson. Then Ronnie had gone to Cal, but the old man pissed off legendary Golden Bears coach Pappy Waldorf, so the kid transferred to UCLA. Knox helped the Bruins into the Rose Bowl under coach Red Sanders, but his father had managed to get under Sanders’ skin, too. Ronnie quit college football, and had a shot in Canada, in the NFL, the AFL, and tried out as a contract actor with MGM, all without lasting success. Eventually, he just became a drifter in Venice, where he wrote poetry that never sold.

  Stan then wrote a long story called “A Tale of Two Pitchers”. This featured two left-handed hurlers from Southern Cal. The first was Bruce Gardner, a prep star from Fairfax High who had turned down a large pro offer to attend USC because his Jewish mother wanted her son to be a college man. At SC, Gardner had made All-American, but he sustained nagging injuries that reduced his status with the scouts. He played a few years in the minors, but more injuries ended his career without fanfare. Gardner drifted through life, wondering what might have been had he signed out of high school instead of fulfilling his mother’s wishes. In 1974, he had committed suicide on the mound at Dedeaux Field, leaving a note to Coach Rod Dedeaux and his mother saying, “This is what I think of your college education.” Stan knew from his own experience at SC that it was verboten to mention Gardner within earshot of Rod.

  The second pitcher was Bill Bordley, a prize hurler out of Bishop Montgomery High School in Torrance, who had led USC to the 1978 National Championship. Bordley’s big league career was cut short by the same arm injury that ended Stan’s pro aspirations, the torn rotator cuff. Instead of despairing as Gardner had, Bordley had taken his life in a new direction. He became a Secret Service agent, eventually assigned to the Chelsea Clinton detail at Stanford.

  Stan saw parallels between their situations and his, and brought the special perspective of an ex-athlete to his writing. He found in his experience reservoirs of insight that other sportswriters sadly lacked. The beat writers loved to talk about “access,” just because they were in close physical proximity to the players on a regular basis. Stan went way beyond that. He wrote from experience. He had his readers believing they were there with him. A few, rare books had done that. “Ball Four” by Jim Bouton, “North Dallas Forty” by Peter Gent, and “The Suitors of Spring” by Pat Jordan had tread in this territory. Stan also wrote to entertain. He was breezy, funny and sexy. He loved the writing of Dan Jenkins, the author of “Semi-Tough”, and he borrowed from his mentor, Maury Allen. Stan had been a good screenwriter. He was a great sportswriter.

  His editor was astounded, and in 2000 Stan found himself on the staff of the Los Angeles Times. Stan was in the office in March when the story came in off the wire service about the arrest of Elrod Miller, his old client, for bigamy and assault. Stan wrote a long story about Miller, admitting his own shame at helping the man cheat on his wife back when he was with New York Sports Management, Inc. He detailed the calling card, the handling of Miller’s mistresses’ itinerary, and the Pirates’ wives suspicions, resulting in requests for phone bills for “tax purposes.”

  The article was another big hit, and again Stan’s personal, up-close experience shone through. It was obvious he was a special talent who could draw on areas of knowledge and insight that other scribes could only dream of. The writer who covered the Dodgers was a black fellow named Larry Wishborn. Wishborn was the local chapter president of the Baseball Writers Association of America. He was a decent enough writer, but like so many “beat” writers, he coveted his little fiefdom. He welcomed newcomers like Stan in a manner similar to the way Northern Yankee veterans of the Detroit Tigers had welcomed the Confederate Ty Cobb when he came to the Majors in 1906.

  Wishborn had formed a loose cabal of “insiders” within the sports department’s editorial staff. Stan realized right off the bat that he was an outsider. He had not “paid his dues.” Most writers had started with preps, which Stan had done, but then they had toiled for papers like the Inland Valley Daily Bulletin, the Pasadena Star-Tribune and the Daily Breeze. They saw Stan as a guy who had seemingly come “off the street.” All he had done was write a few high school football stories. He had never been a beat writer. He had written some half-ass screenplays. He had written a couple of features and wowed the aging sports editor into elevating him over a pile of resumes to a job almost equal to the one Wishborn had after 15 years. That galled Wishborn. The fact that the former Trojan jock Stan looked like a 6-6 Viking with his blonde hair and beach boy tan rubbed Wishborn the wrong way. Wishborn was five feet, six inches tall and pudgy. He had never been a good athlete. He was sensitive to the stereotype that all blacks are supposed to be good athletes. In his heart he knew he could not hold Stan’s dirty jockstrap as a writer. Then Wishborn caught a good look at Michelle, who accompanied Stan to the office one day. That was the final kicker. He disliked Stan anyway, but the fact that the guy had this awesome-looking girlfriend really made him hate the guy. Stan knew what was going on. He looked at Wishborn and saw shades of Frankie Yagman.

  Stan approached Wishborn about membership in the BBWAA. If the look on Wishborn’s face could have killed Stan, he would have been dead on the spot. Stan just smiled and complimented Wishborn. One of the copy editors was a white fellow named Jim Painter. Painter was one of Wishborn’s pals, having worked with him at the Riverside Press-Enterprise. Painter, like a lot of copy editors, was one of those guys who felt the need to protect his position. In his view, there was a chain of command. He and Wishborn thought Taylor had by-passed that right from the start, going to the sports editor and doing a big end-run past all the other writers and editors at the Times.

  When he went into the office, Painter called Stan aside.

  “I hear you got an attitude,” he told Stan.

  “I have an attitude?” asked Stan.

  “That’s what I hear,” said the assistant. Stan knew he and Wishborn were pals.

  “I apologize,” Stan said. He knew there were forces working against him. He simply accepted it. Stan also noticed that Wishborn seemed to have a special “in” with black athletes, and he tended to hang out with other black writers. None of this made any difference to Stan, who could care less if Wishborn had an attitude. He was just happy to be there. Stan filled in when Wishborn had days off, and did the same when the Times’ Anaheim Angels beat writer was off, as well. He did not travel with either team.

  Painter and Wishborn stabbed people in the back differently. Wishborn made it clear he did not like Stan. Painter, on the other hand, would give Stan the Pepsodent beach boy smile, and offer his help. Stan knew one of his upcoming assignments would be to write about the NBA draft. He was a basketball fan with decent knowledge, but he lacked the kind of expert perspective that he brought to baseball.

  “I know a lot about the NBA draft,” Painter told Stan. “Feel free to let me help you when have to write that article.”

  “Gee, thanks, Jim,” Stan said. “I really appreciate the teamwork.” He did. Stan had been an athlete and a member of teams all his life. He truly did appreciate the value of cooperation.

  When Stan got his assignment to write the story, he went to Painter, who had accumulated a great deal of good research on the various college players in that year’s draft. He knew what the particular needs and tendencies of each team’s general manager and scouting staffs were. Stan was able to write a good story, and gave Painter many thanks for his help. What he did not know was what Painter said to the sports editor.

  “He’s a tragedy, chief,” Painter said. “He took up half a day of my time when I was busy, helping him. He didn’t know shit. I had to carry him on my back.”


  “Maybe,” said the sports editor, “but he can write like a son of a bitch.”

  Stan went to Wishborn, again requesting membership in the BBWAA. Wishborn barely spoke to him, and made no effort on Stan’s behalf. Stan just laughed. He had the goods and the talent. Such qualities had an inexorable, unstoppable way of rising above such petty, little people.

  The first time Stan went to Dodger Stadium as a credentialed member of the media, he entered the clubhouse and approached Billy Boswell. Boswell occupied two lockers. He had a personal leather lounge chair and a big screen TV above his stall. He was situated in a corner, separated not just from the media, but teammates.

  Over the years, Stan efforts at getting a hold of Billy - through his parents, writing letters care of the club or through his agent, emails to his fan club - had met with no success. He had tried to get his attention near the dugout when he was at games, and Billy was finished with batting practice. He had not had one iota of communication with the guy since he had given up a line drive double to him in the last game they played against each other, USC vs. UCLA at Jackie Robinson Stadium, in 1985.

  Stan never saw him around Palos Verdes. He never saw him at UCLA games, or Palos Verdes games, or in bars in the South Bay - all places that might have been familiar haunts. Now, Boswell lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, overlooking the city.

  Since signing with the Dodgers, Boswell had put together numbers and achievements that rated him as the best athlete on the planet, and very possibly the greatest baseball player in history. He had elevated the Dodgers to the Promised Land of World Series victory several times, and there was no record, no award, no accolade that had escaped his attainment. Entering the 2000 season, Boswell had won five Most Valuable Player awards and been named The Sporting News Player of the Decade for the 1990s, and to Major League Baseball’s All-Century Team. Averaging 46 homers a year, he was closing in on Hank Aaron’s all-time career home run record of 755, 3,000 career hits and exclusive membership in the 500 homer/500 stolen base club. He had won a triple crown, three batting championships, and three times gotten 200 hits in a season. He was the first big leaguer since Ted Williams to hit .400 and carried a lifetime .355 average. He had led the league in hits five times, stolen bases three times, and been the league champion in home runs and RBIs numerous times. He had joined the 30 homer/30 stolen base club, and the 40/40 club, too. He was on pace to become the all-time RBI and walks leader. He had slugged over .800 twice. Only Babe Ruth had ever slugged .800. Bos had twice finished seasons with a .500 on-base percentage and once with a .600 on-base percentage, the greatest in history. He had the greatest single season and career on-base/slugging percentage totals ever. He consistently struck out less than he homered, and had more homers in his career than strikeouts. Boswell had been voted as the starting center fielder in the All-Star Game every year of his career. He had won the Gold Glove every season, too. He was the highest paid athlete in history. In every way that athletes measure success, Boswell was the very best. He dominated baseball the way nobody, except maybe Babe Ruth, had done. He had revolutionized the game, and elevated the way fans view athletes. He was a god, a legend who eclipsed all others before him, and according to most, all who would follow. The fans did not like his arrogant, unsmiling demeanor. His marriage had been trashed, and the press felt he had thumbed his nose at them for marrying a porno queen. It was as if he was publicly saying, “I’m better than you, I’m above you, and I can do anything I damn well please.”

  Billy did not care, and the fans still came around. Billy never signed autographs, posed for pictures and rarely did interviews. He gave a lot of money to charity, making no effort to publicize it, but his foundations were major tax breaks. The only people who knew him were his immediate family and his sidekick, Matt Hobli. It no longer mattered. His total greatness and on-field performance lifted him to iconic status above and beyond all others. He was not loved so much as he awed people, leaving them in gaping, open-mouthed wonder. The fans did not cheer him, they revered him. His standing ovations took on the form of Roman tributes to Caesar.

  Bos had done what seemed impossible. He had literally willed New York into idolizing him, even after leaving the Big Apple. As a Yankee, Boswell had owned the city, wowing capacity crowds at Yankee Stadium who oohed and aahed over him in a way not seen since Mantle and DiMaggio. But he had left New York for his hometown of Los Angeles. Nobody leaves New York. They come there as a reward for achieving superstardom. Steinbrenner’s money and the halo of fame were granted by New York, endowing one with the imprimatur of true greatness.

  When Boswell left for the West Coast, the New York newspapers and electronic media went after him with a vengeance. How dare he desert the City That Never Sleeps? On top of that, it was the middle of his divorce from his porn star wife. The press destroyed Boswell. Every male New Yorker joked about getting blowjobs from Desiree. He was caricatured, cartooned and lampooned.

  When he returned, to Shea Stadium as a member of the Dodgers to play the Mets, the boos were above and beyond scornful. Bos responded with booming home runs, daring stolen bases, stretching singles into doubles and making center field the place where triples went to die. Cheers interrupted the thunderous booing. That was nothing compared to the World Series between the Dodgers and the Yankees.

  The Yankees had to hire extra security. Fans were searched, and thousands of graphic photos of Desiree in full sex mode were confiscated from “fans” who had planned to litter the field with the images. The Commissioner’s office was apoplectic, fearing that the wholesome game of baseball, a game for kids and families, was now being usurped by smut and an arrogant player who was too indifferent to people’s opinion to care about it. The booing came down as hard as ever when the game started, but Bos was on a different planet. He batted .600, stealing two bases and picking off a homer at the top of the fence, scooping a would-be triple at the foot of the Yankee monuments, and hitting six homers in five games. He hit three in the fifth and final game at Yankee Stadium, the final one a grand slam in the ninth that capped an improbable Dodger rally from 8-0 down to a 9-8 win, clinching the World Championship.

  A pleading, throbbing, sobbing New York crowd, desperately trying to will the Bronx Bombers to the title, sat back, the air taken from them in one last, impossible gasp. Boswell rounded the bases to the sound of his teammates’ cheers and the shouts of the Dodger fans now brave enough to open their mouths in the House That Ruth Built. Then it started. A few hometown claps.

  “Way to go, Boswell.”

  “He’s the greatest player ever.”

  “I don’t believe that guy.”

  One by one, the Yankee faithful clapped, then shouted, and then came to their feet. A standing ovation. An unbelievable moment. A never-seen-before moment. The adulation of 56,000 haters turned around and made to appreciate the sheer greatness of Billy Boswell. The loudest ovation anybody had ever heard. Louder than the one Reggie Jackson received in 1977. Five minutes straight.

  The headlines in the New York Times the next day said it all: “Ruth’s stadium now the House of Bos.”

  Billy had taken the two biggest media markets in the world by storm. He was as big in New York as he was in L.A. He was still single. He had finally shaken Desiree’s shadow. He had no children, at least none he acknowledged, and he was still a legend with the ladies. Desiree had made so much money out of her scandalous association with Boswell that she had “retired.” She had homes in New York, L.A. and Hawaii. She had never re-married, and subsequent pregnancies were terminated by abortion.

  Stan entered the clubhouse, credential hanging around his neck. He located where Boswell’s locker was, and saw Matt Hobli sitting on a stool in front of Boswell’s stall. He was talking to Boswell.

  Stan approached.

  “Matt,” he announced.

  Matt looked up at him as if he was a bug.

  “Stan Taylor,” offered Stan, extending a handshake.

  “Who?” a
sked Matt, not taking the shake.

  “C’mon,” said Stan. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me.”

  “I never seen you before in my life,” Matt said.

  “Ah, horseshit,” said Stan. He then addressed Boswell, who had not acted as if Stan even existed. “I know you gotta remember me, big guy. You gotta admit we had some battles, but I gave as well I got.”

  Boswell did not look at Stan. It was as if Stan simply was not an extant being.

  “Stan Taylor,” Stan continued. “USC. All-Pac-10. Struck your ass out with guys all over the sacks. Palos Verdes Little League. Rolling Hills High School. Shit, all that dough rob you of your memory banks?”

  Boswell stared at Taylor. Then he grinned.

  “Stan Taylor,” he said. “Shit, bro, I’m sorry. I gotta a lotta shit goin’ on. Sorry, dude, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I’m with the L.A. Times now,” said Stan, indicating his credential.

  “The L.A. Times?” said Matt. He said “L.A Times” the way one might have said the National Man/Boy Love Association. “Fuck those guys.”

  “And a very nice day to you, too, Matt,” said Stan. “Now that you’re guy acknowledges me, do you remember who I am?”

  “Yeah, sorry, dude,” said Matt. “Sure, you were a hell of a pitcher.”

  Matt had graduated from Palos Verdes High in 1982, gone to El Camino for two years, then attended Cal State, Long Beach without attaining a degree. After working odd jobs for six years, he had taken a paid job, as Boswell’s assistant when Billy signed with the Dodgers prior to the 1993 season. He was still single. The media called him The Gatekeeper, because he was always standing in front of Bill’s locker stall, keeping the press or any other prying eyes away from The Man.

  Neither Boswell nor Matt asked a single question about Stan; not about his dad, what he had done after getting out of USC, or whether he had seen any of their many mutual acquaintances. Still, he spent a good 10 minutes chewing the fat with them, and an interesting thing happened. A small group of writers began to assemble not far from Boswell’s stall, observing the exchange. Few of them even knew who Stan was. He was new on the scene, and he was not even the Times’ regular beat guy. He was here on this day because Wishborn, who traveled with the club and had spent Spring Training with the club in Vero Beach, Florida, was taking the day off.

  “Who is that guy?” writers were asking each other. “Shit, does he know Boswell?”

  The media in Los Angeles still treated Boswell as the Wizard of Boz. Reporters from small radio stations who did not regularly cover the team would be sent to Dodger Stadium to “get a Billy Boswell sound bite.” That was about as intimidating as Dorothy’s instructions to get the broomstick from the Wicked Witch of the East. They would get the aforementioned “Patrick Swayze effect.” Nothing had changed.

  Now, here was this new guy talking it up with Boswell like they were old pals. Well, maybe they were not old pals, but they went back a long way with each other. It did not sit well with the veteran writers.

  The next day, when Wishborn was back at the stadium, the other wordsmiths immediately reported word of Stan’s cheery conversation with Boswell to him. It did not go over well with Wishborn, who had been covering the Dodgers for Boswell’s entire career in Los Angeles. He had a barely tolerable relationship with Billy, which consisted of Wishborn saying, “Hey, Bos” while Billy strolled to the batting cage, and Billy uttering a barely audible “Whas’sup?” or “Dude” or, most likely, nothing. The fact that Wishborn was black and still did not get the favorable treatment from the superstar burned his ass.

  Who is this guy? Wishborn asked himself, of Stan. Stan just seemed to appear out of nowhere; this big, blonde guy who had talked his way into a job with one of the most prestigious newspapers in the world. Now Stan was firmly on his turf. What Wishborn could not get through his thick head was that Stan was comfortable on a baseball field. Wishborn, like most writers, felt like interlopers in the athlete’s macho world. Stan had heard cheers on this very mound.

  Guys came up to Stan when he worked at Dodger Stadium and asked him how he knew Boswell. They told him tall Boswell tales, usually horror stories about Boswell blowing them off, and acting like a jerk. Boswell’s father, the ex-Dodger, was sitting in the dugout talking to a writer once when Billy just walked in and said to the writer, “Get the hell out of here.” One of Boswell’s friends came to the stadium and parked in a space reserved for a member of the media. When Boswell was asked to see to it that the car be moved, he said simply, “Fuck you.”

  “How do you get along with him?” asked Doug Krikorian of the Long Beach Press-Telegram.

  “I don’t get along with him,” Stan said. “We exchange a little small talk, that’s about it. All you guys think just because he acknowledges me that we’re friends. We were never friends. We were rivals, but never friends. He doesn’t accord me anything special.”

  “Well, that’s better than most of us get,” replied Krikorian. “I don’t think you understand what it’s been like for us. He’s the biggest thing that ever hit the pike, but we can’t get him to give us the time of day. I mean, nothin’. Just saying hi to you, that’s huge in comparison.”

  For four years, Michelle had hinted at marriage. She was moody and hard to deal with, but Stan loved her. He felt like, all things being equal, he would like to marry her. He had never resolved what she did for a living, and how she had hid it from him. But it was getting down to crunch time.

  “I want a commitment from you,” she told him.

  Michelle’s father wanted one, too. He knew nothing about Michelle’s adult film or escort girl careers either. He was a traditionalist who did not like his little girl living in sin.

  He ought to see her gangbang movies, Stan thought to himself, but he just kept his mouth shut.

  “If you’re living with her, you ought to marry the girl,” Dan told him.

  Finally, Michelle just told him it was time to fish or cut bait.

  “You agree to marry me, Stan Taylor,” she told him, “or we’re going our separate ways.”

  So Stan bought a ring, asked her, she agreed, and they put an announcement in the papers for a Thanksgiving weekend, 2001 wedding date.

  What the hell have I done? Stan thought.

  Nevertheless, when he was with Michelle and Kaitlyn, he was never happier. This was the family he had always yearned for. Fatherhood was so wonderful when it came with a loving partner, and Stan wanted more children. Of course, he was worried that his kids would some day find out about Michelle’s “other” life, but he convinced himself that love came with pitfalls, and that one was lucky to find real love. In Michelle, he had found that. She obviously loved him. He was not rich. He had struggled and she had stood by him. Being a sportswriter was nice work, but it was as lucrative as a lot of professions. She could have any rich man she wanted. No, it was real love, and for that he was grateful.

  Throughout 2000, Stan filled in at Dodger Stadium and Edison International Field of Anaheim. Fed up with Wishborn, he finally went to Dwyre about membership in the BBWAA.

  “You mean you’re not already a member?” he asked. “Well, I’ll take care of that.”

  Two weeks later, Stan was an official member, much to Wishborn’s consternation. Stan continued to get envious feature assignments. The Times was one of those rare newspapers that allocated enough space for lengthy pieces that gave scribes a chance to stretch their writing muscles. Nobody did it better than Stan. He specialized in writing about interesting characters with connections to Los Angeles’ sports past. He went to Vermont and wrote a long feature about Bill “Spaceman” Lee, a former USC pitcher and well-known character whose outrageous quotes had long earned him his nickname. He did not disappoint Stan.

  “I live on Rural Route One in Vermont,” Stan quoted him. “The state came to me and told me they were naming all the streets, and I could name mine. I told `em I didn’t want anyone to know where I lived
. They said, you name it, or we will. I told `em to call it the Theodore Kascynski Memorial Highway.’”

  Theodore Kaszyncki was the infamous Unabomber. The quote added to Spaceman’s legend and was re-printed in most major newspapers, and on ESPN, with attribution to Stan, who was developing a national reputation. He found himself being interviewed on ESPN, Fox, the Jim Rome Show, and other places. His notoriety was growing. Wishborn was never on Rome’s show. He was never a guest on Fox Sports Net’s “The Sports Reporters”. Stan was.

  Stan wrote an article about Bo Belinsky, the player he had penned the screenplay about. The article was called “Fallen Angel”, and it detailed the story of the ex-Angel pitcher who had once squired famous and beautiful actresses around Hollywood in the 1960s, only to fall on hard times before rebounding with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous and a newfound faith in Christ.

  He wrote about Steve Dalkowski, once the hardest-throwing pitcher in baseball, whose alcoholism and wild ways on and off the field had ended a promising career. Dalkowski had ended up becoming a migrant farm worker in Central California.

  He went back to South Carolina and interviewed former tennis star Stan Smith for a retrospective on Smith’s infamous 1972 Davis Cup match in Bucharest with Ilie Nastase.

  Stan’s articles were thoughtful, filled with the kind of history, pathos, and anecdotes that cannot be taught in journalism school. He was becoming known within sports circles as the “next Murray.”

  He also avoided some close call regarding Michelle’s porn star identity.

  Stan roomed with a Times photographer in Hilton Head, South Carolina, when he was on assignment for the Smith story. He had met Michelle on a couple of occasions. Stan emerged from the bathroom, and the photographer was on the phone. On the television, his girlfriend had three hard-ons on her face. The hotel had pay-per-view pornography and the photographer loved this sort of thing.

  “Jesus,” Stan said.

  Stan switched the station, but the photographer did not notice. Eventually, he ended his phone conversation.

  “Hey, they got porn on,” he told Stan.

  “Man, I don’t wanna watch you jack off,” he told the photographer, “and I’d just as soon not spank my monkey in your presence.”

  “Hey, dude,” said the lensman, “I’ve seen your old lady. You don’t need to spank your monkey.”

  Stan managed to divert the pay-for-porn issue for a while. When the photographer finally got it back on, Michelle’s movie was no longer playing. Stan sweated it out the rest of the trip, but the photographer never did see her.

  Stan could just imagine the scenario.

  “Hey, dude, that chick blowing those guys sure looks like your old lady,” or something like that.

  Ta-riffick, Stan thought.

  As 2000 drew to a close, changes were occurring with the Times’ sports department. Since Murray’s passing, the torch had been passed to several writers, all of whom had failed in their attempt to capture his audience. The latest to be declared a failure was a longtime writer named Rodney Laurence. Laurence was a good writer. The only problem was that he was booor-ing.

  Writers, Stan noticed, were now all writing the same cookie cutter stories. They all seemed to be the same. An inordinate amount of them had gone to San Diego State, from some reason. They wrote okay, but without flair. Nobody seemed to have the real-life experience to draw on and give life to his work. It used to be that a guy left home at 16, either joining the circus or a newspaper. He paid his dues or stepped on toes, like the main character in “What Makes Sammy Run?” They got drunk with the players and shared women with them on the road. Now they all had health club memberships and jealously watched the players get the broads before going to their rooms to call phone sex. Stan was different. His life had been one of travel and experience; a little success mixed with some failure. All in all, it added up to a colorful take that Stan was able to incorporate into his writing. Stan reasoned that if Jim Murray himself were to come along at this time and present a sample of his columns, filled with hyperbole and allegory, nobody would hire him.

  Luckily, the Times was Murray’s home newspaper, and his old sports editor was still there. He liked Stan, and saw in him the same qualities that had made Murray so special. The decision was made. Laurence would be booted upstairs, to some administrative position. Stan Taylor, not quite 37 years old, was given the left lead sports page one column, Sundays and four weekdays.

  “I picked him out,” Dwyre told a news conference to announce Stan as their new lead sports columnist. The number one sports columnist position at the Los Angeles Times is one of the most important, prestigious jobs in sports writing. In its own way, it carries a tradition similar to being the tailback at USC, the basketball coach at UCLA, the center fielder on the Yankees.

  “Stan is an educated athlete who knows how to get inside the player’s heads,” the editor continued. “What that happens, greatness occurs. He’s going to be the greatest sports columnist in America. Stan is an artist, a great writer who labors over every word until he gets it just right. I never thought I would say this, but he has a chance to provide sports fans in Southern California the kind of ‘must read’ columns that Jim Murray did for so many years. He’s gonna be a superstar.”

  Larry Wishborn went crazy. He wanted that column. He did not get it. He bounced off the walls the way Frankie Yagman once did. Within a few weeks of Stan getting the column, Times’ readers were writing in letters that said things like, “Taylor is the new Murray,” and “It feels like old times.”

  Stan broke an exclusive story that gained major attention when a top Major League baseball player “came out” and told him that he was gay, creating a full week’s worth of discussion. Stan again made the rounds: “The Last Word”, “Larry King Live”, “Best Damn Sports Show Period”, Bob Costas and other programs.

  Wishborn decided that he would destroy Stan.

  STAPLES Center, downtown Los Angeles. Three hours prior to a major mid-season match-up between the Sacramento Kings and the Los Angeles Lakers. Stan arrived wearing a black suit with a black T-shirt underneath, and black snakeskin boots. He was tanned, trim, his hair slick back, looking like an L.A. demi-god, the newest celebrity columnist in the City of the Angels looking the part. It was a Friday night and all the Beautiful People would be there. Jack Nicholson, Dyann Cannon, Pamela Anderson, Kid Rock, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston. Who knows what kind of action he could get involved in? He had never cheated on Michelle, but he was thinking about it.

  “Stan,” said John Black, a tall, well-dressed fellow. He was the Lakers’ publicity man. “You’re lookin’ good. Reminds of the Pat Riley era. Follow me.”

  They started walking down a hall.

  “To paraphrase Dick ‘Dr. Strangeglove’ Stuart,” said Stan, “I write a lot better if I know I look bitchin’ out there. Besides, John, I respect Kobe and Shaq way too much too show up lookin’ like some of these ragamuffins.”

  “You ought a see Vic Jacobs,” said Black.

  Jacobs was a local radio personality for KXTA who arrived at venues looking like he should be on tour with The Rolling Stones, circa 1970.

  “He got the hat?” asked Stan.

  “The hat,” said Black. “The bellbottoms, psychedelic flowered shirt.”

  “Guy reminds me of Hopper in ‘Apocalypse Now’,” said Stan. “‘Why would a nice guy like you, wanna kill a genius?’ An apparition.”

  “I remember that,” said Black. “Good call.”

  They arrived at a door and went inside. It was a private meeting room.

  “Set yourself up, Stan,” said Black. “I’ll have the guys in a couple minutes.”

  “Thanks, John,” said Stan, and Black left.

  Stan was seated on a large, wood table. He opened his briefcase and found his notepad. He checked his tape recorder. Nothing.

  “What the hell?” he said. He had changed batteries a few days early, but it was dead.

  He set
up his laptop computer, plugged it in, and went to a document in Microsoft word called “SHAQ/KOBE.” A list of questions came on the screen.

  O’Neal and Bryant were brought in by Black.

  “Stan Taylor,” he said, “Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant.”

  Handshakes.

  “Hey, bro,” from Shaq.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Kobe.

  “Stan’s the new man at the Times,” he said. “We like to be friends with the Times, riiiight Shaq!”

  “Man, I got no enemies,” said Shaq.

  “Fair enough,” said Stan.

  “Big gig for you, man,” said Shaq.

  “Whaddaya mean?” asked Stan.

  “Sports columnist for the Times is a lotta power,” said Shaq.

  “I promise not to abuse it, then,” said Stan.

  “It’s a deal, then,” said Shaq.

  The interview began.

  “Kobe, is the triangle the right offense for you?” Stan asked Bryant.

  “It’s the right offense for this team,” said Bryant, “and that makes it the right offense for me. Tex and Phil’ve been runnin’ the triangle long before I came around. It’s not an easy offensive scheme, see. It’s not one where you pick it up fast. It takes smart players who are committed to it, who buy into it, to run it right.”

  Stan typed Bryant’s answer into his laptop.

  “Are you bought into it?” asked Stan.

  “There’s no question that I am,” said Kobe, “but the real question is, have I mastered it? No, not yet, but I’m trying.”

  “Let me ask you this?” asked Stan. “We’ve all seen you take over a game with your shooting. There’s times you break from the offensive scheme and just take the offensive load on your shoulders. Everybody agrees there comes a time, the defense wraps the triangle, there’s a breakdown somewhere, just one of the cogs in the machine’s havin’ a bad night, and a guy like you has to step up. Michael did it in Chicago. It just happens. Is there some discrepancy between you and Shaq, between you and Phil and the coach’s maybe, between when that breakdown occurs, and when you have to shoulder the burden? I’m sayin’, we know you have to take over shooting some times, but do you sometimes think it happens sooner than the other people.”

  O’Neal started to shudder with laughter. He looked at Bryant, who appeared slightly nervous.

  “It’s on you, li’l bro,” said Shaq.

  “Man,” said Bryant, “you been talkin’ to Phil?”

  “I swear to God no,” said Stan, smiling.

  O’Neal was snickering in a way that sounded like little snot bubbles were coming out of his nose.

  “I guess I still got a little Lower Merion in me,” said Bryant.

  “Oh, he got a little Lower Merion in him,” said Bryant, laughing.

  “Shaq,” said Stan, “are you the more disciplined player?”

  “I’m the older player,” said O’Neal. “And I’m the center. I have to take all the pounding underneath, so to me, I want to know where the ball is, what we’re doin’, because when we veer from the plan it’s harder for me with everything that’s goin’ on under the basket. So it’s not like I think Kobe shouldn’t take over, drive, pull up, shoot, gun it from the perimeter, whatever. It’s that it’s easier for me if I know the triangles in play. Dig.”

  “Dig,” said Stan.

  “Dig,” said Bryant. Shaq’s “dig” was meant for him, not Stan, and Kobe took it.

  Maybe it was because Stan was 6-6 and had played hoops in high school. Maybe it was because he was an ex-pro athlete who looked like he could still mix it up. For whatever reason, athletes were comfortable with him. For one hour, he and the two Lakers’ superstars carried on a tremendous interview. There was plenty of laughter and fooling around, mixed in with some serious answers to serious questions about the relationship between the two players.

  When the game started, Stan sat in the press box at STAPLES Center next to Wishborn, who during basketball season filled in as the Lakers’ writer when the regular beat man was off, much like Stan had filled in for him in baseball. Wishborn was now smiling at him, which made Stan feel uneasy.

  Stan wrote a sensitive, candid, up-close column about O’Neal, Bryant and coach Phil Jackson. Most of his piece was written, but he wanted to finish it up with details of that night’s game against Sacramento, a major division rival.

  With a minute, 30 seconds left in a tight game, Stan went to take a leak during a time out. His article was mostly written, and could be seen on his laptop computer. He wanted to see how the game went, and maybe get some last-second quotes from Shaq and Kobe in the locker room before giving it its final touches.

  Wishborn was sitting next to Stan. Their laptops were close to each other. The press box was extra full on this night, with the Kings being a marquee opponent. The media was all pressed close together in tight quarters. Wishborn just reached over, shaded Stan’s column, tracked page down past the text, then hit delete. Then he hit “save as.” Nobody saw him do it. It had only taken a few seconds. Stan returned and just stared at his computer. He tracked page up. All that appeared now was a blank Microsoft Word document under the title, “SHAQ/KOBE.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he said.

  Wishborn just watched the game.

  The action on the court was all encompassing, the final seconds of a tight, down-to-the-wire game. Chris Webber drove the middle, but O’Neal blocked his shot. STAPLES Center went crazy.

  “Larry, did you see what happened?” Stan asked, but Wishborn paid no attention. Kobe put up a perimeter shot. Goood.

  “Larry?” shouted Stan.

  “Dude, can’t you see I’m working here?” said Wishborn.

  Stan just stared at him.

  The Kings were going for a last-second shot that went in and out, giving the Lakers the win. Wishborn was out of his seat and heading to the locker room.

  Stan just sat staring at the screen. The “white bull,” as Ernest Hemingway had called a blank page staring a writer back in the face.

  He knew Wishborn had done this, but he had no witnesses. Everybody had been focused on the court action, and they were all scattered to locker rooms for last-second quotes anyway, busy getting their stories in by deadline. Stan played with the computer, but the article was gone. It existed only as a titled document, but the actual story was gone forever.

  Stan ran to the locker room. He saw John Black.

  “John,” said Stan, “I need Kobe and Shaq.”

  “Whaddaya mean, you need `em?” asked Black.

  “Man,” said Stan, “somebody…my…somebody erased my story, all my quotes. I gotta talk to Shaq and Kobe again.”

  “Stan,” said Black, “I’d like to help. I like your stuff, but you’re new here, and you have to know you can’t just pull players like that after a game. I just finished tellin’ all the other writers that neither Kobe nor Shaq were available for post-game quotes. They’re both in the shower, and they need treatment. Besides, don’t you have notes? Didn’t you tape it?”

  Stan had a sinking feeling. Normally, he would have done both. He would have taken written notes on a pad, and had his tape recorder going. But because the Lakers had given him access to Kobe and O’Neal in a private room, he had set up his laptop on a table and as the two basketball stars spoke, Stan typed their answers and various quotes on to his screen. Then he had molded the story into his computerized notes, erasing all the miscellaneous items. He fixed up the spelling and turned the story into a coherent version, but it was all he had.

  Stan had brought his tape recorder, but the batteries were dead.

  “I just bought new batteries,” Stan said.

  Larry Wishborn knew that. Had Wishborn put bad batteries in Stan’s tape player? Stan replayed the evening. Wishborn had been alone with the tape player prior to the interview. Could his colleague have done this on purpose? Stan did not put it past him.

  Stan ran to the press
area and called Jim Painter, handling the Times’ downtown sports desk.

  “Jim,” said Stan, “I got a disaster on my hands.”

  “What?” asked Painter.

  “My entire Shaq/Kobe story’s been lost,” Stan said.

  “How the hell did you manage that?” asked Painter.

  “Man, I had it on my screen and just went to the bathroom,” said Stan, “and when I came back, it was deleted. Larry Wishborn was sitting next to my computer, but I haven’t even had a chance to ask him if he saw anything, what with the game ending and everybody on deadline.”

  “I suppose you’re going to blame Larry,” accused Painter.

  “I didn’t blame anybody,” said Stan. “I just said he was sitting inches away from my computer when it happened.”

  “That sounds like you’re blaming him,” said Painter.

  “I’m reciting true facts,” said Stan, sensing that he was being railroaded.

  It did not matter. It was like the time the glove had been stolen at baseball camp when he was a kid. He had not done it, but he had been accused and everybody agreed that he had done it. That was that, and this was this.

  “You know something, man,” Painter said to him. “I don’t think you know how good you got it, and how easy you can lose it.”

  The words made Stan shudder. His dream was slipping away. He could feel it. Stan’s column did not run in the morning. He woke up in a cold sweat and picked up the paper from his driveway. There, where his column was supposed to be, was a special feature by Larry Wishborn. Wishborn had written a nice Laker story and just happened to have it on his laptop when Stan called to say his story was gone. Painter had asked Wishborn to send it in, and Larry was happy to save the day.

  What a team player, thought Stan.

  A day later at the office, Wishborn saw Stan.

  “Hey,” he barked to Stan.

  “What?” said Stan.

  “I hear you blamed me for losing your story,” said Wishborn.

  “I never blamed you,” said Stan. “I said you were inches away from my laptop when the story vanished. That simply falls in that category of things that I know to be true.”

  Stan just walked away. He knew he had to watch his back. He walked over to his mail slot and found the usual items. Letters from readers. Press releases. A book from a publisher seeking publicity, maybe a review. Stan took his mail to his office. He had been given his own office, with a high-rise view of Los Angeles. Wishborn still worked a cubicle. Stan went through the mail. One envelope was typed and addressed:

  Stanley Taylor

  L.A. Times

  Sports

  Times Mirror Square

  Los Angeles, CA 90053

  It had no return address and was postmarked Las Vegas, Nevada. Stan opened it up. It was typed, apparently from a typewriter, not a computer, and contained typographical errors.

  Mr. Stanley Taylor

  L.A. Times

  Sports

  Times Mirror Square

  Los Angeles, CA 90053

  Dear Mr. Taylor:

  I am a private investigator in the state of Nevada I was hired by a private party which wishes to remain anonymous. Do to confidentiality laws I am going to give you limited facts on this case.

  I was hired to investigate a Michelle Woodward (Ashley), professional name is Ashley Michelle.

  I will make this brief Mr. Taylor, your fiancee Ms. Woodward is a professional prostitute and XXX-rated adult porno star. High class hooker on various jobs. The past several years Ashley has been steadily employed by a Los Angeles escort service that specializes in providing “specialty” girls for high-profile and wealthy clients who range from captains of industry, sports, entertainment, politics and foreign royalty. The service is run by a man named Franco in Beverly Hills and he fulfills “special requests” of his clients, who for sums ranging from $5,000 on up to more than $100,000, arranges women who are Hollywood actresses, NFL cheerleaders, recognized models, adult film stars, and other desirable females to have sex. Franco is known to provide girls who handle all requests that include “super kinky” and unusual sexual activities that include orgies and variations there of.

  Ashley worked briefly for Nici’s Girls that specializes in adult film stars for wealthy clients who can afford the minimum of $1,200 for an evening with porn actresses. I also interviewed numerous adult film stars that turned tricks on the side and said Ashley flew out of state often working freelance for “specialty jobs.” She has traveled to Saudi Arabia and Singapore to perform acts of prostitution for wealthy clients.

  Ms. Woodward has worked as a model for various legitimate publications, but her representation that this is the sole source of her high income is a complete fabrication. All of Ms. Woodward’s income is under a corporate name that relates back to her career as an adult film star under the name Ashley Michelle. She made numerous pornographic videos with titles like Ashley’s Gangbang Facial Cumshot Fantasy, Cum One Cum All, Ashley’s Double Penetration Party, and various titles. Aside from her looks, which as you know are astounding, Ms. Woodward was in hot demand because her specialty was sex with multiple male partners, and she was willing to do anal work and facial work, which not all adult women are comfortable with apparently.

  Mr. Taylor, your friend seemed very concerned about your well being, they did not want to see you go through all the deception of thi sick woman. My services do not come cheap, nor was this lengthy investigation.

  This is all I am allowed to give you, good luck Mr. Taylor, I would hate to be you right now.

  It was not signed.

  I got nobody to blame but myself, Stan told himself. As long as he was fascinated with porn stars and loose women, he was going to have problems like this. Stan knew about the pornography and some of the prostitution. God only knows what else she was up to that was not in the letter.

  Stan was unsure what to do. He knew marriage to this girl was going to be a problem, but now he had been “found out.” He was in a high-profile job with the paper. People knew him. He had somehow skated up to know, but how much longer could he hide his knowledge of Michelle’s adult career from her? How much longer could her activities be made a secret from his co-workers? His family, his daughter, his ex-wife? Most of them had seen her, maybe even recognized her. Were they already talking behind his back?

 

  Wishborn did not just screw Stan’s story to make his life miserable. He had a bigger plan that that. He got Stan again in April. He and Stan were in New Orleans, where the Dodgers had played an exhibition game after leaving Spring Training in Florida. The Dodgers were opening the season in Pittsburgh, and they both were assigned to be there. Because they both had to file stories from New Orleans under deadline, they did not leave the previous day when the team did. Rather, they were to go out in the morning. The Dodgers’ traveling secretary took care of their flight arrangements, and Wishborn took both his and Stan’s itinerary from him, on Stan’s “behalf.”

  He never saw Stan again, but left a message on his hotel voicemail that the flight left at 9:30 in the morning. Stan went to Bourbon Street and tried to make time with a stewardess from Miami. He told himself it was just for kicks, he would flirt but pull away before it got serious. Who knows what he would have done if she had answered yes to the question he whispered in her ear.

  “How’d you like me to stick my rock hard cock between your tits?” he had asked her.

  “You’re too romantic for me,” said the stew, “good night, Stan from L.A.”

  It was just as well. Even though Michelle was probably having sex and getting paid for it by credit card, Stan wanted to pretend that was not real. Besides, the stewardess would have kept him up all night and he had a plane to catch manana.

  8:30 a.m. Stan arrived at the airport, a little hung over, and not proud that he had been less than a gentleman with the stewardess. His father had raised him to be better than that.

  Christ I hope she’s n
ot on my flight, he suddenly thought. When he got to the counter to check in, he discovered he had bigger problems.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the agent. “The flight to Pittsburgh just left. It was 8:30, not 9:30.”

  “Wishborn,” Stan gritted his teeth. “Book me the next flight to Pittsburgh.”

  The agent pounded her computer.

  “Next flight is 2:00 p.m.,” she said.

  “I knew you were going to say that,” he said. He knew Larry Wishborn had checked to make sure of it the previous evening, just before he left his voicemail message. Stan scrambled as best he could. The New Orleans-to-Pittsburgh flights were not available, and any circuitous routes would not get Stan to the game on time. He missed the pre-game press conference. He missed the game. He missed his assignment.

  Again, it was Painter who took his call.

  “This is becoming a habit with you,” he told him.

  When Stan returned to Los Angeles, he took a private meeting with Dwyre.

  “Son,” the old man said to him, “I went way out on a limb for you, and it’s beginning to look like you don’t care that much about this job.”

  “Would you be willing to consider the possibility that both times - the lost article at STAPLES and now this - are not coincidences?” asked Stan. “Rather, that somebody is setting me up to fail?”

  “Excuses are like assholes,” Dwyre said, repeating an over-used phrase. “Everybody has one.”

  Indeed, Stan knew that blaming, in fact accusing, Larry Wishborn was not something that made him look good. He did not even confront Wishborn. What good was that going to do? Stan was told that if something like this happened again, he could consider his employment with the Los Angeles Times terminated.

  “This is isn’t some fly-by-night movie you’re filming with your buddies in Mexico,” Dwyre told him. “I never should a hired a Hollywood flack.”

  Stan kept his nose to the grindstone, pumping out great columns. His work ethic was tremendous. He also had an ace up his sleeve named Billy Boswell. Stan and Boswell were not friends, but they talked. Boswell smiled at him. Matt Hobli welcomed him into their inner circle. Wishborn looked on in envy. The other writers were amazed. So far, 2001 was shaping up to be Boswell’s best season ever. As the season unfolded, he went on an incredible home run pace. First, he hit his 700th career home run. A few weeks later, he passed Babe Ruth with his 715th. He was on a pace to break Mark McGwire’s 1998 single season record of 70. As if the stars were aligned in perfect order, if Boswell were to hit 71 this season, his 71st would be his 756th career homer, breaking Aaron’s and McGwire’s record with one swing.

  Stan wrote a column titled, “Bos is now elder statesman of game.” The piece ran on the front page of the Times, not the sports section. That was extremely rare for the Times. In it, he said that Boswell was not only the greatest baseball player ever, eclipsing the likes of Ruth and Willie Mays, but he was the most dominant athlete of all time, as well. Stan made the case that Boswell was even bigger than Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, Pele, Wilt Chamberlain, Joe Montana, Jim Brown, Rod Laver, Jim Thorpe, or any athlete in any sport.

  Furthermore, Stan explained that Boswell was misunderstood.

  “He is as humble as Napoleon after the Italian Campaign. That is because he does to pitchers what Patton’s Army did to the Germans after the Bulge. But he understands his place in history,” wrote Stan. “Bos, unlike many modern athletes, and unfortunately unlike many black athletes, has an appreciation for those who came before him. He knows what kind sacrifices players like Jackie Robinson made so that African-Americans can enjoy the fruits of their labor in the 21st Century. He knows because he has heard the stories, from his Hall of Fame father, Al and his Negro League grandfather, Buck. Now, as the Wizard of Bos approaches his late 30s, he has stepped up to an even higher level. His physical fitness is even better. His concentration, his approach, his knowledge of the pitchers, the situation, the game and all that it entails, has been fine-tuned. He has reduced the margins of what Ted Williams called the ‘single most difficult act in sports.’ Another superstar, Pete Rose, said it was ‘taking a round bat and hitting a round ball square.’

  “It says here that Boswell will break McGwire’s and Aaron’s record this year. It also says here that Boswell has reached the point where is an elder statesman of our National Pastime. No longer the New York playboy with the porn star wife, Boswell is not a monk, but he has reached a point where he is comfortable with himself. The fans have sensed that. They have long cheered his play, and now sense that he is one of theirs in the way Boston finally accepted Williams and New York took to Mickey Mantle when he and Roger Maris were chasing Ruth’s ghost.

  “`The rumors,’ as Sidney Pollack tells Tim Robbins in ‘The Player’, ‘are true. They’re always true.’ He is selfish, libidinous - and yes, the best ballplayer ever to lace on spikes.”

  Stan’s column was well received by Billy’s camp. Billy felt it was fair, and said “Maybe it takes a guy like Stan Taylor, whose played the game and knows what its like out there, to convey the truth about what we do. I mean, how many of you guys have ever played baseball, real competitive baseball?”

  The article took off and again landed Stan all over the sports interview circuit, addressing Billy’s place in history and the “can he do it?” questions. When Boswell saw Stan, he told he loved the column.

  “Dude,” he told Stan, “you’re the first writer who gets it.”

  “That’s because I’m the first writer who’s seen you hit from in front instead of from behind,” said Stan.

  Stan wanted an exclusive interview with Boswell. Not just the fluff pieces he did with Lisa Guerrero of Fox Sports, not even the friendly exchange Boswell had with Bob Costas. Stan wanted a long piece that would get into all of Billy’s demons - race, sex, his family, the media, everything. Dwyre gave him extra column length. His stories did not end at the bottom of the page, they were continued to another part of the sports section, so if he had a long piece he had room to go all out.

  In August, the Dodgers traveled to New York.

  “Bos,” Stan approached him, “the media’s going to want a big piece of you in New York. More than usual. Whaddaya say, I want an exclusive? Something unusual. Something real, man. I want you to open up and gimme the shit, the real deal, the old stuff. Everything about Desiree, your old man, being a black dude in fucking Palos Verdes Estates, fer chrissake. Man I know that had to be a trip. I want your perspective. You know I can write it up, you know I’ll give you the fairest shake. Forget Reilly and Rome, those guys hate you. Whaddaya expect out of guys who stand 5-6?”

  “Alright, man,” said Boswell. “We’ll hang in New York.”

  The Dodgers flew to New York on a Thursday night from Montreal. Stan flew in from L.A. and called Boswell on his cell phone.

  “Meet us at Scores,” Boswell said.

  Jesus, Scores, Stan thought. With Billy Boswell. I can’t get in too much trouble there, can I?

  On top of everything else, Brad Cooper and his pal Timmy Silvera were in New York.

  “Brad,” said Stan. “Bring Silvera to Scores. I’m meeting Billy Boswell. Better bring in all your ships, I got a feeling it’s gonna be a big one.”

  Scores was the hottest strip club in New York City. When Stan arrived, the first thing he saw was Billy with Matt Hobli, surrounded by gorgeous strippers, and Howard Stern was partying with them.

  “Jesus,” said Stan, “what a fucking circus.”

  “This isn’t a strip club,” said Silvera, “it’s the Seventh Circle of Hell.”

  “Nice Catholic boy like you’se gonna have to say a lotta Hail Mary’s to explain hangin’ in a place like this,” Stan told him.

  “I’m ex-communicated already,” said Silvera. “I’m an Anglican now.”

  “God help us,” said Stan.

  When Stan met Billy, the superstar was surrounded by tits `n’ ass, and his old pal Bobby Bonnet, now with the Mets.


  “I see you’re holding up as the ‘elder statesman of our National Pastime,’” said Stan.

  “Dude,” said Billy, “even elder statesmen gotta unwind.”

  “Listen,” said Stan, “I want to get this exclusive. Would you be willing to give me an hour?”

  “Right here?” asked Billy.

  “Whaddaya say?” said Stan. “We find a private room. The girls’ll wait.”

  “You’re a bold motherfucker,” said Billy. He thought about it. “Why the fuck not?”

  Stan approached the manager.

  “Listen, pal, I need a favor,” he told him, slipping him $200 and his credit card. “I got Boswell here and I need to do an interview with him. I know this isn’t the press club, but it might be now or never. I’m a columnist with the L.A. Times. With Boswell you don’t get him at the hotel, you don’t get him at the ballpark. I got him now. So I’m asking’, I need a quiet room where I can conduct an interview. Take my credit card and keep the party going, okay. I’ll have him out in an hour and he’ll be spending all his money, don’t worry.”

  “Okay, man,” said the manager. “Cool.”

  Stan had come prepared with his laptop, brief case and tape recorder. The manager directed him to his private office. For an hour and a half, sitting in a red-themed room surrounded by photos of celebrities and strippers, Stan and Billy rapped out their interview.

  It was an interview for the ages. Stan went back to Billy’s childhood, asking him about his move to the peninsula from Torrance; the reactions of his parents and grandparents to the move; what it was like to be the only black kid in one of America’s richest suburbs, and in addition to possess extraordinary athletic skills.

  “When did you know how good you were?” asked Stan.

  “When I was six,” Billy deadpanned, and he was serious.

  They moved into the territory of Desiree.

  “Why did you marry an adult film star?” asked Stan.

  “Dude,” said Stan, “because I could, ya know. Because I could. Because I was Billy Boswell. I don’t mean that like it sounds, I don’t mean it like I was so full of myself. I mean it like I was in this place where nothing could touch me and I was just gonna push the limits. It’s hard for people to unnerstan’ what it’s like when the world just rolls the red carpet out for you. I had you guys, the press, all over my shit, but what did they want out of me? They wanted me to play the game. To dance the jig. Fuck that. So I married this broad to just kinda say to `em, hey, if you’re gonna write all this shit about me, then here’s some real shit you can write about. Why not?”

  “Do you ever want to be a parent?” asked Stan.

  “Hell yes,” said Billy. “I come from a big family. Family is it for me. But I can’t never find a woman who loves me for me, and the way my life is, being a dad wouldn’t be fair to a kid now. So I won’t get married and have children until my career, all this craziness, breaking these records and all of it, is done with.”

  “George Brett once said he couldn’t find a - quote - ‘nice girl’ while he was playing,” said Stan.

  “Yeah,” said Billy. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Guys like George, superstars, people who live the life, they’re like the only ones who can understand what it’s like to live like this.”

  “Can the fans ever understand, or appreciate you?” asked Stan.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Billy. “I mean, I know they get The Show. I hear that, believe me, and I appreciate it. But off the field they can’t, it’s not possible. It’s not possible for an average guy with his wife and kids to know about the money, the temptation, the pressure to perform, to live up to what I’ve done. Dude look what I’ve done! That’s a 600-pound gorilla. Do you know that? I got news for America, I’m a human being. Someday, and it’s not all that far away, I’m not gonna hit 60 homers and .350 and win the Gold Glove and be the MVP. My skills will deteriorate. I will get old. It happened to my old man. What will the fans say about me when I’m not a great player anymore, when it’s time to retire, when I have deteriorating skills on the field? You know somethin’, I’m almost lookin’ forward to it, dude. I mean, getting older, bein’ in my 40s, finding a wife, having a family. Not living my life in an arena anymore.”

  “Hey Billy,” said Stan.

  “Yeah Taylor,” said Billy.

  “Is that why you invited me to meet you at a strip club?” asked Stan. “To see you in an unreal environment? To see this life you lead and try to explain the unexplainable?”

  Billy Boswell stared at Stan. He pulled a can of Copenhagen out and popped in a chew, then offered the can to Stan.

  “Quit five years ago,” said Stan.

  Boswell worked the chew, spit into a trashcan and looked at Stan.

  “You’re a pretty sharp motherfucker,” he said.

  Two hours after they entered the office, Stan and Billy finished the interview and went back out to the dance area. Howard Stern was still there, partying with Bobby Bonnet, Matt, Brad, Tim and a gaggle of beauties.

  “I hate to think what my credit card bill’s gonna look like,” Stan told Brad.

  “Expense it,” said Brad. “Shit, you’re doing business, you just interviewed Billy Boswell.”

  “You know what,” said Stan, “it might fly, but I can’t try something like that. I gotta build some insurance at the paper.”

  “In that case,’ said Brad, “you got a big-ass bill on your hands.”

  Wishborn was not through with Stan. He came into the press box at Shea Stadium the next night, and saw Stan’s open brief case. Stan was conducting an interview on the field. In his brief case, Stan had an expense sheet, listing some dinners and a few other legitimate road expenses. The sheet was already signed. He also had a credit card slip from his $2,000-plus evening at Scores. That was not listed on the expense report. Wishborn took the sheet and the credit card slip, and made copies on the copy machine in the Mets’ press box. He kept the copies, putting the originals back in Stan’s brief case.

  Back in L.A., Wishborn added the strip club bill to Stan’s expense sheet, listing it under “RESEARCH.” He stapled the copy of the $2,000 credit card receipt to the back of the sheet, and left it in the in-box of the paper’s accountant. Stan was usually a few days late on handing his expenses in. Before he actually, did, he was summoned to the old man’s office.

  Dwyre was straight to the point.

  “I can’t keep you,” he told him. “You’ve been on a probation period with this job, the column, and it’s obviously not something you’re prepared to handle.”

  “What?” Stan asked, incredulously. The blood was rushing to his brain, clogging him with intense stress.

  “It’s not for everybody,” said Dwyre. “A man starts making good money, he’s on the road, he’s interviewed and getting attention, and it takes discipline to keep your head in those situations. I just can’t have somebody representing the Los Angeles Times like this.”

  “Please tell me what you’re talking about?” pleaded Stan.

  “2,000 bucks at a strip club, expensed,” said Dwyre. “That’s disgusting. I mean, I’m not sure I can have an employee of mine spending 2,000 bucks at a New York strip club. I suppose I’m just old fashioned. But to expense it, that’s the last straw - .”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Stan.

  “That, plus missing deadline on the Lakers, the missed flight to Pittsburgh…” he said. “Stan, when this newspaper sends an employee on the road, that employee has to make his appointments. You’re a grown man, and I can’t operate a paper if I don’t know if I can rely on a man to get the job done.”

  “Look, you don’t understand - ” interjected Stan.

  “Stan, you’re one of the best writing talents I’ve ever seen,” the man continued, “but it’s more than that. You don’t get along with people. I’ve gotten complaints. I just can’t have it.”

  Stan tried. He tried to save his job. He tried to explain that Wishbor
n hated him and was behind these incidents. The more he opened his mouth, the more he realized he sounded like a conspiracy theorist. He might as well have gone off a tangent about the C.I.A. and the grassy knoll. Wishborn and Painter planted the complaints, but Stan having knowledge of this fact was of no value. The old man had made his decision, and that was that.

  It was the last weekend of August, 2001. Stan drove back to Redondo, but did not have the heart to tell Michelle what happened. Thank God Kaitlyn was visiting her mother in Walnut Creek. He cried like a baby. He bought a ticket to see the film “Pearl Harbor”. He sat in a lonely corner of the theatre and quietly wept, not even watching. He left the theatre, bought a six-pack of Coors, and went home.

  Michelle met him with an ear-to-ear smile, dressed in dazzling lingerie. Candles were all over the house. A bottle of red wine sat on the table. She was planning to give him a sexual adventure.

  “I got fired today,” he said.

  Michelle was stunned but tried to put a nice face on it.

  “We’ll get by,” she said. “I love you and that’s what matters.”

  Stan drank his beer and cried some more. He knew that this relationship would not survive this test. Suddenly he wanted to stay with Michelle. Her undisclosed past was of no importance at this moment. He needed allies. He needed somebody who loved him.

 

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

  “Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence.

  Talent will not: Nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent.

  Genius will not: Unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.

  Education alone will not: The world is full of educated derelicts.

  Persistence and Determination alone are Omnipotent!”

  --Calvin Coolidge