Life Its Ownself (38 page)

"Clyde, I want to let you in on a scoop. I just talked to the Commissioner. Some of the owners had a meeting in the second half down there. The Commissioner says they're ready to give in on free agents, the wage scale, everything we want. We beat 'em, baby."

"It's a done deal?"

"Pro football's alive and well again."

"Congratulations," I said.

"You, too."

"I didn't do anything."

"Moral support, man."

"Won't it be dull next year without a cause?"

"Oh, we'll have a cause," Dreamer said. "I've got some thoughts on revenue-sharing the owners aren't going to like."

"You can always go Dixie."

"I'm hip, but you didn't hear it from me, Clyde."

I handed the receiver back to Kathy and listened to Larry Hoage sign off for us. He was saying:

"So for all of us here at CBS Sports, this is the Old Professor saying so long from Mardi Gras Land, where the Seattle Seahawks are the champeens of pro football. The Cowboys stood tall in the saddle, fought their hearts out, but the Seahawks put the big lasso on 'em. That's the story of the best Super Bowl
I've
ever seen."

Kathy put a promo card in front of Larry.

"Now," said Larry, "coming up next over most of these CBS stations...
Scuzzo!
More hijinks and hilarity as three pockmarked teenagers find their own way to deal with the outdated value systems of their parents and teachers. In tonight's episode, Ross, Debbie, and Phillip set fire to their high school gymnasium, and..."

"We're off," said Teddy Cole from the truck. "Good show, everybody."

Rita's Limo Stop
got a 26 share. In TV talk, that's a raging hit. Anything between a 26 and a 32 share of the viewing audience is cause for every bicoastal to claim as much personal credit as he or she can. It put the show among the ten most-watched programs of the week—which isn't as important as the share. Carving out a share of the night, the hour, the half-hour, is everything where television ratings are concerned.

When the figures came in two days after the Super Bowl I was back in New York, awaiting word on my own TV future. Richard Marks had at one time mentioned that the network might use me on other sports during the winter and spring. The only other work I had planned was some banquet appearances. If CBS wanted me to hang around some other sports events, I was willing. Another town, another cocktail.

While I was in New York waiting for Richard Marks to make up his mind, I trapped Barb on the phone at the Westwood Marquis.

"Nice going on the share," I said.

"Thanks."

To say my wife's voice was cool would be like saying Alaska has polar bears.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine."

She didn't ask how I was, so I said:

"I'm fine, too."

She didn't respond to that either. I said, "I popped your show on the air. Pretty funny, huh?"

"I suppose."

"Did you hear it?"

"We were out."

"We?"

Nothing.

I then said, "The apartment looks fine. A cleaning lady comes in."

"Is her name Ken?"

"Are you ever going to not be mad?"

"I have to go now."

"I miss you, Barb. I love you."

"Good."

And she hung up.

A few days later I was summoned to Richard Marks's office in the CBS building on 52nd and Sixth. There, I was informed that I would be used on a spot basis as a regular sports broadcaster. I still didn't have an agent, but we agreed on a ridiculous, six-figure salary.

Richard Marks said, "I wish you would get an agent before we negotiate your contract for football next season."

"I'm doing okay without one," I said.

My assignment for the spring and summer was to go to some golf tournaments, sit on a tower behind the 15th green, and say things like "Let's go to Sixteen."

I thought I should be honest with my boss and tell him I didn't know anything about professional golf.

"It doesn't matter," Richard Marks said. "You can't see golf on TV. The ball's too small. We don't expect ratings. It's a prestige buy."

Richard Marks shook my hand. "You're a full-time announcer now, Billy Clyde. How does it feel?"

"Words can't describe it," I said.

Three words could have described it. Guilty as shit.

The head of CBS Sports asked about my travel plans over the coming weeks. There were some speaking engagements, I said; otherwise, I'd be on a New York barstool.

"I'll want my people with me at the Emmy Awards dinner in March," he said. "It's an industry night. Good occasion to show your strength."

I said I would be more than happy to attend, thinking it would be an opportunity to see Barbara Jane. Her show had been on the air only two weeks, but it had already nomimated itself—or ABC had—for several Emmys: Barb for Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series, Carolyn Barnes for Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series, Jack Sullivan for Outstanding Director of a Comedy Series, and Sheldon Gurtz and Kitty Feldman for Outstanding Writers of a Comedy Series.

It had always seemed to me that they gave away Emmys as often as they gave away Grammys. Like once a month. Daytime Emmys, nighttime Emmys, local Emmys, News Emmys, Sports Emmys, technological Emmys. Like most people, I never knew when a year started or ended for television, exactly how and why anybody got nominated for an Emmy, who voted, or who won, except that every channel I ever watched in every city I was ever in had an "Emmy Award- winning Eyewitness News team."

But this was a year in which all of the Emmys were to be given out on one big, black-tie evening in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf, an awards telecast on which three comics would fight over the microphone while a parade of rock stars eagerly opened the envelopes, hopeful of finding dread inside.

"Do we have a chance to win anything?" I asked my boss.

"I hope not," said Richard Marks. "The industry tends to vote mediocrity."

Shake Tiller tore himself away from Priscilla and his novel, which was tentatively titled
The Past
. He flew down to Fort Worth with me for what T. J. Lambert called The Big Signing.

We arrived in Texas on Feb. 7, the day before Tonsillitis Johnson was supposed to sign his letter of intent, the document that would deliver him to T. J. and the Horned Frogs for the next four years.

That evening, we went to dinner at Herb's Cafe with T. J. and his wife, Donna. It became a night to celebrate because T.J. let us in on the news that Tonsillitis had already signed his letter of intent with TCU.

The ceremony the next day would only be for the media, for the publicity splash.

"It's not legal, is it?" I said to T.J. "It doesn't bind him to anything if he signs before Feb. 8."

"It binds him to Big Ed's ass," said the coach.

I found out about the alumni award that night. T.J. couldn't keep the secret. His good friends Barbara Jane Bookman and Billy Clyde Puckett had been named co-winners of the first annual Horny Toad trophy, an honor to be cherished as the years go by.

"The what?"

TCU's trustees had been wanting to find a way to honor old grads who had distinguished themselves in life its ownself. They had come up with the Horny Toad Award—toad being a frog, as in Horned Frog, and horny being a toad with horns, as opposed to the other kind, a toad with a hard-on.

T.J. said, "The committee voted you and Barbara Jane the co-recipients because they couldn't decide between the two."

"Who's on the committee?"

"The chancellor and the trustees. Big Ed and them."

"It's a classy name."

"You're the first Horny Toad, son."

"I'm deeply moved."

Donna Lambert said, "You should be proud, Billy Clyde. They could have given it to some poetry freak."

While the announcement of the award would be forthcoming in the spring, the presentation wouldn't be made until the fall. Barbara Jane and I would receive our plaques at halftime of the opening game against Auburn in early September.

"Maybe we'll be speaking by then," I said.

T. J. apologized to Shake Tiller.

He said, "They wanted to honor you, too, hoss, but I guess they's folks around here who think you hadn't ought to have put so many shits in your book."

"I still have my art," said Shake.

"How's art doing?" I smiled.

"He's been tired lately," Shake said.

"Still play the sax?"

"Piano."

Donna Lambert said, "What are y'all talkin' about?"

We were talking about Shake's new novel, I said.
The Past
.

"What's it about?" T. J. didn't really care. He was being polite. The only book T. J. Lambert had ever read was
Darrell Royal Talks Football
.

Shake answered the question by saying, "It's about everything that's happened."

"To people?" Donna wondered.

"That's part of it."

"I like James Michener," she said.

Shake said, "Well, this is kind of what Michener would write if he'd gone to Paschal."

I put another youngster down my neck and made a suggestion. "I'd like to go around the table and ask everybody how to get my God-damn wife back," I said.

"Stop fuckin' that blonde," said T.J.

"I haven't fucked her."

"Sad but true," Shake said.

Donna said, "Billy Clyde, if you were smart, you'd go to Barbara Jane on bended knees."

"She wouldn't respect me."

"She would, too. If you open up your heart to her, she'll take you back in a redhot minute."

"Not till he stops fuckin' that blonde," T.J. said.

"I'm not fucking her," I said, forcefully.

Shake said, "People ought to get married on water skis. You wouldn't hear all the vows. You'd never know you fucked up."

This was a softer line on marriage. Shake had once said people should only get married in burning buildings. With luck, a guy could catch on fire and never have to go to a school carnival.

I looked squarely at T.J. and said, "I haven't fucked Kathy Montgomery, okay? Maybe I thought for one stupid night I wanted to fuck her, but I didn't, and now I don't, and I won't, and we're just friends, and that's all the fuck there is to it—and it's not worth breaking up my fucking home!"

Donna Lambert said, "Y'all feel free to say fuck any time you want to. It don't make a shit there's a lady present."

Tonsillitis Johnson signed his letter of intent at noon on Feb. 8.

The ceremony was held in the Lettermen's Lounge at TCU. It was attended by Jim Tom and two dozen writers and radio and TV reporters, who formed a half-circle around a table at which all of us were seated: me, Shake, T. J., Big Ed.

At a given signal from Big Ed, Tonsillitis was led into the room by Darnell, and the two of them were accompanied by Artis Toothis.

As they entered, flash attachments popped on Nikons, and hand-held TV cameramen scurried about.

Darnell Johnson looked extremely prosperous and dignified in his gray three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses, almost as prosperous and dignified as Artis Toothis in his three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses.

Tonsillitis again wore his maroon satin warmups and yellow mirrored sunglasses, but he had added a white headband.

T.J. stood up at the table and introduced Darnell.

Addressing the media, Darnell said:

"This is a great day for TCU. As you know, Artis Toothis has announced his plans to be playin' football here. Today, we are deliverin' to this university the other bes' football player in humanity."

Big Ed handed Darnell a gold pen. Darnell handed the gold pen to Tonsillitis.

"Sign your name, baby," Darnell said to his brother.

"Ratch ear?"

"Right there where it say."

I watched as Tonsillitis signed his name on the letter of intent, just on the odd chance that he might spell it "booley." No, he spelled it clearly and correctly.
Tonsorrell Baines Johnson
.

Everybody shook Tonsillitis' hand, Darnell's hand, T. J.'s hand, Big Ed's hand, Artis Toothis' hand. Pictures were taken of Tonsillitis with everyone, in twos, in threes, in groups.

T.J. then spoke to the press.

"Men, I don't need to tell you what this means to me. A coach wins football games with them horny old boys who want to eat the crotch out of a end zone. I got me two of 'em now. TCU's on the way back! Around this conference, they been sayin' you couldn't melt us down and pour us into a fight, but were gonna show 'em next fall! With Tonsillitis and Artis wearin' that purple, were gonna be jacked-off like a housecat."

In the press conference that followed, Tonsillitis was asked what he planned to study in college.