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Mad Dog
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This unpublished
"extra" is available exclusively online. All ideas expressed
via RACQUETBALL Online [www.racqmag.com] are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official
position of the USRA. |
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"Mad dog! You're late, we go on the air in five minutes. The match starts in ten 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 will be the color commentator." "You know, Vanna...I used to be a football color man--" "Vince, the name is 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 ... ." "Come on, Mad Dog, it was hardly ripped away from you. Those rather politically incorrect slurs you unleashed during the Super Bowl broadcast was heard world wide, by an estimated 600 million 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, they play the best out of three games. 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 to 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 did 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 be 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 cheer- leaders? 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 will 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 the one looks like a heartbeat away from an asparagus 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 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-malarky! Look at those racquets! You mean to tell me those aren't tennis racquets? You take me for a fool?" "Mad Dog, those are racquetball racquets. They look similar to tennis racquets but they are in fact racquetball racquets. 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 there's not going to be any Spanish gals prancing about in their little...." * * * "Har har! Did you see that, Virginia? The ball bounced right off his forehead--wow, I heard the smack from here! He's going to have bruise right between his eyes, maybe we should call him Cyclops Chris!" "Vince...my name is Vince. It's called a mis-hit and they shall 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 serving 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 place 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." "Good-oh! 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 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?" "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 banshee out of hell, giving it his all, 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." "Oh, yuck!" "Har! Har!" * * * "Why's 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...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 ... ! Look what you made me do! Now it's 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 mother as well." * * * "Those guys can really wallop that little blue ball. Is that hard to do?" "It takes a few 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 Hell 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 game, and they are now playing the third game--" "Which shall act as a tiebreaker. Am I right?" "That you are, Mad Dog." "So what's the score in the tiebreaker?" "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." "One would almost seem to need a sixth sense just to try and predict where his serve might be going." "Very perceptive, Mad Dog." "This sport really isn't that bad. Sort of weird, sort of too 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." * * * "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." "Vegas. Free drinks, bosomy cocktail waitresses, gambling. And ping pong--got you, racquetball. I'm there. So when are you going to teach me how to play so that I can at least pretend to know what I'm talking about...." |
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Jon Hargrove is from Placentia, California. |
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