| | | 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 22
... in which our hero helps A-Rod with an affair of the heart.
The upside about all my head injuries is I don't have to quit doing what I love because of it, the way Troy Aikman does.
In fact, you say "head injury," I say "job opportunity."
Last week, my friend Puker and I are on the tarmac ready to wing home in Jeanie Buss' Gulfstream after helping Venus Williams win the Ericsson (see Chapter 21), and whose plane taxis up but that of Tiger Woods? The Tiger-dude is on old buddy. He's on his way to the Masters.
"The Slam's in your pocket, Tiger-dude," I say.
"Sure, except if it's close on the back nine on Sunday, Wheels," Tiger whispers, "I'll have to pump it up on the driver. I have to keep the ball in the fairway. It wouldn't hurt to have a little insurance."
We try it out right there on the runway. Tiger clubs a few 300-yarders. I pretend the ball's slicing toward me, and it's about to land in the rough or out-of-bounds or over the green. I see the white speck coming out of the sun. Run under it. Head the golf ball back the right way. Like in soccer.
I say adios to Puker and fly to Augusta with Tiger to practice. The good news is, down the stretch he doesn't need me nodding drives back into a good lie. The bad news is, after a few days of practice, I forget my name and can't hold onto my toothbrush.
There's still a strange, metallic taste in my mouth. But I don't know if that's from Tiger's well-struck golf balls slamming me or the Xtreme Nachos with Seared Black Forest Pork Chili that Stu Getzler's pushing now that I'm back at Lore's Sports Bar.
I owe my recovery to Janine. She's been helping me remember drink orders on my shift. And off shift, well, she's keeping every part of me in good working order.
I don't care if she's making her move because she knows Jeanie Buss is bent out of shape over the condition of her jet when she got it back. And I don't care if I'm starting to go soft on her because I'm seeing two Janines with two tongue studs every time I look.
Anyway, I know my brain is totally back to normal functioning when I'm able to ask myself the question: "How can a guy making a quarter of a billion dollars be so unhappy?"
I ask myself this when A-Rod comes into town for the Rangers' first trip to Anaheim this season and right away when he sits down he orders the Yankees games turned off on all the TVs we've got.
"Anytime the Rangers are in town I don't want to come in here and see any damn Bronx Bomber game on the television," A-Rod yells.
Stu Getzler's face is as red as grenadine.
"How do you say 'no' to a man making a quarter of a billion dollars?" Stu tells me, after he's submitted to changing channels.
| ![Alex Rodriguez](http://espn.go.com/media/mlb/2001/0322/photo/a_arod_sp.jpg) | Alex Rodriguez is tired of watching Derek Jeter win everything -- including the ladies' hearts. | "Damn Jeter," A-Rod keeps muttering. He's switched to a new cocktail we've invented at Lore's -- the Edison Breeze, which is four parts rum on the rocks with a dash of Mike Scioscia's personally chewed sunflower seed oil.
"I thought you and Jeter patched things up," I say. "You're best buds again, I thought."
"That's what little Jetey thinks," A-Rod says. "I got nothing against him as a player. It's just ... look at the women he dates. Mariah Carey. Miss Universe. They're all at his feet. Look at me -- I'm just as good-looking. I make more money ... and yet -- nada."
Suddenly A-Rod looks around, and he zeroes in on Janine.
Janine can feel radar-lock better than most women.
"Maybe I could have you driven down to the game tonight in my personal limousine, bella Janine," A-Rod says to Janine.
Janine looks at me.
"I don't think that's a primo idea, A-Rod, dude," I say. "She's already penciled in on my batting order."
A-Rod doesn't take being charged with an error too well, I discover.
"Wheeler," Stu Getzler screams in my ear, "keep the customers happy."
I want to say that's always what I'm aiming for, but that and letting some dude walk out of the bar with my squeeze are two different courses.
"I will pay you one million dollars to take your girlfriend ... this Janine ... as my personal guest to Edison Field tonight, Wheeler," A-Rod says with a big smile.
You know what the Big Smile means. It means more than a ballpark hotdog.
For a second I think to myself how much good I could do with a million dollars. How far that could go toward eliminating the threat posed by Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, the fight against which I've dedicated my life to. A fight made even more difficult by the President's latest workplace regulation rollbacks.
What's a little humiliation in the face of eliminating the CTS scourge?
But it doesn't take long for me to rip that kind of thinking down the line and out of the park. If you're living, you might as well live it Xtreme.
"Keep your money, you can't have Janine, Mr. All-Star shortstop," I say. "But what do you think of this babe?"
I pull out the Playboy picture of Jeanie Buss that I keep behind the bar as kind of vision therapy.
"She is a fine woman. This would make Derek Jeter's insides crumble," A-Rod laughs. "Baby Face will go oh-for-20. Get taken out on double plays when he thinks of me with such a fine woman."
"I'll arrange for her to meet you, A-Rod, dude," I say. "Only one word of caution: Phil Jackson might try to kill you."
"Phil Jackson? Who is this Phil Jackson? I am worth a quarter of a billion dollars."
He's still laughing to himself as he walks away holding Jeanie Buss's phone number in his hand.
A hundred dollar tip isn't a million-buck check. But this is one time Carpel Tunnel Syndrome has to take a backseat to love.
Next week: In Chapter 23, Kurt Warner asks our hero to kill his mother.
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