| | | Editor's Note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.
Chapter 14
... in which our hero gets a big head but puts the Dodgers on the road to the pennant
It hasn't taken very long for my new 900 number to get flooded with calls. Everybody's got some kind of problem they need Wheelerized.
Jason Sehorn and Angie Harmon need a new house in Dallas; I hook them up with my homey Mark Cuban, who's got the skinny on the best place to look down there. The Los Angeles Xtreme needs three strippers to sit in a hot tub along the end zone; I know where to find them. Mo Vaughn needs a new doctor to sew back together his left biceps tendon, or maybe just get that halo straight on top of his head again since he's been such a bust in Anaheim; the number's 1-900-Wheeler.
I'm telling all this to my best friends Puker and Janine last night at Lore's. I figure they'll be happy for me. Hey, it's five bucks a minute. Not to mention getting the new website income rolling. Add that to what I might be able to win next month at a freestyle snowboarding competition carving up Mammoth Mountain, and that's one chunky check I can write to lead the fight against Carpel Tunnel Syndrome.
"All thanks to the new Wheeler Foundation I set up. It's all legal. That agent Arn Tellem wrote up the papers. He loves my new Xtreme Nachos with Jerked Jamaican Chicken."
"You've changed, Wheels," Puker says. "Check it out: Papers. PIN numbers. Taxes."
"I wish I could rewind to the dude I used to know," Janine says. "They're gonna have to supersize your helmet."
Listening to Puker and Janine, I'm the mayor of Negative City. All I'm asking is for them to help with my new website. But they say nothing doing. It has been winter storm season the past week, and they stopped by hoping I'll shoot video of them riding killer flood run-off down the Los Angeles River after we cut holes in the safety nets the fire department strings across to keep people from getting swept out to sea.
|  | | Shawn Green and the Dodgers could be on the way to a great season. |
"I have something a little more important to do with the evening," I say.
"You only think you do, butthead," says Janine, who's doing an awesome job of getting on my nerves.
"Check out who just walked in," I say. "And he's obviously looking for me."
It's Shawn Green. The Dodgers outfielder. He looks like he needs more than just a drink and some Mega-Xtreme Nachos with Pork and Spicy Tunisian Hummus. It looks like he needs Wheeler.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready to head for spring training?" I ask him, leaving Janine and Puker bumming at the other end of the bar.
"That's why I'm here, Wheeler," he says. "Visiting you is the first step of my new season. It's a make-or-break year. Hitting .300, driving in 100 runs? That's fine, and I'm in the best shape of my career. But I need something more to take my game to a whole new level."
"You mean like be named MVP in the playoffs or the All-Star Game?"
"Exactly," he says. "It would probably mean getting the Dodgers into the postseason."
I lean in close and say, "Shawn, what's the ugliest thing you've ever done?"
"I don't get you, Wheeler," he says, suddenly looking nervous. "What's that got to do with stepping up my game?"
"Look at Ray Lewis. Look at Allen Iverson. Those two guys were good, but was Ray Lewis Super Bowl MVP before he was arrested for that stuff in Atlanta?"
"No."
"And his team just won the Super Bowl. Tell me, was Allen Iverson ever the All-Star Game MVP before he came out with that rap album that has everybody so whacked?"
"No, Wheeler."
"Right. And now the Sixers have the best record in the NBA. You see where I'm going? You came in here talking about making a commitment."
"I'm just a nice Jewish kid from Orange County," Shawn says.
"Still, you can come up with something," I tell him, "with the whole team counting on you. Not to mention the entire city."
"You mean like maybe go into a synagogue and leave all the prayer books upside down? Or maybe turn all the skullcaps inside out. You think that would help?" he asks.
"It all comes down to what you're willing to do to win, Shawn," I say, pouring him some more bubbly water.
"I could go to Dodgertown and maybe late one night I could get in my car ... and drive very slow."
"How slow, Shawn?"
"I don't know, maybe five miles an hour. Nothing dangerous. But way below the legal speed limit."
"All right, drive very slow ... and what else, Shawn?" I ask.
"Drive very slow and ... weave a little back and forth?"
"The way George Bush was driving when he got pulled over for drunk driving in Maine?" I say.
"I'm not driving under the influence, Wheeler," he says. "And I'm not putting any drugs or guns in my car for them to find. And I'm not getting involved in any accidents. And I'm not leaving the scene of any crime. Let's get that straight. I'm a nice Jewish kid from Orange County."
"I'm not suggesting that. You just need to get pulled over by a trooper, Shawn, you don't need to be drunk. You don't even need to be arrested. But you need to drive slow, real slow. And commit to the weave."
"I'm not crossing a double-white lane marker, Wheeler, not even if it gets me into the Hall of Fame."
"Not even once? Not even if it's one solid line and one dotted? Think about next October. The champagne in the locker room. Think about that ring on your finger."
Shawn Green thinks about that a long while. And you can see what a great athlete's heart is all about.
"Maybe I'll touch the line, Wheeler," he says. "One time."
"Whatever, Shawn. By July, guaranteed, you'll be MVP of this year's All-Star Game."
"It'll be worth another $100,000 in my incentive clause," he says.
"Just consider it a down payment on your children's education."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Wheeler," he says. "I'll leave you a ticket to the Series."
"When the Dodgers win the title this year, you two will know the reason," I tell Janine and Puker after Shawn leaves to pack up for Vero Beach.
"You've turned into a monster, Wheeler," Janine says. She breaks into tears.
"I can hardly recognize you any more, dude," Puker says. "I used to be able to look up to you."
"It's just one big envelope, dude," I say. "It's push it or die."
Next Week: Chapter 15, in which our hero rises from an icy grave
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