I'm Back for More Cash

by Tony Kornheiser

  I bring this up because in the instant it took me to ascertain it was a cat—not a raccoon or a rat or Dick Cheney after a power surge—there came my faithful, loving dog Maggie, tearing after the hideous fur ball like Wile E. Coyote.

  Between my yard and my neighbor’s there’s a chain-link fence, about four feet high, that the cat headed for. I’ve seen cats jump seven feet straight up, like Harrier jets, onto the limb of a tree. So a four-foot fence should have been an easy clear.

  Except the cat was too fat. It smashed into the top of the fence and slid back down—like a bad sand shot.

  In sports we call this “a momentum shift.” It now looked like Maggie had won a free meal, including wine, tax, and tip. But Maggie, dripping adrenaline, leaped for the cat and soared a foot past her target. Maggie was so discombobulated that she slipped and rolled over on her back. That split second was all the cat needed. It took off like Marc Rich.

  Now the chase was on, from backyard to front yard, through bushes, around trees. This is what a Brittany like Maggie was bred for: stalking and capturing another animal. Most of her life is spent padding around the block with a fat, bald, middle-aged man. Now she was in her element. She was going to catch this cat, shake it until dead, then roll around in its juices, perfuming herself in the glorious scent of the kill. (And let me suggest this is not exactly Chanel No. 5. Sometimes I’ve taken a big whiff of Maggie after she caught a bird, and my knees buckled. She smelled like a Dumpster after the Labor Day weekend. She always wants me to be part of her great triumphs: She brings in her gore-encrusted offerings and lays them on the porch. Like this was going to impress me, like now we should hang out and bond, have a couple of beers, chase some tail.)

  So I watched in horror as Maggie sped around the yard, searching for the cat. I listened as Maggie howled. It was between a cry and a yodel—an eerily humanlike sound. It reminded me of Fran Drescher on The Nanny.

  I wondered where the cat was; I hadn’t seen it at all. Then I glanced up at the deck in the backyard, and the cat was there lying perfectly still—just like Mindy Krefsky (but that’s another story)—on the top railing directly above the Weber gas grill in a spot that was impossible for Maggie to see.

  The cat’s scent was everywhere. Maggie flew around the yard, sniffing wildly. Once or twice she went up the deck steps and yodeled. But she never spied the cat. I looked away for fear Maggie would see me looking at the cat and follow my eyes. I didn’t want to rat out the cat. I didn’t want to be a stoolie. (Yeah, like Maggie is Lieutenant Columbo. I think I’ve seen too many dopey movies where the animals talk in the voices of Eddie Murphy and Jeff Goldblum.)

  I knew I had to do something quickly. Only two things could happen, and both of them were bad. Either (1) Maggie would catch the cat and kill it; or (2) the cat would jump on Maggie’s back and claw her eyes out like melon balls.

  But what could I do? I certainly couldn’t pick up the cat and carry it to safety. The cat would have clawed my eyes out. Besides, I had on a new Polo shirt. You ever try getting blood stains out of pique cotton?

  I tried coaxing Maggie over to me so I could grab her. But, hello, she’s a dog. A dog in maximum overdrive. I have about as much chance catching a instinct-crazed Brittany as I have of winning the Olympic gold medal in the pole vault.

  So thinking as fast as I could, I dashed into my house, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a handful of sliced Virginia ham. (Oh, please don’t tell my rabbi.)

  Maggie fell for the old pork-and-switch. She smelled the ham and came bounding over. I grabbed her collar and took her inside. What an idiot she is. Hahaha. (I may be slower than Maggie, but I guess I showed her I’m still the Man in “It’s Academic!”)

  She prowled around the house, yodeling for the cat for a while. But the scent was gone, and Maggie soon contented herself as she often does—by curling up on the couch and drooling.

  Meanwhile, the cat was still up on the deck railing above the Weber grill. I watched quietly from the kitchen window. It was a full fifteen minutes before the cat felt safe enough to leave my deck and sprint toward the fence.

  I’d been in on the whole horrifying drama. I was emotionally involved. But I also had an interest in this as a purely sporting proposition. This cat had disgraced itself on the first attempt to jump the fence. Now it had another crack. Clearly, if it couldn’t clear the fence this time, it was that much closer to that great Chinese takeout in the sky. So I held my breath as it streaked toward the fence and … crawled under on its belly.

  That cat really has to lose weight.

  Bye-Bye, Baboo

  Last week I took my sweet baboo Elizabeth up to college. Six hours on the road. Just me and her. Someone said I should “think of it as a great opportunity for the two of you to have a bonding experience.”

  I suppose—in the way that being trapped in an elevator with Chris Matthews might be a great opportunity to chew your own ears off.

  Originally this was supposed to be a family trip. All of us would go together in the Jeep. But that was before Elizabeth began packing. When she finished packing, the seats had to be folded down and the wife and son had to be jettisoned. (What’s the big deal? I slowed down first.)

  She had a trunk, three large duffel bags, one enormous suitcase the size of a full-grown deer, enough clothing on hangers to stretch from my house to Mongolia, a computer, a printer, a boombox, linens, pillows, assorted other bedding, three backpacks, and 175 pounds of shoes. (All I can figure is, when she filled out her college application, in the box where they asked what she wanted to major in, she must have written “casual footwear.”)

  The highlight of our drive was going to be “the sex talk.” I felt it was my obligation as a father to speak to my daughter about sex. I’d put it off for eighteen and a half years; the moment was at hand. I informed Elizabeth that I’d spent long, agonizing hours preparing my remarks and rehearsing to get the wording just right.

  She was mortified.

  “How long do you think this will take?” she asked fearfully.

  “If you don’t interrupt? About ninety seconds.”

  Years before, I had given her “the drugs and alcohol talk.” It was brief and to the point. And I think quite masterful actually.

  “There are drugs and alcohol out there,” I said. “You’re aware of that, right?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Don’t take them.”

  It’s not that I don’t trust my daughter. In fact, I have great confidence in her. She is competent, levelheaded, and well grounded. I remember when her mother and I walked her to her first day of prekindergarten. She was four. She had never been out of our sight before. Other children were howling at the prospect of separating from their parents—literally clinging to their parents’ legs and screaming! Not my kid.

  Elizabeth got to the steps of the schoolyard—not the steps of the actual school, mind you, the steps of the schoolyard, fifty yards from the door. She dropped my hand, turned to me, and said, “It’s okay. I can take it from here.”

  But it’s every father’s fear that his sweet baboo will get caught up in something she can’t handle, like some smooth-talking, cool-walking, hot-to-trot, wrong-side-of-the-river boy. (The exact kind of lowlife her father was.)

  Quick story: One distinguished graduate of the college my daughter attends is my friend Dick Schaap, the erudite sportscaster. The day I drove my daughter there, Dick had been asked by the football coach to say a few words to the team. I went with Dick, so the coach introduced me as well. On the slight chance I might be asked to speak, too, I prepared something from the heart: “My daughter is a freshman here. Keep your hands off her.”

  All things considered it wasn’t a bad drive. The first two hours there couldn’t have been more than five or six times that we got into shouting matches that caused me to threaten to stop the car, toss all her junk to the side of the road, and open up a Wal-Mart. One such blowup was about how many body piercings Elizabeth could get before I would re
fuse to let her back home during vacations. I said what any father would say: “Exactly one more than you have now. Or is it your goal in life to have more holes than Augusta National?”

  After that the ride improved; Elizabeth slept much of the way. Halfway up I-81 in northern Pennsylvania, she was out cold. I felt that was the perfect time to have the sex talk. Let me recap the highlights. I said, “Sex. Don’t have it.” When she awoke, near Binghamton, I told her we’d already had the sex talk and it went great.

  “I was asleep, Dad,” she said.

  “I thought that might be useful,” I said. “Because after you get married, the only times you’ll have sex, one or both partners will be asleep.”

  From there it was only thirty minutes to the college. When we got there, we drove to North Campus, where all the freshmen live. Moving in was a breeze; it took less than ten minutes to unload the car and bring everything to her room. (But then I had to settle accounts with the offensive line, which I’d dragged out of practice to lug all her stuff.)

  For a while I stood outside her door wondering what I should do now, knowing soon I would have to say good-bye and make that long drive home by myself. She’d been in my house for eighteen and a half years, and except for summer camp she’d never been away for more than a few days. The next time I’d see her wouldn’t be until Thanksgiving (unless there’s a big shoe sale at Hecht’s). As much as we’d scrapped over the years, I knew I’d miss her desperately, and at that moment our lives had changed forever.

  She came outside, saw me moping there like a lost soul, and said, “Dad, I have to unpack and arrange my stuff. I can’t keep coming down here to see if you’re all right and keep you company.”

  “So should I go?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I can take it from here.”

  The Long, Long, Long, Long Goodbye

  This book contains a selection of Tony Kornheiser’s Washington Post Sunday Style columns that ran from 1997 to 2002. This is his final Sunday Style column, which was published September 30, 2002.

  Good-bye, my friends.

  Adiós. Auf Wiedersehen. Arrivederci. Shalom. Sayonara. Bonjour.

  Bonjour means “Good day,” you idiot.

  This is a very sad time for me, saying good-bye to you, my loyal readers, after all these years. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I’ll miss you. I love you, I honestly love you.

  Oh, no, he’s not actually going to do this, is he? He’s not actually going to write one of those sappy good-bye columns?

  I remember the day the column started, November 12, 1989. I got up that morning, showered, ate breakfast, and went to the hardware store—the night before one of the porch bulbs had blown out, and I had to get a replacement; eighty watts. I prefer sixties on the porch because there’s less glare. But they were out of sixties, so I got eighties. The next day, November 13, I had to go to the dentist. Did you ever get one of those pains in one of your molars, and it’s so far back you can’t reach it, even with a pencil? So I called my dentist. It was Dr. Shapiro then, before he found out his skin was allergic to the rubber gloves.

  Is he going to go through twelve years DAY BY FREAKin’ DAY? Isn’t it enough we had to suffer through those endless columns about his dad who collected Styrofoam trays? I mean, he wrote three hundred columns about those Styrofoam trays. I wanted to call his dad and say, “Stop buying chicken, you old goat. Have a pizza delivered, why doncha?”

  Of course, I want to thank my family.

  Here it comes. His sweet baboo. Man, did he milk that kid for material. I hope her college tuition is so enormous it has to be sent up there in a Brink’s truck. He owes her that much.

  My sweet baboo. My son, Michael. My wonderful dog, Maggie.

  Not the dog!

  They were all there for me. They stood by me when the night was cold and the land was dark and the moon was the only light I’d see. But I won’t be afraid, no, I won’t be afraid just as long as they stand, stand by me.

  What about his wife? Why doesn’t he ever mention his wife? I think his friend Nancy is his real wife, don’t you? Either her or his smart friend Martha. Or maybe his friend Gino is his quote wife unquote—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  As many of you know, I’m leaving this column to take on a new challenge. I have always been about challenges. This one is formidable. I’m going to do a daily television show on ESPN.

  Television?! With that bald head and that puss? The man looks like one of those souvenir coconuts with a tiki face carved into it. This is a true story: Howard Cosell once looked at him on TV and said, “Doesn’t he realize he’s unsightly?” And Howard Cosell, you may recall, was not exactly Brad Pitt. That was ten years ago, when Tony was, um, less unsightly.

  Some people, when they become big stars, forget the people who have helped them along the way. I can assure you that won’t happen to me. My friend Nancy, my smart friend Martha, Man About Town Chip Muldoon, my editor of the last three years, Tim …

  Tom.

  … that other guy, the one with the dark hair and glasses—their faces are etched upon my mind. I’ll never forget them. And if I do, I’ll simply get my secretary to call them up on her computer list, and I’ll have my driver deliver a box of candy or something.

  Some of you have come up to me recently and said how sad you are that I won’t be writing my column anymore, because it lights up your lives. Over the years we’ve become good friends, you and I, and you’re devastated by this. You’re wondering how you’re going to cope with me not being in this space Sunday after Sunday after Sunday.…

  Can you believe this egomaniac? What a blowhard. I get the Sunday paper for the Hecht’s ads. The Post will shove something else in this space, and in two weeks we won’t even remember the bald guy’s name. Hopefully, the next guy will be funny once in a while. That’ll be new.

  Believe me, I understand. It’s tough for me, too. It’s an awesome responsibility being the funniest columnist in America.

  Yes, and that’s why Dave Barry is in 450 papers, and you’re in the Savannah Shopper.

  Of course, it’s flattering knowing that you’re going to be missed, and that no one can take your place. I guess I feel like Walter Lippmann.

  Who? That must be some old guy. Tony is always referring to old dead guys. Like we have any idea who they are. One of the reasons this column bites is because it skews so old they use it to wrap mummies.

  All I can say to you at this difficult time is that it has been an honor and a privilege to write this column for you. It was always about you.

  Spare me. Anyone have a barf bag handy?

  But all good things must come to an end. And so good-bye, farewell. If you see me on the street, please say hello. I’ll be happy to autograph something for you. Bring a camera in case you want a souvenir photo with me. I miss you already.

  Get out. And don’t let the door hit you in the behind. TV! That’s a joke. You’ll be crawling back here for work in three weeks. Maybe we can find you something in the lunchroom.

  For my uncle Arnie Allison,

  a saint,

  and

  my aunt Shirley Allison,

  who saw the best in everyone

  Acknowledgments

  My great thanks to Don Graham and Len Downie for their generosity; David Von Drehle and Gene Robinson for their supervision; Tom Shroder and Richard Leiby for their editing; Kathy Orton for pulling this book together; Tracee Hamilton for her cheerful contributions; and most of all to Jeanne McManus and George Solomon for their enduring friendship and unlimited patience.

  ALSO BY TONY KORNHEISER

  The Baby Chase

  Pumping Irony

  Bald As I Wanna Be

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TONY KORNHEISER is a sports columnist for The Washington Post. His Style column was syndicated nationwide. He brings his knowledge, opinion, and humor to a national radio and TV audience on ESPN. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his family.

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