by J. R. Rain
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The End
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Mad Dog
“Mad Dog! You’re late, we go on the air in five minutes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Vince Purdy, your co-anchor. We’ve spoken a few times now over the phone.”
“Are you a fan? You want my autograph? Because if you do it ain’t worth a damn anymore. I’m all washed up. I’m through.”
“Well, Mad Dog, you’re not through just yet, because if you’ll recall I’m the one who convinced ESPN 5 to give you a job. And believe me, it wasn’t easy. Uh, you have no idea who I am do you?”
“Not if my life depended on it. But I do recall I have a gig at this...ping pong tournament.”
“Racquetball, Mad Dog. This is a racquetball tournament, and you and I are going to broadcast the championship game live on ESPN 5. I’m the play by play man, and you’re the color commentator.”
“You know, Vanna....I used to be a football color man—”
“Vince, the name’s Vince.”
“Vince/Vanna who the hell cares. As I was saying, I used to be the best color man football had ever known or heard. I had my own All Mad Dog yearly awards, my own Sega video games, books, my own underwear and sock clothing line. I was world famous. I had it all. But then...then it was all taken away from me. Oh, God, my life is ruined!”
“Uh, Mad Dog, have you been drinking a little of the bubbly?”
“Bubbly? You call it bubbly? Ha! It’s liquor, my boy, and I’ve been drinking it straight from the bottle for the past two days. In fact, I got a little of it stashed away right here in my coat pocket. And you would too if suddenly all that you knew and loved was ripped away from you by those sons-of-bitches.”
“Come on, Mad Dog, it was hardly ripped away from you. Those politically incorrect slurs you unleashed during the Super Bowl broadcast were heard world wide, by an estimated one billion viewers. Your bosses really had no choice but to let you go. However, their loss is our gain. I think you will make a fine racquetball commentator. And speaking of racquetball, we will be going on the air live in one minute, if you would please step this way, Mad Dog....”
* * *
“Hello, folks, this is Vince Purdy here, bringing to you exciting racquetball action. Tonight, Jake ‘The Rake’ Thompson will be battling Rich ‘The Fish’ Johnson in a championship game that will determine this year’s top ranked male racquetball athlete. As an added bonus we have none other than the one and only Mad Dog in the booth with us, here to add some color to the sport of racquetball. Mad Dog, are you as excited as I am to be broadcasting so important a racquetball match?”
“I’m tingling, Vance. I feel goofy all over. How long do these things last anyway?”
“Well, Mad Dog, these things usually last one hour. Now, Mad Dog, do you play any racquetball yourself?”
“Are you kidding? I used to have a real life. I was buddies with the world’s greatest and richest pro athletes. Women threw themselves at me. Or at least one did...come to think of it, she might have tripped...but by golly she did land on top of me! In other words: no, I do not play racquetball, and up until one day ago I had never even heard of the damn sport, and what the hell kind of nickname is ‘The Rake’?”
“Uh, he’s called that because he’s rather slim, and because, well, you know how when you rake up leaves....?”
“Yeah....”
“He sort of plays like that—he rakes up the ball!”
“Dear God, help me. This isn’t happening. Please tell me I’m dreaming.”
“Har har, Mad Dog. You have always been known to be such a kidder, and now I get to witness the classic humor first hand, I must the luckiest broadcaster in the world.”
“The Rake is no nickname. In fact it is a very stupid nickname. Now, The Snake is a very good nickname, ole Ken Stabler, the famous left handed quarterback out of Oakland used to throw that damn football so quick that his hand looked like a striking cobra. Now, Vern, that is a nickname. I won’t even ask what ‘The Fish’ means.”
“I hear that when he sleeps at night his cheeks puff out like a blowfish.”
“I didn’t need to know that, I mean I really didn’t need to know that. Where’s the cheerleaders? At least they’ll be something to look at during this nightmare hour.”
“No cheerleaders, Mad Dog. Just us and the crowd.”
“Then where’s the goofy mascots? At least I can have a good laugh and distract myself.”
“Um, no mascots either—”
“Good God. Where’s the vendor, then? I could use some popcorn, helps clear out my colon.”
“There’s no vendor here, Mad Dog. Most of us can survive the hour without a strong need for peanuts or popcorn. Oh, good, here’s the players now. There’ll be a brief warm-up period and then this championship will be on its way. We’ll be right back folks after a word from our sponsors.”
“You call those athletes...those aren’t athletes, why they’re a heartbeat away from an sparagus stalk....”
* * *
“Okay folks we’re back—”
“Whooppee.”
“Always the joker, Mad Dog. Now, Jake has been the top ranked men’s pro player all year long, but Chris has recently won his share of tournaments, including the exciting finish at the Mrs. Field’s Cookie Bake Off And Racquetball Tournament two weeks ago, where he narrowly defeated Joe—”
“The Hoe?”
“No, Mad Dog, not The Hoe. Just Joe Wyzer.”
“I just thought that maybe there was a gardening theme going on here in Pongball, or whatever the hell you call it. Is this thing going to ever start? And where is the press box?”
“It’s starting now, and there’s no press box in racquetball.”
“You mean we’re going to be broadcasting right here, with the rest of the commoners?”
“Commoners?”
“You know, the regular folk who live their everyday lives in drudgery and despair.”
“I imagine, Mad Dog, that comments like that are what got you fired from your gig on FOX.”
“Must you keep reminding me of that! Don’t you think I’m miserable enough as it is, being forced to sit with you, broadcasting...tennis? Why didn’t you say we were broadcasting tennis? Now tennis is something I enjoy, especially watching those bosomy Spanish gals and their white little skirts—”
“Mad Dog! Mad Dog! Listen! We are not broadcasting tennis. We are here to broadcast a professional racquetball match in which the outcome will determine this year’s top rated player.”
“Bull-malardy! Look at those raquets! You mean to tell me those aren’t tennis raquets? You take me for a fool?”
“Mad Dog, those are racquetball raquets. They look similar to tennis raquets but they are in fact racquetball raquets. And by the way, no one is forcing you to be here. We offered you a job, and from what I understand we are the only ones in town who have offered you a job, so please restrain yourself and enjoy the match! Now, they have just introduced both players and Jake has won first service.”
“Can I ask one question?”
“Shoot, Mad Dog.”
“So what you’re telling me is there’re not going to be any Spanish gals prancing about in their little skirts...?”
* * *
“Har har! Did you see that, Virginia?”
“Vince...my name is Vince.”
“Whatever. The ball bounced right off his forehead—wow, I heard the smack from here! He’s going to have a bruise right between his eyes, maybe we should call him Cyclops Chris!”
“It’s called a mis-hit and they will play it over.”
“It’s also called the most exciting thing that has happened so far. Are these matches always this boring?”
“It’s only one to nothing, Mad Dog. The match has just begun.”
“Maybe so, but in football, there would have been a helmet rolling around by now, and in the least
there would be a half dozen guys with blood running down the front of their jerseys. Is there any blood in tennisball?”
“Racquetball, and yes, racquetball does have its fair share of injuries, especially with two athletes playing in so confined a space and both opponents literally rubbing elbows. And those rackets can be deadly weapons, as well. One mis-hit, and those rackets can open a wound that will need stitches.”
“Really? Hoo Hoo! Maybe we can see some of that!”
* * *
“Oh, God, yes! Vance, did you see that? He walked right over here and puked his guts out! That poor lady’s going to need a new pair of shoes. Why didn’t you tell me there was going to be some projectile puking?”
“He’s sick, Mad Dog. The word is that Chris ‘The Fish’ Johnson has a bit of the stomach flu.”
“And he’s still playing?”
“Apparently so.”
“You know, Vickie, I used to be a coach in the NFL, and let me tell you, I couldn’t pay my guys to play with the flu, especially the quarterbacks—what wusses. Now, this Chris character impresses me. He’s out there prancing around with his tennis racquet, waving it all about like a goddamned twink, and all the while he’s playing sick. Got to hand it to him. Granted, he’s not banging heads with other players in a real sport like football. But guts like that impress me, and when I say guts—”
“Yes, I know Mad Dog. We can all see what was in his guts from here.”
“Looks like he had a bit of corn from last night. Har! Har!”
* * *
“Why is that Jake character arguing?”
“He feels that Chris was in his way, and that he did not get a good view of the ball.”
“So why didn’t Jake give the sick guy a good shove in the back, or is that considered clipping?”
“I’m not sure what it’s called in racquetball, but I do know it’s not allowed.”
“What about sacking?”
“Sacking?”
“Yeah, say for instance Jake is serving the ball between those two lines and, say, he’s just standing there like a goddam statue. Could Chris run over and lay a good one on Jake—”
“Lay a good one?”
“Sack, tackle, annihilate. Now, could Chris do something like that?”
“No.”
“And if he does?”
“He just wouldn’t, Mad Dog! There’s no sacking, tackling or annihilating in racquetball. Both players try to avoid the other player, and if they do make contact it’s only by accident. Only rarely do players purposefully and wrongfully hit other players.”
“Oh, really...tell me about it, Valerie....”
* * *
“Did you see where my cap went?”
“Cap?”
“You know, the cap to my...um, drink.”
“No, I didn’t see where your cap went—”
“There. Some kid behind us has it. Hey kid—that’s my cap. Do not stick it in your mouth! Damn! Young lady, do you not have any control over this little beast?”
“Mad Dog, we’ll be back on the air in ten seconds.”
“Not until I get my cap back from this little troll....Son-of-a-whore! Look what you made me do! Now it’s all spilled and wasted. Lady, you and that demon spawn of yours owe me three dollars.”
“Go to hell, mister!”
“I’ll see you there, and your rotten kid as well!”
* * *
“Those guys can really wallop that little blue ball. Is that hard to do?”
“It takes a years of practice.”
“And tell me again why they aren’t using the fuzzy yellow balls?”
“Because this is not tennis, this is racquetball, and there aren’t going to be any robust Spanish gals prancing about in their little skirts.”
* * *
“Wow, Vince, that was some dive! Reminded me of a wide receiver going for a Hail Mary.”
“Yes, Mad Dog, that was a truly spectacular play by The Fish. Unfortunately it appears that by diving he might have re-upset his stomach, because—”
“There she blows! Har Har, that, my friend, is the definition of projectile vomiting—some of the best I’ve ever seen! By the way, what’s the score and who’s winning?”
“They have both won one a game each, and they are now playing the third game—”
“Which shall act as a tie breaker. Am I right?”
“That you are, Mad Dog. The Fish is up eleven to nine in a game to fifteen points.”
“So it’s coming down to the wire?”
“Yes, Mad Dog. Now, Chris just served a difficult drive into the right corner—”
“A serve that appears to be giving The Rake problems all day. At least I think it has, as The Rake hasn’t been raking them in as well as he probably should.”
“This is true, Mad Dog. The Fish is known for his deceptive serve, and before one knows it he’s serving a hard drive past your backhand.”
“It seems one would almost need a sort of sixth sense to predict where his serve might be going.”
“Very perceptive, Mad Dog.”
“This sport really isn’t that bad. Sort of weird, sort of polite. I still say, as I’ve mentioned earlier, that if you added some helmets and pads, put up a goal post somewhere and threw in a football, that you might really have something here.”
“Once again, on behalf of the racquetball community, I thank you for your suggestion, Mad Dog, but people enjoy the sport as it is.”
“Suit yourself.”
After the match
“Well, Vince Pretty—”
“Purdy.”
“Vince Purdy. This is my favorite bar, The Wino. Everyone here knows my name and I only end up paying for my beer about half the time, as there’s usually some fool fan who does the honors and picks up my rather large nightly tab. But tonight, the beer is on me. By the way that was quite a game. Came right down to the wire. Oh yes, mention to your racquetball superiors that a two minute warning may really enhance the game both strategically and numerically. I didn’t think The Fish was going to do it, but he really held himself together until the end. What a finish, and I especially liked how he capped his victory by launching puke like a geyser in Yellowstone.”
“I thought you would. Hey, Mad Dog?”
“Shoot.”
“Now that the game’s over and we’re off the air, what did you really think of the sport?”
“Well, if someone lacks skill in a real sport, say football, then racquetball wouldn’t be a bad way to waste your time.”
“I’d say coming from you that that’s a compliment. By the way, the initial reaction thus far of our telecast was favorable. The word is that you added color, and I mean a lot of color, that the sport of racquetball has lacked for some time. The head honchos at ESPN 5 want us to do another tournament next week in Vegas.”
“Free drinks, bosomy cocktail waitresses, gambling, and ping pong. I’m there.”
The End
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Behind the Shower Curtain
“J-J-Just whatever you decide, God, please don’t blame Jacob.”
Oh, I won’t.
“I-I mean, it’s not his fault.”
I know that.
“I guess it’s all my fault that this has happened. I really can’t believe this is how it has ended for me.”
It definitely ranks with the best of them.
“It was supposed to be funny, you know? A gag.”
Look at him.
“Where?”
Look down between your feet. You should have a clear shot of what’s happening below at this very moment. Now, does he look happy?
“No.”
Do you look happy?
“Yuck! No. All that blood....”
So what went wrong?
“It didn’t turn out very funny.”
Obviously.
“I didn’t know he was so terrified of the shower curtain.”
You’re not telling t
he complete truth.
“Okay, so he was terrified of it, but I didn’t know it was to the point where he carried a baseball bat each night when he pissed—peed—um, sorry.”
Pottied.
“When he pottied.”
HE’S EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HE’S NOW KILLED HIS SISTER. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THERAPY IT’S GOING TO TAKE TO STRAIGHTEN HIM OUT?
“...sorry.”
OBVIOUSLY THAT IS MY PROBLEM NOW, AND NOT YOURS. YOU HAVE YOUR OWN CONCERNS. TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED.
“Er, well, Jacob...”
Great name.
“I agree. Er, Jacob and I, I guess, had a pretty average brother/sister relationship. We could hate each other one moment and the next moment beat-up a friend for saying something bad about the other. He’s two years younger than me, and, uh, sometimes I take advantage of that because I am—was—bigger than he is. He’s not afraid of me anymore, though, and lately he’s been putting up a better fight. But do I need to say this? Don’t you already know all of this?”
All of it.
“Then why do I have to tell you what happened?”
YOU ARE BORDERLINE, CYNTHIA. THAT IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW. I OBVIOUSLY DO THINGS THAT YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND.
“Obviously. But what if I just told you I know it was all my fault and that I’m really sorry for doing it?”
THEN I WOULD SAY APOLOGY EXCEPTED, AND TO PLEASE CONTINUE.
“Gotcha. Okay, let’s see...oh yeah. Well, we play—used to play—gags on each other all the time. One of his favorites lately was to put a cup of water on top of a door and wait for me to open it. He never did the joke right and it used to fall on the wrong side of the door—still, he had me to the point where I was walking around the house staring up as if I was looking for the Second Coming. Sorry, bad choice of words. By the way, when is it coming?”
December 21st, 2020.