“Of course,” she said, and I could discern the relief in her voice.
We didn’t have sex the next day, or for the rest of our marriage. The subject never arose again.
Chapter 29
If there was a year in our marriage that was devoid of incident, letdown, despondency, disappointment, despair, it was 1999, although we were unaware that a malignant tumor was growing ominously during that time in Gillian’s colon. That would be the last year of our marriage in which there were no hospitalizations, no riveting heartache and no bad laboratory reports (even though there should have been one).
It’s a curious fact of history that soothing weather often precedes tragic developments. They said Europe was having a gloriously unprecedented mild summer before the guns erupted on the old continent in August 1914 to commence a heinously bloody conflict known as World War I. New York was clear, sunny and in the seventy-degree range on the morning of September 11, 2001, when terrorists flew two airliners into the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers and killed thousands of people.
I’ve often thought about that meteorological calm-before-the-storm phenomenon in reflecting on 1999. Literally, that year turned out to be the calm before a Category 5 hurricane struck, as we not only took that wonderful late summer vacation to picturesque locales in America and Canada but also went to England for Christmas and to Syria for the new millennium on a Middle East trip—we also visited Lebanon—that still ranks as the most culturally enlightening I’ve ever experienced.
Everything that year went smoothly, except for Gillian not getting pregnant, which was a source of quiet frustration to both of us. She had made the transition to America well. She had grown accustomed to the warm, clear Southern California climate.
“Douglas, I’m not sure I could ever go back to the gray, cold, rainy England weather,” she once said to me. “I think I’ve become spoiled. I remember in London how precious it was to all of us on a warm, cloudless day. It happened so infrequently, except in the summertime. Here it happens almost every day.”
And it seemed every day my love for Gillian grew stronger and deeper. There was nothing about her I didn’t like, and her kind heart that was on display daily in London when she worked with physically challenged older people still was on display in her new country.
I’ll never forget one day, as we were watching television in the front room of our home, one of those long-legged sac spiders was crawling across the carpet. I got up and was set to squash it with a napkin when Gillian intervened.
“Don’t kill it. It wants to live just like we do,” she said, as I protested mildly.
She took a section of a newspaper, scooped the spider up and deposited it in the backyard garden. Much to my amusement, I’d see her do that on other occasions.
Gillian wound up becoming a close friend of my stepdaughter, Leigh Anne Kelley, who, along with my sister, introduced her to Nordstrom’s, makeup, hair salons, nail parlors and other such places. I couldn’t believe how quickly Gillian was becoming Americanized, right down to even not being timid about honking the horn of the car she often drove—my 1987 Lincoln Town—in frustration at an imprudent driver.
She also became close to Leigh Anne’s young daughter, Dannielle, emphasizing to her the importance of education and instilling in her a passion for academics.
Dannielle credits Gillian with her going on to become the first person in her family to graduate from college—she obtained a bachelor of science degree in English and communications from Arizona State and also received a master’s degree in public health from Virginia Commonwealth University. At twenty-four, she is now working on a doctorate at that school.
“Gillian was a tremendous inspiration in my life, and I’ll never forget her,” says Dannielle.
In the spring of 1999, Gillian had her heaviest workload at Long Beach State, taking four courses: Physiology for Therapists II, Psychosocial Aspects of Disability, Learning Principles for Therapists and Research Methods (Physical Therapy).
Early that summer she enrolled in two more classes: Early United States History and American Government. And that fall she took two more: Biostatistics and Seminar in Healthcare Issues. I doubt those studying for a bar exam put in as many hours as Gillian did for her courses. She did continue to exercise—we always jogged together, and she joined me for weight training sessions at either Frog’s or 24-Hour Fitness when she could—but that was about her only diversion. She’d stay home evenings glued to her textbooks and feverishly jotting down notes, while I’d often have dinner with my pal Don “Donnie No Win” Kramer.
Unlike my first wife, Gillian encouraged me to go out at night with my friends and never questioned my whereabouts. Of course, she had no reason to, since I never came home late.
I had changed totally. My loyalty to her always was ironclad, even though there were opportunities presented to me—an inevitability when one comes into contact with longtime female acquaintances at venues where alcoholic beverages are being served.
After Gillian had concluded summer school, we went on our fourteen-day, 4,400-mile automobile excursion around America and Canada.
I’ll never forget the prophetic words uttered by Gillian as we hiked an hour up to the Lake Louise Teahouse. As she looked down at the turquoise majesty of the famously clear lake in Banff National Park in Alberta, she said, “I’m just glad I have lived to see something so magnificently beautiful.”
I remember finding it odd that her face had a solemn expression on it, and I quickly said, “You’ll live to see a lot more beautiful things, Gillian. A lot more.”
She nodded softly and said, “I hope so, Douglas, but strange things can happen in life.”
I now wonder if she was experiencing a premonition.
Chapter 30
That vacation, which we enjoyed so much, was dramatically different from the ones we took in Europe, where we traveled by train and stayed in major hotels in major cities.
Although we did have one-night stays in two historic establishments—the Banff Springs Hotel and the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia—the rest of the time we checked into small, low-budget places like the Ranch Inn Motel in Jackson Hole, Wyoming; the Best Western Motel in Bozeman, Montana; the Super 8 Hotel in Pincher Creek, Alberta; Motel 6 in Coos Bay, Oregon; and the charming bed-and-breakfast in Fort Bragg, California, called the Lodge at Noyo River.
It was on this trip that I finally related in depth to Gillian how I got so seriously addicted to sports wagering at the rather elderly age of forty even though I knew nothing about it when I started, never even had paid any attention to it.
I told her I never had an urge to do it until the afternoon of September 9, 1983, when I was at the Caesars Palace sports book with that hotel’s boxing coordinator, Bob Halloran, who had become a good friend of mine. I was in town for the Herald Examiner covering that evening’s title fight between the champion, Aaron Pryor, and Alexis Arguello. The two junior welterweights had fought a classic the previous November at the Orange Bowl in Miami, and I had covered it for the Herald Examiner. It was a vicious brawl in which both combatants hammered each other round after round until Pryor wound up knocking out Arguello in the fourteenth round. I was ringside and saw the horrific damage that Pryor had done to Arguello. The referee finally halted the bout in the fourteenth when Pryor struck Arguello with twenty-six unanswered punches.
Doug poses for a snap with former junior welterweight champion Aaron Pryor.
I knew Arguello would be unable to recover physically and mentally from such a beating and knew he had no chance against Pryor in the rematch. I looked up at the odds of the fight and didn’t even understand the numbers. “What does minus $180 mean?” I asked Halloran, pointing to the number next to Pryor’s name. “That means you put up $180 to win $100,” he answered.
“In other words, if I put up $4,000, I’d get back $2,400,” I said, as I did the math quickly.
“Yes,” replied Halloran.
“It’s an abs
olute cinch that Pryor’s going to win…I wish I had $4,000,” I said.
“No problem,” said Halloran. “I can get you a $4,000 marker.”
I assured Halloran that I’d make good on it if I lost. But I knew I wouldn’t lose. I knew Arguello had no chance. I had seen him beaten to a pulp in Miami, and I knew he would be beaten to a pulp again. Now, you must understand that before I made that bet I had never made a sports wager in my life except as a favor for a Herald Examiner sportswriter named Larry Allen shortly before the kickoff of the 1980 Super Bowl between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Los Angeles Rams at the Rose Bowl. And even in that bet, I had no idea what I was doing—and committed a terrible indiscretion. Allen told me he wanted the Rams plus eleven and a half for $300, and so I called my tavern owner friend in Downey, Ray Ortiz, whom I knew bet football, and asked him if he’d put the bet in with his bookie, which he did. Only I didn’t convey the information to Ortiz very clearly. I’m not sure how I made the mistake, but I remember saying to Ortiz that I’ll lay the eleven and a half points, which I mistakenly thought meant taking the Rams.
So Ray Ortiz put my bet in on the Steelers, since he heard me say I wanted to lay the points. I should have told Ortiz I was taking the points and going with the Rams. I goofed it all up and realized my mistake halfway through the game when the Rams seemed destined for an easy cover. I informed Allen of my blunder, and he really got upset with me. I told him I’d make good on the bet if the Rams covered the spread, which they didn’t. The Steelers wound up winning by twelve points, and Larry Allen wound up making $300 because of my miscalculation.
As one might notice, I knew absolutely nothing about the intricacies of sports gambling. But I knew Alexis Arguello had no chance against Aaron Pryor—and he didn’t. The one-sided fight was stopped in the ninth round—and I, suddenly, was $2,400 richer. I flew my then girlfriend (Karen D.) and her two-year-old daughter over to Las Vegas, and we had a great time for the next two days, spending most of my winnings playing in the Caesars pool and even getting comped at the hotel’s ritzy Palace Court restaurant. I became absolutely intoxicated by the thrill of making so much money so quickly without having to work for it. I figured I had found an easy way to make a lot of money quickly on the side—it would have taken me more than a month to make that much at the Herald Examiner—and I immediately became hooked. Oh, how naïve I was!
Actually, I did make a lot of money in the pursuit, but I also lost a lot during the next eight years. There were a lot of ups, a lot of downs, a lot of joy, a lot of heartache. There are enough things that go wrong in life without self-inflicted aggravation like gambling. It took me eight years to learn such a painful lesson. But at least I didn’t come out of it broke or owing anyone money. I might even have wound up making a few bucks overall.
Jack Youngblood (center), a Rams defensive end who played in the 1980 Super Bowl against Pittsburgh with a broken leg, is seen with Doug. Youngblood was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 2001.
Doug with his longtime live-in girlfriend, Karen D.
I definitely came out of it with a bountiful supply of intriguing tales that Gillian found captivating, like the one I told about how an interview with Pat Riley for a Lakers program piece wound up making me $5,000 (I made $75 for the article). That came on the morning of April 3, 1985, when I spoke on the phone to Riley, who was in Denver. The previous evening, his Lakers had clinched the Pacific Division title by beating the Nuggets, and midway through the interview Riley informed me he had sent his star center, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, back to Los Angeles with a migraine headache.
The Lakers were playing the San Antonio Spurs that night in San Antonio, and the Spurs had a very good team with guys I know you’ve never heard of like Artis Gilmore, Mike Mitchell, George Gervin, Johnny Moore and others. I found out the Lakers were favored by three points. I knew the team would be drained from playing in the Mile-High City—and would have the inevitable letdown from such an emotional triumph. The game meant nothing to them, and now I discovered the team didn’t even have its most dominant performer. I bet $5,000 on the Spurs and won easily, as the Lakers were beaten 122–108. I was the first gambler in America who knew Abdul-Jabbar wouldn’t be playing.
But then a couple weeks later, in the last game of the regular season that came on a Sunday, the Lakers were playing the Kansas City Kings at Kemper Arena in Kansas City. I now perceived myself as a real wise guy and found out from a writer covering the game that Pat Riley wasn’t going to use his three best players: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Magic Johnson and James Worthy.
Once again, I had valuable inside information no one else was privy to, and I reacted accordingly. The Kings were playing their final game at Kemper Arena, since they were relocating to Sacramento, and they had a few good players on their team like Eddie Johnson, Reggie Theus, Larry Drew, Mike Woodson and Otis Thorpe. The Lakers were favored by four points, and I figured the Kings would be fired up and the shorthanded Lakers would snooze and lose as they had done for me against San Antonio.
Gambling is an insidious pursuit and grabs hold of you without you even realizing it. Call it innate greed, or whatever, but this time I upped my bet to $13,000, which in retrospect was a ridiculous amount. You always want to make more and delude yourself into thinking you always will. I went down to the Caesars Palace sports book with my ticket broker friend Doug Knittle. The game wasn’t being shown on TV in Las Vegas, but we watched the score of it stream across a digital ticker in the sports book. And, with 3:22 to go, the Kings were up 115–106, which meant I was up by thirteen points in my bet. And I was feeling terrific, set to celebrate with a few drinks.
Doug poses with Donald Sterling, owner of the NBA’s Los Angeles Clippers.
But then, a few minutes later, the next score that streamed across was 116–115 in favor of the Kings. I suddenly began feeling inexplicably uneasy and actually started to fidget. The wait for the next score was interminable, and I told Doug to call his ticket office in LA, where the game was being televised. He did, and I suddenly became downright queasy as I saw him shake his head sadly as he looked at me. “The game’s over, and the Lakers won 122–116,” he said.
It turned out the Lakers outscored the Kings down the stretch by a 16–1 margin. Pat Riley later told me that kind of game happens once a season with his team, and it had to happen when I bet $13,000 against the Lakers. I stupidly chased that bet with another $13,000 one the next night on Thomas Hearns against Marvin Hagler and lost that one, too. I sank to such depths losing $26,000 in twenty-four hours that when I got back to LA I was so much in a state of shock that I even asked my then girlfriend (Karen D.) to marry me, which she gladly agreed to do. But I never followed up on the promise, which eventually resulted in our breakup.
“It’s just hard to believe that you were once so heavily hooked on gambling,” was always Gillian’s response when I discussed the subject.
“Gillian, you have no idea,” I said. “I was so hooked on it at one time that I used to give the woman I was living with [Karen D.] money to go shopping while I watched a football or baseball game so I wouldn’t be bothered by her presence. And she later told me she once tore up three $100 bills in bitter reaction to my indifference to her during that time.”
Doug and Karen D. share a moment with hotelier Baron Hilton.
What I also remember about that vacation was Gillian’s reaction to the picturesque scenery we came across throughout it.
As we went through the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and Glacier National Park in Montana and Banff National Park in Alberta and then across the Canadian Rockies and then across Washington to the coasts of Oregon and Northern California, Gillian would gaze in wonder at the endless mountain ranges and the towering trees and the idyllic forests and the flowing rivers and the gorgeous lakes and the Pacific Ocean.
“I’m just so glad I got to see all of this,” she would say every day.
“Oh, we’re going to do this again,” I always w
ould respond.
And I figured we would.
But we never did. After that, the longest trip we took in the United States was to Fowler to visit my parents and a day visit to nearby Yosemite.
Chapter 31
I’ve always been an adventurous sort, going back to my early days in college when, on a whim, an old high school buddy named Lloyd Koski and I, one late June day in 1964, piled into my 1956 Volkswagen and departed for New Orleans without notifying our parents.
Actually, we had told them we were going to Los Angeles for a few days but, instead, decided on a destination that was more than two thousand miles away from Fresno.
We spent that summer in the Crescent City and both wound up working in a small tavern on Bourbon Street, serving beer and sandwiches and meeting a gaggle of weird people. We stayed in a small room at a run-down place on Dauphine Street called the Anchor Hotel, which catered to pensioners, midget wrestlers, ponces, spielers, prostitutes and alcoholics. The cost was a mere thirteen dollars a week, and the room didn’t have air conditioning despite the ghastly New Orleans humidity. I averaged three showers a day.
Our parents were appalled when we phoned them the first time from New Orleans.
“You come home right now!” commanded my mother, to no avail. Koski’s mother did the same.
Sure, we took a lengthy journey without our parents’ consent, but we were young and restless and anxious to assert our independence.
And what a time we had! I turned twenty-one that August 12 and wound up celebrating it with an older lady—she must have been at least twenty-five!—I met at Lucky Pierre’s, a Bourbon Street tavern brimming with women of a certain occupation in revealing apparel. It was a landmark birthday I’ll never forget. I had $165 on me when we left for New Orleans and returned more than two months later with a similar amount at a time when gasoline never exceeded twenty cents a gallon and meals seldom exceeded $1.
Between the Bylines Page 17