Finding Tim
A Fourth Alternate Reality

 by: Charlie

© 2005-2008

 

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Episode 48
Judo

There were four times in our day that Tim and I actually had time for some kind of meaningful conversation: Lying in bed at night as we drifted off to sleep–given that other activities didn’t intrude, as they often did; standing in the shower in the morning–given that other activities didn’t intrude, as they sometimes did; eating dinner; and driving around in the car.  For many folks a fifth time would have been as they lay in bed in the morning getting ready for the shower, but you can guess how conversational I would’ve been at that time of day–particularly given the time that Tim got us out of bed!  Sometimes on Saturday or Sunday morning we got some nice time to talk before we got out of bed, but usually Tim was wide awake patiently, or impatiently, waiting for my eyes to open, so he could bound out of bed, pull me to the shower, and be able to claim that he had not moved before I woke up!  It’s probably a good thing that we first met in a camp situation in which a bell announced the arrival of the new day–for morning people as well as night people; that bell masked some deep differences.  By the time Tim and I realized how deep they were, we were so madly in love that it was too late.  Now we both had to live with each other.  We’re happy to.

 

One morning in the shower–I think it was a Saturday because we weren’t hurried–Tim commented, “Jim’s a lucky son-of-a-bitch.”

 

“Why so?”

 

“It isn’t fair that he could decide two weeks before the Olympic Trials that he would try out and then actually make the team, and get a medal.  He simply disproves everything I’ve ever believed and taught about the dedication and support required for athletic success.”

 

“The exception proves the rule.”

 

“Whatever, exactly, that means.  You’re not supposed to go to the Olympics on luck, but on sweat and determination.”

 

“You had just as much luck as Jim.”

 

”What do you mean?  I worked my ass off.  Every fucking day.”

 

“Are you telling me that you just have a little old normal body, and that anybody who wanted to, and was dedicated enough, could be an Olympic champion, or at least an Olympian?”

 

“Well, no.”

 

“And the level of dedication and determination that you bring to things can be achieved by anyone?”

 

“Billy did.”

 

“He’s as much of a freak as you are.  You’re two of a kind.  Name someone else.”

 

“I can’t.  You know it.  I’m sure there are some, in most sports.  But you’re right, Billy and I are exceptions; freaks if you like.”

 

“I like freak, because it stresses how far outside the normal range you are. You are, in fact, beyond the abnormal range in the ability to put aside all distractions, virtually for years on end.”

 

I continued, “And Hal’s a freak–legs like his aren’t normal.  And his love of running–which he discovered in just a couple of days of you and Tom pushing the Hell out of him–that love isn’t normal.  Paul’s a freak: His power to weight ratio is off the charts.  He has the strength of a heavyweight, and he wrestles at one of the mid-weights.  Where does that power come from?  Some abnormal gene somewhere.  And that bring us to Jim.  He’s a freak just like the rest of you, but he’s unique in his own way.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“It’s his ability to drive his body with his mind.  It’s as if he has some special kind of adrenalin; when his mind turns it on, look out.  You saw two of these freaks come head to head at the Olympics: Paul of the super-strength and Jim of the ability to use his mind to draw on strength reserves most people can’t touch.  Head to head you had the battle of the titans in Mexico.”

 

“That’s an unusual insight, Charlie.  And you’re just as much of a freak: In your case it’s your ability to love.  We all know that your love for me is what drove your archery, most athletes love a wife, spouse, lover, someone.  But they can’t, or don’t, turn that love into Olympic gold.  But you did.”

 

“I’ve never thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right.”

 

“I see a good story coming out of this conversation.  Shall we invite Bill to write it?”

 

“Do you really think there’s a story here?  I just thought it was an interesting insight.”

 

“Everybody wants to be a winner, and everybody wants to know why other people are winners.  And especially they like to be told that they really haven’t got a chance because they aren’t freaks.  It’s a great excuse for laying on your ass and not getting out and exercising.  I think it’ll make a good story; one that sells.”

 

It did make a good story.  This was Bill’s senior year at Missouri, and he was now writing professionally.  His connections at the Chicago Tribune had made it possible for him to move beyond being a student reporter, and he was making a pretty good income–for a student.  The Journalism School was supporting him by letting him work class assignments and other student responsibilities around the need to be present for good stories.  Luckily, most big sports stories are on the weekend, so he could make it work. 

 

Bill came up to Grand Forks to interview Tim and me, and then headed for Michigan to interview Jim and Paul.  He combined a trip to talk to Hal with a trip to Norman, Oklahoma, to interview the Oklahoma football coach, Bud Wilkinson, for a completely different story.  It took him a month, but he wrote a good story under the title, “Living at the Edge of the Bell Curve.”  It was subtitled “Are Olympic Medalists All Freaks?”  His answer was, essentially, “Yes.”  The real success of his story was his ability to deal on a very personal level with Tim, Charlie, Hal and Jim, from Camp White Elk, and to add in Billy and Big Paul as well.  All of that group had greatly endeared itself to the sports public at the Olympics, and the public was eager for personal stories about them.  Bill had access that other reporters could only drool over, and he didn’t hesitate to exploit it.

 

The story generated a response from an unexpected quarter.  Master Kodakai, the Sensei of the leading judo dojo in Detroit, issued a challenge to Jim.  There had been a section of Bill’s article in which Jim talked about his refusal to deal with opponents who didn’t come at him head on–directly.  The feint, the sneak attack, the surprise move, only infuriated Jim.  He responded by waiting for his moment and forcing the head on move.  Only Big Paul’s head on approach, power to power, overcame him.  Jim had been referring to different wrestling techniques, but it was easy to see how the Oriental martial arts folks could have taken the comments as a direct challenge to their form of person to person combat.

 

So there it was, the judo master of Detroit, who had a considerable following, was challenging Jim to a match–no rules, except the generally accepted courtesies that applied to both sports: no attacking below the belt, no attacks intended to do physical harm (e.g. blows to the eyes, ears, etc.).  It was a most unusual challenge, in that the martial arts, including boxing and wrestling, generally stayed within their own sports for competition.

 

There was a certain logic to the challenge, however.  If you are a wrestler, and can only enter into competition (or combat) with other wrestlers, is your training worth anything?  Judo is often portrayed in use against untrained persons, usually very strong men, and the big, untrained guys always get beat.  But what about real life?  Master Kodakai was essentially taking Jim’s comments quoted in Bill’s article as a catalyst for a cross-sport contest.

 

Master Kodakai was about ten years older, twenty pounds lighter, and about two inches shorter than Jim.  Applying the conventional wisdom–that judo trumps traditional forms of combat and size doesn’t do the big guy much good–Jim was warned that he would get creamed.  That was certainly the consensus of the Detroit sports columnists.  The challenge had been issued in the newspaper, and Jim responded by telephoning one of the Detroit Free Press columnists who had been most adamant that Jim didn’t have a chance.  The Free Press was delighted to sponsor the event, and it was scheduled for about a month away in a city arena just inside the inner suburban fringe.

 

Racial undertones immediately surfaced.  The judo establishment of Detroit was essentially suburban and white.  Wrestling was a mixed bag.  The suburban schools had wrestling teams, but so did the inner city schools.  Inner city enthusiasm for boxing spilled over to wrestling but not the Oriental martial arts.  Jim was white, but the black kids of the city identified with him from the Olympics, and from his appearances at a number of schools in the city, all of which were overwhelmingly black.

 

Then Master Kodakai’s dojo fueled the fire by planning a victory celebration at a city park about four blocks from the arena.  I honestly think that the park was picked from a map without any thought of the racial considerations involved, but it was black kids’ turf, and the suburban kids in their white judogi (judo practice uniforms) weren’t going to go down well.  There was considerable speculation that the suburban kids would have to fight their way into the park, and suggestions from the other side that that’s exactly what they would do if they had to.

 

There would be a couple of preliminary judo matches before Jim and Master Kodakai squared off, as well as a couple of high school wrestling matches–featuring the champions from the four high schools nearest to the arena.

 

The big night came, heralded by wonderful newspaper publicity, brisk ticket sales (it was supporting a local Detroit charity), and mostly unspoken racial animosity.  The Gang came en masse–even Tina and Merle, who had been looking for an opportunity to reconnect with the Gang.  One look at the arena told the story.  It was roughly divided in half, with the north and west sides filled with judo enthusiasts, all wearing their judogi and variously colored belts.  Virtually to a man–very few women–they were white.  Opposite them was a mixed crowd more black than white, but plenty of both.  They were almost as consistently uniformed as the judo adherents: except the uniform was scruffy jeans, scruffier tee shirts, sneakers–almost guaranteed to be in disrepair–and long hair–including many, many Afros, which were still new enough to be considered a threat by kids whose hair wouldn’t let them grow an Afro!  It looked like a ticking bomb, and there were enough police around to insure that it had a good chance of going off!

 

Tim and I sat about twenty rows back amongst the wrestling contingent.  We were glad to see that this group was racially mixed, but there was no love expressed for the kids from the burbs who were invading city turf, in their stupid little bathrobes and belts.  Tim got a chuckle out of the jeans-clad kid that expressed that sentiment.

 

Master Kodakai made his entrance, and that is exactly what you would have to call it.  He had an entourage of about 15, all wearing black belts and looking very serious and almost threatening.  Master Kodakai was clearly a favorite among the judo contingent, and they cheered wildly and long–till finally the officials had to ask for quiet.  It didn’t come until Master Kodakai rose and signaled the troops to be silent.  It was eerie–almost as if it had been rehearsed.

 

Then Jim was announced.  He wandered in from the back, coming down the aisle right in the middle of the wrestlers.  He wore jeans, sneakers, and a dirty tee shirt–but one that had been specially printed for the evening.  On the back it said, simply, “JIM” and on the front, not very large, was a picture of an Olympic silver medal.  Jim was met with wild cheering.  He was, after all a Michigan boy who had done well.  His entourage consisted of five people: Big Paul, Hal, and three black kids from one of the local high schools.  They were dressed just like Jim, with the same tee shirts.  Jim and Master Kodakai met in the middle of the ring, and the referee laid out what rules there were.  Then they went back to their corners.  Master Kodakai carefully took off his judogi and belt, folded them, and handed them to one of his assistants.  He was now bare chested showing off a well muscled body and biceps to dream of.

 

Jim casually stripped off his tee shirt and flung it into the crowd revealing a hard body but not the showy muscles of his rival.  Then the jeans came off, revealing tight shorts coming just above his knees.  The jeans were flung into the crowd, along with the sneakers and socks.  Big Paul and one of the high school kids each had a pile of “JIM” tee shirts and they were tossed out as well.  Jim’s crowd handling was well planned, and paid off, big time, as we would soon learn.

 

The referee blew his whistle for the match to start, and he headed for a neutral corner–suspecting that feet were going to be flying and not wanting to be in the way.  Jim stepped forward about four steps and was met by Master Kodakai’s foot, flying straight for his face at an unbelievable pace.  It was the first of two crushing knock-out blows of the evening.  The kids in their judogis were half on their feet, and a shout was just starting when the unbelievable happened.  Jim moved ever so slightly and let Master Kodakai fly past.  He’d been so close that had there been a blade attached to the Master’s heel Jim could’ve shaved.  The judogis sat down, and the tee shirts were up and shouting, as Master Kodakai landed on the mat, flat on his ass.  He recovered well, and soon had twisted his legs around and was seeking to trip up Jim.  Jim was dancing around his feet, like he was playing hopscotch.  He soon backed away, Master Kodakai stood, and they were ready for whatever would be the next attack.  Jim was dangerously close to the Master, and we all feared a blow from his foot.  It came, a terrific kick, from a standing position just two and a half feet away from Jim.  The second crushing blow of the match.  Again the judogi were on their feet beginning to cheer the knockout blow, delivered against an opponent who was too stupid to stay out of the way of a judo expert’s feet.

 

Jim’s hand moved so fast I don’t think anybody in the arena saw it.  But they saw what happened next.  Master Kodakai’s ankle was firmly grasped in Jim’s left hand and Master Kodakai was hanging upside down by his right leg.  He tried to kick with his left leg, but it was easily deflected by Jim’s right hand.  It was an amazing show of strength for Jim, but at that moment his adrenalin was flowing at such a rate that he could’ve had the center for the Detroit Lions hanging there and he wouldn’t have let go.  He dropped his hand a little and banged Master Kodakai’s head on the mat.  He asked, quite politely, “Are you finished?”

 

“No.”  And he made a huge effort to grab Jim’s leg and pull him over.  It got him bounced on the floor a second time, much harder.

 

“Now?”

 

“No.”

 

This time Master Kodakai must have thought he was a pile driver, he was banged on the floor so hard.

 

“Is the match over?” asked Jim.

 

“Yes,” came Master Kodakai’s answer.

 

Immediately Jim set the Master down, bowed to him, and graciously helped him up.  Then Jim vaulted out of the ring and into the mass of humanity that was slowly realizing that Jim had just scored an absolutely stunning victory, and was moving through the crowd shaking every hand in sight, and hugging everybody he could reach.  After about five minutes of this he worked his way back to the ring, where the officials were simply watching the chaos in front of them.

 

On the other side of the arena there was simply stunned silence.  It wasn’t simply that their hero had been beaten, it wasn’t simply that it had happened in less than a minute, it was the way he had been bounced on the mat like a rubber baby doll.  The defeat was staggering. 

 

Jim signaled for quiet, and finally got it.  The referee took his hand and raised it in a rather redundant gesture of victory.  Jim took the microphone and spoke to the crowd.  “Thank you all for coming and supporting me.  Ain’t it great to be from Michigan?”  This was met by whoops and cheers.  “Listen up, now.  About four blocks north is a little park, and they have a victory celebration planned there.  Well, I won the victory, and I’m inviting everyone here to my victory celebration. But...”

 

He paused to let the crowd quiet down a little.  “Listen up, here.  But, I expect everybody at the victory celebration to be well behaved.  And here’s how we’re going to start.  See those guys over there, in those white judogis?  No, they aren’t bathrobes, they’re judogis.  I want each one of you to shake the hand of at least two people wearing judogis before you leave the arena.  Pat them on the back.  Say ‘Hello.’  Try to get to know them.  But whatever you do, don’t leave this room without shaking those two hands.  I’ll see you at the park.  And I’m going to stay at the park and shake every hand in sight, as long as people are well-behaved.”

 

Master Kodakai had pulled himself together at this point; his pride was completely wounded, but his body wasn’t.  And his brain and good sense were working as well.  He took the microphone from Jim, and repeated Jim’s instruction about shaking hands.  Nobody in a judogi was to leave without shaking the hand of someone in bluejeans.  If they weren’t willing, they were to remove their belts at once.  There’s something to be said for the discipline of the martial arts.  Master Kodakai was listened to, even in humiliating defeat.  Jim and the Master led the handshaking, as they both shook hands and then bowed to each other, shaking hands again as they came up. 

 

Then Jim vaulted out of the ring again, this time to the north, into the waiting hands sticking out of judogis.  He shook hands like a politician.  Had there been babies to kiss, he would have.  Paul, Hal, and the other kids in “JIM” tee shirts, headed out through the crowd of judogis.  I hoped that we would all be able to find each other in the mob at the park.

 

And there was a mob in the park.  The various dojos in the city had brought lemonade and cookies for their victory celebration.  Black faces rather than black belts predominated in the crowd, but the refreshments were passed out to all who wanted them.  The mob milled around till after eleven, but by then more than half had drifted away.  Jim did shake every hand offered, and a huge percentage of the crowd took him up on the offer. 

 

About 11:30 the police officer who seemed to be in charge of the police contingent walked over.  “We were afraid we were going to have trouble on our hands this evening.  This crowd had all the ingredients of a major riot.  We had one car rolled over, about six arrests for drunk and disorderly, a few fights, only one seemed to be racially motivated.  All in all a very quiet night for Detroit.  You seemed to work magic.  It might’ve been nice, when you talked to the crowd, to ask them to leave the alcohol at home.  There was quite a little being poured into that lemonade!”

 

“If I’d said that, I’d have lost all credibility.  Those kids were going to drink, and they weren’t going to pay any attention to anybody who was going to tell them not to.  But they know what it means to be well-behaved.  And they were.  They saw me as one of them.  In fact, I worked very hard this evening to create that image–I don’t normally wear torn jeans and dirty tee shirts.  I talked to them as one of them.  And they listened.

 

“And then you guys–the cops, the bad guys in their terms–got it right.  As long as they behaved you didn’t worry about the age of the drinkers.  Hell, you could’ve arrested 2,000 of those kids tonight for violation of our alcohol laws.”

 

“We’d have had a riot on our hands.”

 

“Bingo!  Instead we had well-behaved kids.  I don’t know how it would’ve turned out if I’d lost.  But they were happy that I won, and celebrating isn’t rioting.  What a night!”

 

“It was,” said the officer.  “We need you around more often.”

 

“I don’t think the judo dojos have any plans to invite me back.”

 

“No, I think not.  They’re still trying to figure out what hit them. Frankly, so am I.  I’ve seen Master What’s-his-name before.  He’d good.  Damn good.  I’m not sure whether you had more luck than good sense.  But if I was you, I wouldn’t be looking for a rematch.”

 

At this point Bill walked up.  “Jim, the Free Press has a 3:00 a.m. deadline to make the morning sports page.  Every sports reporter on the paper that could get away this evening was here, and they’ve all filed stories.  Do I get a scoop?”

 

“What could I possibly tell you that would be different from what the others are writing?”

 

“How you did it.”

 

“You think there’s a secret; something that I could just explain in a few words, and you get your scoop.”

 

“Absolutely.  I know you.  You didn’t walk into that ring unprepared.  You aren’t so dumb as to just stick your head in the way of those flying feet and hope for the best.  Now, give.”

 

The cop stood there listening, and then said, “I assume that you know this guy, and he seems to know you.  Are you going to answer his question?  And do I get to listen, or do I have to read it in the newspaper tomorrow morning?”

 

Jim said, “OK.  Yeah, I was ready.  Master Kodakai is very popular.  Many of his matches have been videotaped.  I’ve watched almost sixty of those tapes.  I was pretty certain that he’d telegraph his moves, if I just knew what to look for.

 

“I didn’t have to watch much before I was pretty sure that I was going to be greeted by his flying kick to the head.  It’s devastating, but not for the reason you think.  Watching the videos I realized that most of his opponents were ready for the kick, and ducked it fairly easily.  But they weren’t ready for the knee.  You see, when the foot comes flying at you, the other foot is held back by bending the knee.  The knee then sticks out about eight inches beyond the leg.  When you duck the foot you get hit by the knee.  I’ll be willing to bet that even when it’s the knee, the audience–and even the guy hit–thinks he was hit by the foot–that he didn’t duck in time. 

 

“The secret of missing the knee is knowing which side is going to be up when he flies at you.  If his left side is up, the toes of his kicking foot will be toward your left, and that’s where the knee will be.  You must duck right.  If his right side is up, you must duck left.  Get it wrong and you lose.  By the time he’s in the air you have to be moving, and it’s too late to decide which way to move.

 

“I looked at those videos time and time again.  He launches from either foot; no clue there.  His arms seem to move at random; I couldn’t find a clue there.  Most of the videos were from the side, and I couldn’t see his eyes.  But I found a few taken from behind the opponent’s corner.  I could see his eyes. He looks to the side he is going to face!  It’s consistent.  I was sure.  I knew that if I watched his eyes he’d telegraph his move.  And sure enough, he looked to his left tonight, that’s my right.  I had to duck left.  I did, and the toes from his bent leg, rather than his knee, brushed across my face.”

 

Bill said, “But even without the signal, you had a fifty-fifty chance of ducking to the right side–I mean right as in correct.”

 

“Sure, and many of his opponents do.  But they get slapped by his toes and credit the Master with a hit, even though it’s really a miss.  His toes are hard, and believe me they hurt.  But they don’t deliver a victory.  Once you have it in your head that getting hit by those toes is your win, his loss, you have the advantage.  So, instead of backing off from being hit by the flying toes, I was able to deal aggressively with his flying feet which he was swinging from where he landed on the floor.  He was ready for the fall, but he wasn’t ready for me to be ready for him.  So we were back at square one, except that now we were about two feet apart.  He had three choices: back off, use his hands in a fairly limited number of moves that he can make up close, or use the kick he did use.

 

“He knew from my comments before the match that I was ready for his hands–that I was a solid rock and wouldn’t easily yield to any judo move based on his hands and his lighter weight.  Honor prevented him from backing off, so the kick was the almost inevitable next move.  But he has two feet, and they’re equally dangerous.  Again, if you watch his tapes you’ll see he telegraphs his choice of foot.  The shoulder of the kicking foot drops slightly before the kick.  He’s consistent, 100% of the time.  It’s part of the move.  Drop the shoulder to get balance for the kick. When his shoulder dropped, I shifted my weight and moved my hand to catch his foot.  I could’ve been fooled, and if I had been, it would’ve been messy.  I’d have had to try a wrestling hold, and I’m sure he was ready for all of them.  But once I had that ankle it was all over.  He was off the ground; my right hand protected me from his loose foot; and bouncing him prevented him from using his hands effectively.”

 

Bill asked, “You took this match pretty seriously, didn’t you?”

 

“Flying feet are serious.  Master Kodakai was being very careful not to deal blows that might bring serious injury.  He’s good, and he knows what he’s doing.  I could tell that from the videos.  But you don’t want to own the body part that those feet connect with, even if you are going to survive.”

 

“Do you think the Master put the same effort and research into this match?”

 

“Well, I had a big advantage.  There’s a lot of video footage of the Master available.  There isn’t much of me.  I guess you could find video of most of my Olympic matches, and maybe a couple of others.  You’d have to ask Master Kodakai whether he watched them.”

 

“I asked him–before the match.  He didn’t watch any tapes.  He kind of laughed at the idea.  He figured that you were never going to get a chance to try any wrestling holds, so why bother to watch you wrestle.”

 

“He was right that I never got a chance to try a wrestling hold on him.  It might’ve been interesting.  But the lesson to learn is, ‘Never underestimate an opponent.’”

 

“Did you underestimate Big Paul in the Olympic finals?”

 

“Hell, no.  I’ve known for years that it would only be settled in a brute strength match-up.  Paul and I could trade falls forever.  The winner was going to come head-on and prove his mettle.  I gave it everything I had.  So did Paul.  No one would’ve been more surprised if I’d won than me.”

 

“In my last article, I called it the Battle of the Titans.  Was that fair?”

 

“Yes, it was.  And you had it right, it was my mental energy against Paul’s physical energy.  That contest lasted about twelve seconds, maybe fifteen.  In wrestling time, an eternity.  We both pushed ourselves and our muscles to the limit.  There was no holding back.  We were friends, but we knew that this was our big test.  And then, with three seconds to go, Paul put it to me. It wasn’t a lunge; it wasn’t luck; he didn’t–and couldn’t–take some unfair advantage; he simply overpowered me.  He beat me fair and square.  If ever a gold medal was honestly won, that was it.”

 

“And you two are still best friends?  You harbor no resentment of his having taken away your gold medal?”

 

“It was never my gold medal.  It was always his to lose.  And he didn’t lose it.  But I made him use every ounce of his being to get it, and I’m proud of that.  And because of that, Paul can be proud of his medal.”

 

The cop was still standing there, having listened to every word with rapt attention.  Now he spoke, “Master What’s-his-name never knew what hit him.  Bill, I hope you can tell this story well.  A lot of people ought to hear it.  It’s sport at its best.”

 

And that was the title of Bill’s story, “Sport at Its Best.”  And he gave Officer Michael Hanranhan, Sergeant of the Detroit Police Department, full credit, not only for titling the article, but for presiding over a wonderful police effort to both keep order and relate to the community.

 

It was inevitable that the big story would be written by Bill, and it got pretty wide circulation.  Mike was there, and took some pretty good photos; one appeared with Bill’s story.  But guess what?  The surprise success belonged to Merle!  He did a series of quick charcoals of Jim:  leading up to the match, during the match, and in the celebration following.  The Detroit News picked them up and featured them–and Merle–in their weekend Art Section a week after the match.   Then they hung in the New York gallery where Merle worked for about two months, and then they were released for sale.  There were twenty of them, and the gallery listed them for $2,000 each–a price so high Merle was afraid they would never sell and that he’d never see a penny from them.  However, a wealthy Detroit collector had followed them after they were published in the News and bought them all–the day they went on sale.  After the gallery got their 30% Merle was left with $28,000 and thought he’d died and gone to heaven–with his charcoal set at his side. 

 

An art critic in New York had written about the tremendous power that was portrayed with such simple line.  Merle had told Tina, “Hell, I had to do them with simple line because I didn’t have time for anything complex.  The match lasted just over a minute and I did three in that time.  I did a little touching up later–but mainly of the background.  The figures were left pretty much as they had been drawn in twenty seconds.  I’m amazed that anyone wanted them.  Can you imagine paying $2,000 for a picture that had been drawn in twenty seconds?”

 

Tina simply said, “Have you tried to convert that into an hourly rate?  It’s a little over a third of a million dollars an hour.”  I think the Gang will be jealous when they hear this story.

 

Tim and I had largely been spectators the whole evening.  Like all of the Gang–and they all admitted it afterwards–we were worried about Jim’s chances of success going into the match.  We admired his entrance, and thought the tee shirts were an elegant touch.  But none of that wins athletic contests.  We froze with the flying feet, as did everyone on our side of the house, and we rose and cheered with relief when the feet missed.  And then, all of a sudden, it was over.  It took quite a while for that reality to set in.  Then we were on our feet, like several thousand others, screaming ourselves hoarse.  We shook hands with bathrobe-clad kids, worked our way to the park, drank lemonade (we were able to find a couple of batches than hadn’t been spiked with vodka), and drifted off with the Gang as Jim told his story to Bill and the cop.  The high point of our evening?  We weren’t recognized!

To be continued...

 

Posted: 06/27/08