Excerpt from the upcoming Joe Paterno biography, Not My Problem-The Joe Paterno Story, by C. Howitt Fields.

CHAPTER THREE:  The Grade School Incident

            In 1934, when Paterno was 7 years old, an incident occurred at Brooklyn Preparatory School that would haunt many an individual to this day, but not Joe Paterno.

             “I was in second grade,” Paterno recalled.  “It was recess and I was outside, minding my own business, when my friend Jimmy Cockiavalli comes running up to me.  ‘Joey!’ he cried.  ‘Vinny Razulli is beating the crap out of Little Anthony!  He’s beating him up pretty bad.’  So I asked Jimmy what he wanted me to do about it.  ‘You’re the only kid Vinny’s afraid of!’ Jimmy cried.  ‘You can help Little Ant!  Hurry!  Vinny’s beating him up something awful!’  So I asked Jimmy why should I get involved?  What does this have to do with me?  Why should I stick my neck out for Little Anthony?”

            Paterno walked over to the crowd of his fellow classmates.  They had formed a circle around the two boys involved in the one-sided scuffle.  Indeed, big Vinny Razulli was wiping the concrete with Little Anthony’s face.  Immediately, Paterno’s classmates began to cheer when they saw that Joe had supposedly come to save Little Anthony.  Vinny Razulli turned to face Paterno and said, “Yeah, I’m kicking the crap out of Little Ant here!  This is between him and me.”

            Paterno shrugged and said, “We’ll see what the principal has to say about this.”  He walked off and told the principal what was transpiring in the school playground.

            Anthony DelPizzo, a.k.a. “Little Anthony” or “Little Ant” spent the next five days in the hospital.  Vinny Razulli, meanwhile, was suspended for three days for his actions.  He continued to bully Brooklyn Prep students, even after he graduated from the school.  Years later, Razulli, now a retired mobster boss, laughed about his days at Brooklyn Prep.  “Joe Paterno was the only kid I was afraid of,” he said.  “He could have easily kicked the crap out of me.  Probably would have sent me down a different path in life.  But once I saw that he didn’t like to get involved, didn’t like to get his hands dirty, well, I knew I had smooth sailing.”

            To this day many of Paterno’s Brooklyn Prep classmates wonder why Joe didn’t do anything to stop Razulli.  “I swear Joe was even standing there watching the day Razulli ripped my (CENSORED) off and shoved them up my (CENSORED),” Little Anthony DelPizzo said years later.  “I went to a Penn State game one time and I limped right up to Joe and I asked him why he didn’t do anything.  He said, ‘What do you mean?  I told the principal, didn’t I?’  Sure, Joe, I said.  You told the principal.  Good for you.  Hope you felt good about yourself as you walked away from his office.”

            “Joe Paterno then shrugged and walked away from me,” said Little Anthony.  “He was always good at doing that.”

Very few people realize that Phillies first baseman Ryan Howard sought psychiatric help after his horrendous showing in the National League Divisional Series against St. Louis.  The following is a brief excerpt from Howard’s visit with Dr. Standish Fine, renowned sports psychiatrist in the Philadelphia area, on 10/10/11:

 

FINE:  Mr. Howard?

HOWARD:  Dr. Fine.

FINE:  Mr. Howard.  Come in, come in.  Ooh, nasty limp. 

HOWARD:  Yeah, I did some major damage on my last at-bat the other night.

FINE:  The one where you hit a ground ball, took one step, and collapsed?

HOWARD:  Yeah.  Ruptured my Achilles tendon.  It was nasty.  I’m telling ya, baseball’s a rough game.

FINE:  Mmm hmm.  Ruptured your Achilles tendon with a swing of the bat and a light jog towards first base.  Uh huh.  I think I just heard a collective snicker from millions of football, soccer, basketball, lacrosse, hockey, rugby, tennis and track and field players.

HOWARD:  What’s that?

FINE:  Nothing.  Put your crutches over there and lie down on the couch.  Hard to miss, unlike a baseball, huh?

HOWARD:  Huh?

FINE:  Nothing.  Just relax.  I want to try a little word association with you.  You’re here because you’re confused as to why you completely sucked against the Cardinals after your lone home run in game one.

HOWARD:  Yes.  That was a great home run.  I stood there and watched it before I ran around the bases.  I didn’t tear any tendons then.

FINE:  Good for you.  I can see why you’re paid $138 million.  Now listen.  I’m going to say a series of words and you tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.  Ready?  “Baseball.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  Interesting.  So when you think of a baseball…

HOWARD:  The first thing I think about is swinging at it.  Swinging for the fences. 

FINE:  OK.  “Fastball.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  Makes sense.  Now this should get interesting.  “Sinker.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  “Outside and away.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  “High and inside.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  “Just take the pitch.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  “The count is 3-0.  Do not swing.  Take the pitch the entire way.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  “It is more important for you to get on base no matter what.  We can’t afford another worthless groundball to second base or another golf swing strikeout.  Take the pitch at 3-0 and for the love of Harry Kalas DO NOT SWING.”

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  We have a problem here.

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  We’re done, Mr. Howard.

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  Uh-oh.

HOWARD:  Swing.

FINE:  Nurse Jenkins?  Get in here!

HOWARD:  Swing.

NURSE:  Mr. Howard?  Dr. Fine?  Mr. Howard!

HOWARD:  Swing.

NURSE:  It happened again?

HOWARD:  Yes.  You know the drill.  Get Rubén on the phone.  We’ll have to drag him out the back again…

 

At this point the tape ends…as abruptly as the Philadelphia Phillies’ 2011 season…

Philadelphia Eagles head coach Andy Reid visits his allergist the morning of 10/3/11:

 

DOC:  Good morning, Coach!  Step right in.

REID (clears throat):  Mmm hmm.  I parked next to the handicap spot.  Locked my keys in the car.  Paid my $25 co-pay at the front desk.  Time’s yours.

DOC:  That’s cute, Coach.  Now if you’ll please put the donut on the table there.

REID:  And where should I put my breakfast sandwich?

DOC:  What sandwich?

(REID reaches into the front of his pants and pulls out a wad of grease-stained paper.)

DOC:  Oh…the cheesesteak you had shoved down the front of your pants.  You can place that next to the donut.

REID:  Tammy doesn’t let me eat these on Monday mornings. 

DOC:  Let’s move on.  Have a seat over here.  Now what seems to be the problem?

REID:  I’ve been sick for the past three weeks.  I know it’s not diet cause I haven’t been on a diet in years.

DOC:  Can you name me some symptoms?

REID:  (clears throat):  Well, there’s Homer…and Marge, Bart…OJ of course…

DOC:  Symptoms, Coach.  I said symptoms.

REID:  Short term memory loss.  Poor time management.  Blurred vision.  Spontaneous idiocy.  Lack of any sort of emotion…

DOC:  Interesting.  I was going to have my assistant come in here and give you some little pricks…

REID:  I already have some little pricks.  I call them my starting linebackers.

DOC:  I mean we were going to conduct a skin test.  We expose your skin to potential allergens to determine if you are allergic to them.  A small amount of the suspected allergen is introduced into your skin through a small puncture. If, within 15 minutes, you have a small spot of redness and swelling where the allergen was introduced, you are allergic to the substance.

REID (clears throat):  Control what you can control and don’t stress out about the other stuff.

 ONE HOUR LATER…

DOC:  Well, we’ve injected you with every kind of allergen we have here, Coach, and we haven’t seen any bumps or redness.

REID:  I didn’t do a good enough job and I’ll make sure I put myself in a better position next time.

DOC:  Uh, okay.  Listen, just sit here and watch some TV while I determine what the next step is.  No, put that donut down.  And give me that cheesesteak.  Look, they’re showing highlights of your game yesterday with San Francisco.  Tough loss.  I’m just going to…Coach?  Coach Reid?

(REID begins to break out in hives.  His face is turning red and blotchy.)

DOC:  Oh my God!  Nurse!  Get in here!  Coach Reid!  Are you okay? 

REID (clears throat):  I don’t know what happened.  I was watching Ronnie Brown running towards the goal line and I broke into a…that thing that happens when you exercise?

DOC:  A sweat?

REID:  Yeah.  But then Brown pitched the ball back and we fumbled and San Fran recovered and I felt all better.

DOC:  My God.

REID:  What?

DOC:  This is worse than I thought.  (DOC takes the TV remote and replays the last play.  As Ronnie Brown approaches the end zone, REID breaks out again.  But when Brown fumbles and the Eagles lose the ball, REID suddenly brightens and appears healthy.)

DOC:  Coach…you’re allergic to the end zone.  It all makes sense now.  Your sickness the past three weeks.  The three losses.  The only way you’ve been able to feel better is to call the most absolute moronic offensive plays ever in the history of professional football and make sure the Eagles never got close to the end zone.

REID:  I take full responsibility for that.

DOC:  Glad you’re feeling better.  Now what the hell am I going to prescribe for the millions of Eagles fans out there who are allergic to you?

Dear Santa,

 

My name is Celia Murphy and I’m sure you won’t receive a letter like this from any other child in the world.  I’m sure you read millions and millions of letters each year, letters from children like me who only write to you asking for toys.  I don’t need any toys, Santa.  They wouldn’t help my brother, Jimmy. All I’m asking for this year is to be granted a wish, Santa.  Just one simple wish.  I wish that you could help my poor little brother, Jimmy.

 

You see, Santa, my brother Jimmy needs some help.  I’m afraid he’s going to die soon…because I believe I may kill him.

 

Now I know he’s only 4 years-old, but that’s no excuse for his idiotic behavior.  I try to place nice with him like my parents ask me to, but I swear to God the kid has A.D.D. or something, the way he frickin’ bounces off the walls!  You’d think he lived on red-dyed candy.  Just the other day, the little brat took my American Girl doll, duct-taped her to the radiator, melted one side of her head, then proceeded to dunk her in the toilet.  Now I ask you…

Uh, excuse me?  Who are you?

JERRY JONES:  I’m Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys!  You can call me Jerry, though some people call me “Skeletor” after my multiple facelifts.

CELIA:  What…what are you doing here?

JJ:  I saw your letter, sweetheart, and thought I’d stop by to see if I, Jerry Jones, could help out.

CELIA:  Didn’t I see you on the sidelines of the Eagles-Cowboys game last night?

JJ:  Yep, that was me, sweetheart.

CELIA:  And before that you were in the owner’s box.

JJ:  Correct again.  I’m Jerry Jones.  I’m everywhere. 

CELIA:  Too bad you weren’t on the field last night covering DeSean Jackson.

JJ:  Sweetheart, I’m here to tell you that I, Jerry Jones, can grant you your wish.  You want your brother to behave?  Let me speak with him.  I’ll offer him $50 million to be a better brother to you. 

CELIA:  Are you (CENSORED) kidding me? 

JJ:  I find that money solves everything.

CELIA:  Except improving the Dallas Cowboys.  Maybe if you could find some linemen that are the size of your ego, maybe then…

JJ:  Listen, sweetheart, I gotta run.  I see a TV camera off in the distance.  You think about my offer now, y’hear?

 

Dear Santa,

 

Sorry for the interruption.  I now have a new Christmas wish.  I wish you could help Jerry Jones find some humility or maybe even a clue because the lousy sonofabitch is ruining my beloved Dallas Cowboys!!!

 

From the home of JAKE SIMMONS, 36, of Langhorne, PA, the night of 10/21/10:

 

(We see JAKE sitting alone in his family room, watching the end of Game 5 of the Phillies-Giants NLCS.  The wife and kids are asleep upstairs.)

 

JAKE:  Well, thank God the Phillies pulled that one off!  Back to Philly on Saturday!  Sweet!

(There is a KNOCK on the door.)

JAKE:  Get the hell off my door, you knock!

KNOCK:  Sorry!  (The KNOCK exits…dejected.)

(Suddenly, the doorbell rings.)

JAKE:  Who the hell would be here this late?

(JAKE answers the door.  It’s none other than ANDY REID, head coach of the Philadelphia Eagles.)

REID:  Good evening, sir.  I thought I’d…ahem…stop by to make sure…ahem…you were okay.  Ahem.  Time’s yours.

JAKE:  Andy Reid?  What the hell are you doing here?

REID:  May I…ahem…come in? 

JAKE:  Are you lost?

REID:  You see a football field around here?  You see a clipboard in my hand?  No…ahem…I’m not lost.  I’m here to…ahem…console you.

JAKE:  Uh…why?

REID:  Ahem…with the Phillies…ahem…losing…I thought I’d drop by to remind you that…ahem…the Eagles’ season isn’t over…ahem…ahem…ahem…ahem…yet.  Time’s yours.

JAKE:  But the Phillies didn’t lose.  They won, 4-2.

REID:  Ahem.  Excuse me?

JAKE:  The Phillies won, Coach!  Game 6 in Philly on Saturday!

(REID takes out a clipboard.)

REID:  You sure?  Didn’t Roy Halladay go down early?

JAKE:  Well, he left after the sixth inning.

REID:  I was assured he’d have…ahem…a “groin pull” and leave in the second.

JAKE:  Are you saying the Philadelphia Eagles attempted to pay off Roy Halladay?

REID:  What?  You think we wired Halladay $1 million to throw the game so Philadelphia sports fans would turn their full attention to the Philadelphia Eagles?  Ahem?

JAKE:  Is that what you did?!

REID:  I guess Halladay misunderstood the term “throw the game.”

JAKE:  I can’t believe this!

REID:  You got anything to eat around here?  I haven’t eaten anything since I was at your next door neighbor’s five minutes ago.  Ahem.

JAKE:  You should be ashamed of yourself!  I’m calling the media!

REID:  There’s no need for that.  What can I…ahem…do to make this up?  You got any kids?

JAKE:  Two boys.  Why?

REID:  Think maybe they could fix me a sandwich?

JAKE:  How about if you continue to start Kevin Kolb over Michael Vick?  For 12 years you’ve stated no one loses their job over an injury.  And when Vick does get healthy, stop inserting him into the offense on every other play!  And stop throwing your red flag when it’s so obvious you’re not going to win the challenge!  And how about running the ball on third and one?  And could you try saving some timeouts for when you actually need them?  And how about giving us fans some actual information in your press conferences instead of just sitting there, clearing your throat?  And put down that chicken leg!  Get out of my fridge!  GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!

REID:  You’ll be back…ahem…on the Eagles’ bandwagon Sunday.  Phillies are…ahem…going down Saturday night.  We’ll get to Roy Oswalt before the Giants do.

(JAKE rents a bulldozer and shoves REID out of his house.  REID looks in the family room window.)

REID:  Time’s yours.

From the Brennan household in Phoenixville, PA.  Mom, Dad, 12-year-old Billy and 10-year-old Stacy have sat down to watch some World Cup soccer between the countries of Berzerkistan and the Republic of Caca:

 

DAD:  OK, Brennans!  Let’s watch some world cup soccer!

STACY:  Especially since it’s only played every four years.

BILLY:  I can’t wait to watch this exciting, action-packed semi-final game between Caca and Berzerkistan!

MOM:  What a shame the U.S. couldn’t make it this far!  Too bad they lost that electrifying game to Ghana where they scored one goal in 120 minutes of playing time!

ANNOUNCER:  What an exciting game we have for you here today!  Berzerkistan defeated Spain in the quarterfinals, 0-0 and then 2-1 in penalty kicks.  The Republic of Caca overwhelmingly defeated Germany in their quarterfinal matchup, 0-0, and then 3-2 in penalty kicks!  We’re expecting another high scoring affair between these two talented teams.  Expect a final score of at least 1-0 here today in South Africa.  And here we go!

 

(One hour later…)

 

BILLY:  Wow, 0-0 at the half.  How thrilling!

STACY:  I love how they kick the ball all over the field and once in awhile they actually take a shot at the goal itself!

DAD:  Riveting!

MOM:  I wish you two played soccer instead of your boring lacrosse and softball games. 

ANNOUNCER:  What an exciting first half!  In 45 minutes, Berzerkistan had two shots on goal and Caca had one.  Ladies and gentlemen, you are seeing some of the world’s finest athletes in action here today!

 

(And another hour after that…)

 

ANNOUNCER:  And it looks like we are going to overtime, tied at zero!

BILLY:  I really thought Caca would have scored on their third shot on goal of the game.

DAD:  It’s just excellent defense, Billy.  These soccer players are the best athletes in the world.  No one else knows how to run up and down the field like that, kicking the ball every which way but at the opposing team’s goaltender.

STACY:  I love how the players lose the soccer ball then fall to the ground even though no one is near them.

MOM:  They’re trying to draw a penalty, dear, so that they can get a penalty kick.  It’s the only way they seem to score goals.

BILLY:  But this is soooo exciting!  0-0 after playing for over 90 straight minutes!  What talent!!!

 

(And another 45 minutes after that…)

 

ANNOUNCER:  So after the 120 minutes of non-stop action and the penalty kicks, Berzerkistan has defeated Caca, 0-0 and 2-1 on penalty kicks! 

DAD:  My God what an exhilarating sport!

MOM:  I just don’t understand why it’s not more popular here in America!

BILLY:  I want to grow up to be a Berzerkistanian soccer player, Dad!  Getting paid all that money to average one goal every 17 games!!!  I can do it, Dad!  I know I can!!!

DAD:  You keep dreaming, son!  But let me tell you, no one in the world knows how to run around that field for 90 minutes and not score a goal like these athletes!  They’re the best in the world!

 

 

WORLD CUP SOCCER!  WHERE THE BEST ATHLETES IN THE WORLD RUN ALL OVER THE FIELD FOR 90 MINUTES! WATCH IT NOW OR YOU’LL HAVE TO WAIT ANOTHER FOUR YEARS!

We see TIGER WOODS and his ATTORNEY, standing behind a podium at Tiger Woods’ home.  Here’s what REALLY happened at the so-called Tiger Woods press conference on 2/19/10:

 

ATTORNEY: Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  Mr. Woods is here to make a quick, sincere statement then he has to return to sex rehab where he shares a wing with other women who are addicted to sex.  There will be no need for questions because you will all see just how sincere and remorseful Mr. Woods is.  Tiger?

TIGER: Thanks.  Good morning, everybody.  I’m here today to apologize to my wife for cheating on her with 3 women…

TIGER’S ANGRY MOM IN THE AUDIENCE: 18 women!

TIGER: …give or take a few.  Elin…if you’re watching?  I’m sorry.  My bad.  I would also like to apologize to my sponsors.  Sorry, everybody!  To my fellow golfers on the PGA Tour…I’m sorry.  Mind if I take a Mulligan?  Heh, heh.  Hey, who’s that walking up here to the podium?  Mark McGwire?

MARK McGWIRE: Hey, Tiger!  I just wanted to reiterate how sorry I am for taking steroids all those years while I played baseball.  I’m sorry for taking them and having them help me make millions of dollars and breaking the all-time, single season homerun record.  Talk about an asterisk for the asshole, huh?  Anyway, I’m sorry.

TIGER: No problem, Mark.  Hey, is that Donte Stallworth?

STALLWORTH: Hey, Tiger.  Hey, Mark.  I just thought I’d stop by and once again apologize for my drunk driving accident that killed an innocent man.

TIGER: How much jail time did ya get for that, Donte?

STALLWORTH: None!  I just apologized and paid the family a few million to drop the lawsuit.  Sort of the guy’s fault for walking across the street while I was driving drunk.  Anyway, the NFL suspended me for a whole year without pay!  Boy, was I sorry! 

McGWIRE: I hear the Baltimore Ravens signed you.

STALLWORTH: Yep!  It sure helps to say you’re sorry!

MICHAEL VICK: You’re telling me!

ALL: Michael Vick!

VICK: I’d like to let everyone know how sorry I am I got caught killing those dogs.

TIGER: You mean you’re sorry for killing those dogs, right?

VICK: Yeah.  What’d I say?

PLAXICO BURRESS: Hey, guys!  I couldn’t help but join the party!  I’m sorry for carrying a gun in New York City and accidentally shooting it in my pants.  I guess the wrong gun went off, huh?

ELI MANNING: Trust me, Plaxico!  I’m even more sorry that you did that!  I’ve been a sorry excuse of a quarterback since you went to the slammer!

PLAXICO: Speaking of which…how the hell did I go to jail for 2 years for shooting a gun by accident and Donte Stallworth kills a guy and only gets a one year suspension from the NFL?

STALLWORTH: I guess you’re sorry you didn’t have my lawyer.

PLAXICO: I am sorry.

GILBERT ARENAS: Hey, it’s me, Gilbert Arenas from the Washington Wizards.

TIGER: Who are they?

ARENAS: NBA team.  I know, I know…I don’t watch it anymore either.  Anyhoo, I’m the guy who pulled a gun in the locker room last month.  I just wanted to say how sorry I am I did that.  Sorry.

VICK: Hey!  It’s my fellow Philadelphia Eagle, Donovan McNabb!  What are you doing here, buddy?

McNABB: I just wanted to say I’m sorry for not being able to throw an accurate pass. 

BRETT FAVRE: And I’d like to say I’m sorry for being such a prima donna.  Actually, I’m not sorry!  I’m Brett Favre and you will wait. 

McNABB: And what the heck is Plaxico Burress doing here?  Shouldn’t you be in jail?

(We hear police sirens off in the distance)

PLAXICO: Sorry, but I gotta run!  (PLAXICO dives out the window.)

TIGER: Well, look at that!  It’s Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens!  It’s about time you guys showed up!

BONDS/CLEMENS: What are you talking about?  We have nothing to apologize for!

(Dead silence.  We hear a cricket off in the distance.  BONDS and CLEMENS suddenly can’t hold back the laughter and they both seriously crack up.  The other athletes and the few members of the media erupt in laughter.  FREEZE SCENE and roll end credits.  While everyone is frozen, TIGER sneaks out to get back to sex rehab where he doesn’t get much sleep.  Meanwhile, one of the rolling credits bumps McNABB.  McNABB unfreezes and punches the credit.  It’s the first time he’s hit a moving target in months.)

"Sorry, honey! My bad!"

From the household of Flex Malarky, 41, of West Chester, PA, the evening of 11/2/09.  Flex, his wife Cindy, son Frank and daughter Casey have just sat in their family room to watch Game 5 of the World Series.

 

CASEY:  Let’s go Phillies!

FRANK:  Dad?  Do you think they’ll win tonight?  If not, it’s all over.

FLEX:  Cliff Lee will come through, son.  I know he will.

CINDY:  OK…everyone has a drink, here’s the popcorn…

FRANK:  Can I add some peanuts to the popcorn, Mom?  So it’s like Cracker Jacks?

CASEY:  It would be like we’re at the game!

CINDY:  Sure, dear.  I’ll go grab the peanuts.

FLEX:  I feel like we’re forgetting something.  Something important.

FRANK:  What, Dad?  The game’s about to start, we have our snacks, our drinks…

CASEY:  Our comfy blankets!

FLEX:  I know.  I’m not sure what I’m forgetting.

CINDY:  Let me mix these peanuts in with the popcorn.

FRANK:  Now we need some melted caramel on this so it’s really like Cracker Jacks, Mom!

CINDY:  I don’t think so. 

FRANK:  Beah heah!!  Get yer ice cold beah heah!  Now it feels like we’re at the ballpark!

CINDY:  Honey, what’s wrong?

FLEX:  I know I’m forgetting something.

FRANK:  Can I have a beer, Dad?  I’m 10 now.

CASEY:  Sit next to me, Mommy!  Under the comfy blanket!

CINDY:  Turn on the TV, honey!

FLEX:  OK, here we go!  (Turns on the flat screen with the remote.)  Let’s go, Fightin’ Phils!

(Suddenly, the large screen is filled with Fox announcer Joe Buck’s head.)

FLEX:  Oh no!  I just remembered!  Joe Buck SUCKS!!!

CINDY:  Quick!  Honey!  Shut it off!  (Flex attempts to shut off the TV when he fumbles and drops the remote.  The children scream.)

FRANK:  Dad!  Quick!

FLEX:  Where’s the remote?!?!  Oh my God!  It’s under the coffee table!

JOE BUCK:  …and the New York Yankees can wrap up the series…tonight…in the supposed city of Brotherly Love…

CASEY:  Daddy!  I’m…getting…sleepy…

FLEX:  I almost have it!  Cover your ears!

JOE BUCK:  You know, Tim McCarver, the Philadelphia Phillies were the first major league team to lose 10,000 games.

CINDY:  Flex!  Hurry!

JOE BUCK:  This city never appreciated their stars…Mike Schmidt…Donovan McNabb…

FRANK:  Dad…losing…consciousness…

CASEY:  Mommy…………….help…………

JOE BUCK:  The New York…………….Yankees…………looking to win……their 27th………..

CINDY:  Ugh!  He’s already started the 10 second pauses between words!  Shut it off!

FLEX:  Got it!  (He points the remote at the TV, pushing the buttons furiously.)  It’s not working!!  (Frank and Casey, now unconscious, fall off the couch and crumple to the floor.  Cindy attempts to help them but collapses.)

CASEY:  If only…some hint of emotion…in his voice!  (She passes out.)

FLEX:  I’ll unplug the TV!

JOE BUCK:  Certainly…..the two……..best teams………are in………the World…Series.

FLEX:  Unplug…TV…and turn on the…radio.  (Flex collapses in front of the flat screen.  The entire Malarky family is unconscious as Joe Buck’s grating, life-sucking voice drones on and on and on…)

Six Native Americans Angry Over the Name “Redskins”

 

WASHINGTON, D.C.-(AP) How long will the Washington Redskins stay the Redskins? The professional football team has long been the focus of controversy for what some consider a defamatory name, and after 17 years of legal wrangling, the Supreme Court may hear a suit that could revoke the Washington Redskins federal protection of their name and logo. On Sept. 14, six Native Americans with way too much time on their hands petitioned the high court to hear their appeal.

 

“I think people will look back on this case 20 years from now, and really wonder why this was ever considered a debatable issue,” says Chief Hihowareya, an attorney representing the Native Americans pro bono in the suit.

 

“Redskin is the most derogatory word you can use to describe a Native American,” says Load of Bull, founder of the International Indian Treaty Council. The term originates from the bounty-hunting days, when colonies and companies would pay settlers for dead American Indians.

 

“Scalps, called redskins were used as trophies and proof because it was too difficult to carry the entire body, says Sunny To Partly Cloudy, one of the plaintiffs in the suit. “This term describes a heinous act,” Cloudy adds.

 

“How would you like it if an NFL team was called the New York Crackers or the Philadelphia Honkys?” Load of Bull asked a white reporter.

 

“I’d say ‘Who gives a shit?’” responded the reporter.  “We have soldiers dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, the swine flu may kill thousands in the U.S. this winter, the economy is still in the tank, millions of Americans have been unemployed for far too long, healthcare costs are still sky-rocketing while our filthy rich politicians still can’t figure out a way to make some reforms…and you’re upset that the NFL team in Washington…since 1937…is called the Redskins?  Where were you in 1937?  1957?  In the 1970s?  80s?  Now you care???  Hey, my great-grandmother is Danish and Norwegian, so the name Minnesota Vikings offends me!”

 

“My grandfather worked in a meat factory, so the name Green Bay Packers offends me!” said another reporter.  “And he is the one Irishman who doesn’t have a bad temper, so the name Notre Dame Fighting Irish offends the hell outta me!”

 

“I’m a Quaker,” said another reporter.  “How dare the University of Pennsylvania use the name Quakers for their sports teams!  Quakers don’t play sports!  We just wear funny hats and eat oatmeal!  Change those names!  What do you think of that?  Change all the names to the Honkys!  Who gives a shit?!  Did you know that in 2004, the Annenberg Public Policy Center at the University of Pennsylvania asked 768 Native Americans whether they were offended by the Washington Redskins’ name?  About 90 percent of those polled said they were not bothered, and only 9 percent said they found the team name offensive.* And 100% of those 90% said ‘Who gives a shit?’**”

 

At that, Load of Bull, Chief Hihowareya and Sunny To Partly Cloudy were silent.  “Well,” said Bull as he puffed on his peace pipe which clearly offended the non-smokers.  “I guess now is a bad time to mention that we’re also suing the Atlanta Braves, Chicago Blackhawks, Cleveland Indians and Kansas City Chiefs…”

 

*True!

**Not true!

 

From the unpublished autobiography of Flex Malarky, 40, of West Chester, PA:

 

March.  The third month of the year.  One of seven months that has 31 days in it.  The vernal or spring equinox arrives the twenty-first day in the northern hemisphere and with it the swing of bats for millions of Little Leaguers around the world.  Nothing like a fine spring day and watching one’s own son or daughter playing baseball or softball.  My son plays lacrosse in the spring…thank God.

 

My memories of Little League are not fond ones.  I’ll be the first to admit that I was probably the first pre-teen baseball player who had to frequent the proctologist’s office once a month to have splinters removed from my ass…but my parents and I should have seen this coming from that very first day when Coach Ashwell addressed the team…

 

(SCENE:  A blubbery-gutted man wearing the baseball cap of the Tornadoes.  He is standing before a small crowd of parents and their sons who are seated on bleachers beside the baseball field.  He is holding a clipboard and a pen is wedged behind his beefy left ear.)

 

COACH:  Good evening, folks!  Now that the tryouts and draft have been completed, I’d like to welcome you all to the Tornado family!  My name is Burt Ashwell and I’ll be your kid’s coach.  This is my first year coaching so you’ll have to bear with me.  I don’t really know much about coaching or baseball for that matter, but I wanted to coach my son, Kevin, to ensure he’ll be pitching and batting clean-up every game.  Unlike your kids, my son will play every inning of every game.  I’ll make sure he gets on the All-Star team and hopefully gets noticed by the county so that he can participate on that team at the end of our season and ultimately make it to Williamsport where he’ll be assured a college scholarship in a few years.

 

What I’ll be looking to teach your kids this season is that life ain’t fair.  If I don’t like you, your kids will have less playing time.  What I’m asking for is a little ass-kissing and none of this talking-behind-my-back bullshit because ultimately I have the power and you don’t.  Don’t try to live out your miserable lives through the lives of your youth, cause you’ll just be more despondent as he makes ass prints on the bench.

 

Practices will be held twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I’ll hand out schedules for Saturday’s games.  Practices will consist of me spending most of my time with my son and whoever he’s practicing with at the moment.  If your child cannot bat well, I’ll teach him how to get hit by a pitch.  If he starts to play better than my son, I’ll bench him.

 

Here are forms for selling soft pretzels to raise money so that all of the coaches and their sons can afford the trip to Williamsport.  Please take one and pass the rest of them around.

 

Finally, remind your kid to have fun out there unless we’re losing.  I’m not in this to lose.  Vince Lombardi once said something about winning but I’m not sure what it was cause I never read his book, but I loved Lombardi’s attitude.  Yeah, I know he coached football.  But football is a way better sport than baseball and unfortunately my son’s football camp doesn’t start until July so baseball is what we have to deal with now.   

 

Oh yeah…and for the coach’s gift at the end of the season?  You can get me a gift certificate to that ritzy steakhouse in town.  Make sure it’s enough for me and my wife as well as to cover the tip.  Go Tornadoes!!!