Read Online Life Its Ownself by Dan Jenkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Dan Jenkins
Tags: Fiction, General, Performing Arts, Texas, History & Criticism, Television, Football Stories, Television Broadcasting
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have to stay. If they like the pilot, we'll go right into episodes. You have to recuperate, anyhow. Do it with room service."
"I'll think about it."
"No, you won't think about it, you'll get on a fucking plane and you'll be here!"
Our conversation ended after I yawned—the pills were starting to kick in—and said, "Barb, I didn't mean to start an argument. You have too big an edge. Women can't remember pain."
THREE
Dreamer Tatum was the first person to autograph the cast on my knee the next afternoon, but his visit to the hospital was only partly social.
"We need you, Clyde," he worked up to saying. "We need you more than ever now. You can put your limp on the media, look real pained, and say, 'God, grant me the strength to march with my buddies.' We can do some shit with your ass, baby."
Dreamer was vice-president of the NFL Players Association, and what he wanted more than anything in the world, what he had always wanted, even more than another vintage Mercedes, was a strike.
He wanted football players to become auto workers, coal miners, teachers, machinists, garbage collectors, public- utility employees, and elevator operators.
For the fourth time in his career, Dreamer was trying to encourage all of the players on all of the teams in the National Football League—about 1,300 guys—to walk off the job. Quit. Not play football. And stay on a picket line for as long as it would take to force the twenty-eight owners to pay us more money and give us more freedom of movement, to put it in simple terms.
I had never been in favor of a strike. I had debated the issue at other times with Dreamer and Puddin Patterson. In my judgment, a strike had no chance to succeed, and never would, for an excellent reason that I now put to Dreamer in the form of a question.
"How the fuck can you picket a yacht?"
"They got the tents but we got the dog acts, baby," Dreamer said. "We have the 'names.' You'd be a great spokesman for us, Clyde."
"You can't win, Dreamer. The owners have too much of that born-rich money behind them. They're members of the Lucky Sperm Club. You guys strike and they'll cancel the season, start over next year with new players."
"They need the 'names.'"
"You know how long it takes to make a 'name'? One headline."
"Sixty-five percent of the guys are ready to go out now. The rest will follow if we can get more people like you involved."
"How much have you got in the bank, Dreamer? Even if you sell all your cars, you can't live the rest of your life on it. A football team is just another toy to an owner. In the spring, they sail regattas around their off-shore drilling rigs. You strike and you're history. The Players Association will be the Window Cleaners Association. The dope dealers will be all right, but they're still the minority."
Dreamer said, "You don't understand about rich dudes. They hate to lose money worse than anybody. If we go out, they blow fifteen million apiece on their TV contract."
"Pocket change. A franchise is worth seventy, eighty million now."
"The common man's on our side, Clyde."
"The common man doesn't know shit about us or them. The common man thinks Vince Lombardi's still alive. All the common man cares about is something to bet on besides ice dancing. How do you bet on that—which one has the tits?"
"Clyde, you could double your salary if you were a free agent. Thought about that?"
"Not now, I couldn't," I said, glancing at the cast on my leg.
"The thing we're trying to do, man, is get us a salary scale that's determined by the players, not the jive-ass owners."
"I know what you're trying to do," I said. "I read in the paper where you said our demands are 'etched in stone.' That's a great way to bargain."
"You talk tough in the papers. That's what newspapers are for."
The free-agent issue had been a nagging one in pro football for years. Pro football was the only professional team sport that didn't have free agents. It worked like this: if you played out your
"I'll think about it."
"No, you won't think about it, you'll get on a fucking plane and you'll be here!"
Our conversation ended after I yawned—the pills were starting to kick in—and said, "Barb, I didn't mean to start an argument. You have too big an edge. Women can't remember pain."
THREE
Dreamer Tatum was the first person to autograph the cast on my knee the next afternoon, but his visit to the hospital was only partly social.
"We need you, Clyde," he worked up to saying. "We need you more than ever now. You can put your limp on the media, look real pained, and say, 'God, grant me the strength to march with my buddies.' We can do some shit with your ass, baby."
Dreamer was vice-president of the NFL Players Association, and what he wanted more than anything in the world, what he had always wanted, even more than another vintage Mercedes, was a strike.
He wanted football players to become auto workers, coal miners, teachers, machinists, garbage collectors, public- utility employees, and elevator operators.
For the fourth time in his career, Dreamer was trying to encourage all of the players on all of the teams in the National Football League—about 1,300 guys—to walk off the job. Quit. Not play football. And stay on a picket line for as long as it would take to force the twenty-eight owners to pay us more money and give us more freedom of movement, to put it in simple terms.
I had never been in favor of a strike. I had debated the issue at other times with Dreamer and Puddin Patterson. In my judgment, a strike had no chance to succeed, and never would, for an excellent reason that I now put to Dreamer in the form of a question.
"How the fuck can you picket a yacht?"
"They got the tents but we got the dog acts, baby," Dreamer said. "We have the 'names.' You'd be a great spokesman for us, Clyde."
"You can't win, Dreamer. The owners have too much of that born-rich money behind them. They're members of the Lucky Sperm Club. You guys strike and they'll cancel the season, start over next year with new players."
"They need the 'names.'"
"You know how long it takes to make a 'name'? One headline."
"Sixty-five percent of the guys are ready to go out now. The rest will follow if we can get more people like you involved."
"How much have you got in the bank, Dreamer? Even if you sell all your cars, you can't live the rest of your life on it. A football team is just another toy to an owner. In the spring, they sail regattas around their off-shore drilling rigs. You strike and you're history. The Players Association will be the Window Cleaners Association. The dope dealers will be all right, but they're still the minority."
Dreamer said, "You don't understand about rich dudes. They hate to lose money worse than anybody. If we go out, they blow fifteen million apiece on their TV contract."
"Pocket change. A franchise is worth seventy, eighty million now."
"The common man's on our side, Clyde."
"The common man doesn't know shit about us or them. The common man thinks Vince Lombardi's still alive. All the common man cares about is something to bet on besides ice dancing. How do you bet on that—which one has the tits?"
"Clyde, you could double your salary if you were a free agent. Thought about that?"
"Not now, I couldn't," I said, glancing at the cast on my leg.
"The thing we're trying to do, man, is get us a salary scale that's determined by the players, not the jive-ass owners."
"I know what you're trying to do," I said. "I read in the paper where you said our demands are 'etched in stone.' That's a great way to bargain."
"You talk tough in the papers. That's what newspapers are for."
The free-agent issue had been a nagging one in pro football for years. Pro football was the only professional team sport that didn't have free agents. It worked like this: if you played out your
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