The first public meeting for potential shareholders took place at the Monroe County Convention Center, just a few blocks south of the downtown square. Roughly three hundred people showed up, many dressed in Dodger blue and carrying signs.
When I arrived at work the next day, my editor told me to cover an upcoming protest by the DWARVES (Defenders of Wetlands, Animals, Rainforests, Vegetation, Ecosystems, and Swampland). “Ira, I’m a sports columnist. Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because everyone else is busy and it wouldn’t hurt you to broaden yourself with something besides sports.”
“Well, they’re having Red Stepper tryouts at Assembly Hall tomorrow. Couldn’t you broaden me with that assignment?”
“Baseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a
screwball can be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you
can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire’s eye or on
~ Jim Murray
“What are you teaching fall semester?”
“Apathy,” Darryl replied, with little regard for my question.
“Seriously, what are you teaching?”
“Those kids are screwed.”
“When I was a small boy in Kansas, a friend of mine and
I went fishing . . . I told him I wanted to be a real Major
League Baseball Player, a genuine professional like Honus
Wagner. My friend said that he’d like to be President of the
United States. Neither of us got our wish.”
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower
I spit Coke all over the microphone. As it shot through my nose, I slammed my cup down, gasped for breath and feebly attempted to compose myself. Jesse held up his left arm, twisting it frantically towards Darryl, the signal to take a commercial break. To me, he made a neck-slashing gesture using his right hand. I quickly tried to wipe the fizzling brown liquid off the wooden console. All the while, I was still snorting, choking, and coughing.