Here is an excerpt from “The Global Athletic Legitimacy League,” one of 10 short stories contained in Doug Wolter’s new book “Absolute Summer and Other Stories.” In the humorous story “The Global Athletic Legitimacy League,” Steve, Tom, Bernie and Vince escape their hum-drum lives bi-weekly in the sanctuary of Steve’s basement to solve all the sporting world’s most intractable issues as founding members of GALL. What follows are the exploits of our four heroes, a few connected episodes in which their wives and acquaintances play a part.
“Absolute Summer and Other Stories” may be purchased at the author’s discount at a book signing from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Nov. 13 at the Daily Globe. The author looks forward to seeing you there.
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Revolted about the fact that rhythmic gymnastics was ever an Olympic sport, the Global Athletic Legitimacy League (GALL), consisting of Steve, Tom, Bernie and Vince, decided to meet in Steve’s basement and determine once and for all what constitutes a legitimate sporting activity.
The meeting lasted two and a half hours and required the consuming of three family-size bags of pretzels, seven tacos and 13 cans of lite beer. When the official meeting ended, the following legislation was agreed to: A real sport must, by rule, involve strenuous physical activity and not just mental exercises (thereby eliminating chess, checkers, card games and so-called gymnastics spectacles where women dress up in fairy costumes and flit around on their tippy-toes) AND must also involve a ball, puck, gun or motorized vehicle. There were certain exceptions made for the following non-ball sports — wrestling (not pro style), boxing, skiing and archery. Competitive eating was debated, then rejected on the grounds that it was just stupid.
The resolution was hereby agreed upon unanimously in spite of Tom’s pointing out that, according to the new rules, cycling — meaning the Tour de France — would not be covered as a sport.
Vince said he was OK with that, and the meeting was adjourned.
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Not at all in the mood for a casserole, Bernie Cravatz sat on a stool at Mildred’s Downtown Café, perusing the day’s version of USA Today, and he read aloud to the guy seated next to him, local farmer Gary Bryngelson, about something funny that happened across the ocean in China. Seemed that some Chinese government officials were reprimanded for dining on a rare salamander.
“Those things are delicacies,” responded Mr. Bryngelson between sips of black coffee.
“Yeah? What do you know about it?” said Bernie, quick-witted as always.
“I got a batch of them things just the other day,” said Bryngelson. “Tastes like chicken.”
“And where do you go get them things?” said Bernie, thinking he had him this time.
“I get ‘em over at the Hy-Vee. … In the salamander section, next to the fish sticks.”
This kind of repartee goes on all the time at Mildred’s Downtown Café, by the way. It is the place to go for humor, which is sadly going out of style if you ask Gary Bryngelson.
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At Friday’s GALL meeting, Bernie introduced a guest analyst, his brother-in-law Bill, who confirmed his good faith by carrying with him a large plastic jar stuffed with individually-wrapped beef jerky ropes. Bill was also an experienced Texas hold ‘em player and the GALL members were anxious to get a crack at him.
To become accepted as a guest analyst, one had to (a) be a certified sports fan, and not just someone able to pass himself off as one at parties, (b) vow, under oath, not to be an active supporter of the New York Yankees or Duke Blue Devils (former Yankees or Duke fans were required to write a short essay showing remorse for their past sins), and (c) adhere to a strict code of secrecy.
Potential guests also had to fill out an advance questionnaire, administered by the league secretary, which probed for personality defects. It isn’t quite the intrusion college football seniors are subjected to before the NFL draft, but it is enough to weed out undesirables. One multiple choice question, for instance, asks: “When hosting a Super Bowl party, do you serve (a) pizza, (b) tacos and chili, (c) brats, or (d) Basil Caesar Salad?
You’d be surprised how many people get that one wrong.
Anyway, Bill passed the test and was thrilled to get in on the discussion involving how to deal with the interminable closing minutes of college and NBA basketball games. The problem, as everyone who’s ever watched these things knows, is that the last three minutes can take 40 minutes, the last two minutes 30 minutes, and so on. Tom said watching a tight NBA game in the closing seconds can seem like trying to get to work during rush hour. Bernie said it’s worse than that — it’s like repeatedly arriving at the cure for cancer and being interrupted at the last moment by someone who says, “But first … a word from our sponsor.”
“The Lakers and the Spurs played last night,” testified Steve with the passion of an evangelist, “and I swear when the time clock struck 2:55 the world stopped spinning. I thought time itself had slowed down to a crawl, and then froze altogether. I looked at my own little clock on the mantel and it was at 10:35. Time-out. Then the Lakers had a possession that took 16 seconds. Another time-out. They came back and ran another play. Twelve seconds off the clock. Time-out. Over and over again it went. I looked at the clock on my mantel: 10:55. I looked at the game clock in the corner of my TV set: 2:07 remaining. Another play, another time-out. More commercials. I was beginning to see the same commercials I’d seen only 20 seconds earlier. They went back to the game. More standing around. Talking. Coaches giving instructions to players. Players looking off into space, wondering THEMSELVES if they were EVER going to get to finish this stupid game so they could go home to their everlovin’ families. I should have gone to bed, but I just had to watch. Why? I don’t know. I was stuck in an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone’ and I couldn’t get out. Finally, as I could feel my beard growing like Rip Van Winkle, the game clock fell under one minute. But there were more time-outs. With every new possession there was a new time-out. I covered my mouth because I felt like I would have to scream. I could no longer bear to look at the clock on my mantel — I no longer wanted to know exactly how much more of my life I let waste away trying to come to the conclusion of this game. I don’t know. It must have been past midnight when the game finally ended. The final two seconds went by in slow-motion. I fell down to my knees and prayed. Thank you, God, it didn’t go overtime!”
It was a highly successful GALL meeting, everyone agreed. The poker game had a special feel to it, thanks mostly to Bill’s new money, and his beef jerky ropes went down well with the beer. But the highlight was, without a doubt, Steve’s speech about the Lakers-Spurs marathon. It was a stem-winder to go down in the annals of the greatest Global Athletic Legitimacy League speeches ever, and it instantly sucked out of the room any whiff of wimpishness regarding what they all knew they had to do to save basketball from itself.
Vince offered a motion that college and NBA basketball teams be limited to no more than two time-outs inside the final two minutes of every game, thus speeding the flow to a more satisfying conclusion.
But that wasn’t good enough for Bernie, who proposed that one time-out would be even better.
“The Speech,” which is what it would be called ever after, had been that powerful. Bernie’s motion was seconded. And it was carried. Unanimously. Then they all applauded themselves and carried Steve up the basement stairs on their shoulders, never dropping him once.
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For three days Doris Hardtack moped around the house in a deep funk. Finally, pulling his head out of the sports section, Vince asked her, “What’s goin’ on?”
Since for Vince this kind of response was as close as he ever came to offering genuine sympathy, Doris told him that she felt the urge to write the story of her life. Doris was a voracious reader and had been devouring a biography about Oprah Winfrey, and she explained to her husband that she thought she was now ready to wax eloquent in print about her own life.
“So what’s the problem?” Vince shrugged, diverting his eyes off of her and onto a preview of the upcoming NFL draft.
“The problem is that my life is boring. What have I done with my life? Surely nothing of any importance that anybody would care to read about,” Doris said, hoping against common sense that her inattentive mate might say something to turn her melancholy around.
Vince thought for a moment. He recalled to her the four children the two of them raised together, all of them who turned out to be fine human beings. He recalled all those years she served as treasurer of their church, and that time 17 years ago that she saved the congregation $4,000 just because she happened to notice something nobody else noticed. He mentioned how she’s such a great cook, and that she’s always kept the house so clean for her family and for visitors.
“That should count for something,” he continued.
He mentioned her gift for giving, about the time they put up the Viskers in their basement for six weeks after their roof got a hole in it from that June storm so many summers ago. And how Mrs. Visker said Doris was the nicest person she’s ever met, and that Mrs. Visker said she was determined to help a needy person just because of Doris Hardtack’s inspiration.
Vince went back further. He recalled how Doris made it through college in less than four years while working for next to nothing in that cheesy Country Kitchen restaurant. “Oh, the stories you could tell,” Vince went on.
Doris just stood there and listened. The frown had disappeared from her face. Vince kept droning on and on, dredging up the past and remembering their years together.
“But I never had my own TV show like Oprah did,” she interjected mildly. “I’ll never be rich and famous, not for as long as I live. Nobody will remember me when I’m gone.”
Vince threw down his newspaper. “And what am I, a nobody?”
That night the Hardtacks went out to eat at the local Perkins Restaurant. Then they returned home and plopped in the DVD they had of Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” …
- “Absolute Summer and Other Stories” can be purchased for the author’s discount price of $12 at a Nov. 13 book signing at the Daily Globe.