But the greatest part about that assignment was meeting John Wooden, who died on Friday at the age of 99.

When I heard on the radio on Friday that Wooden was in the hospital in grave condition, I was sad at first as we all are when you get bad news about a person you love. I don’t know John Wooden as a friend or even as an acquaintence. I met him once, speaking with him during halftime along with a dozen or so other reporters in a cramped lockeroom at Pauley Pavilion.

Also in the lockeroom were Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Bill Walton, UCLA legends and two of the greatest basketball players of all time. But on that day, and I would venture to guess today as well, they were egoless, gracious students of Coach Wooden.

The Wizard of Westwood has a special place in the hearts of all basketball fans, I think, or would like to believe. He led the Bruins to 10 national titles in a 12 year span, which is crazy, and will never be approached. Ever. But everyone who knows anything about John Wooden knows that, to paraphrase Wooden, you shouldn’t mistake his activity for his accomplishment.

The beauty of Coach Wooden is easy to see, and it was on display that night in 2003 when UCLA was honoring him with a ceremony to name the court at Pauley Pavilion after him. Well, not exactly, because the court wasn’t named after John Wooden. He wouldn’t agree to that.

It was named after Nell and John Wooden, honoring his late wife in an act of simple, humble, humility. If any basketball personality ever earned the right to have the court named after them, it was John Wooden. He doesn’t need to share the spotlight with anyone. He chose to do so.

Farewell, Coach Wooden. We will miss you.

So I was saved further embarrassment.

As I finally found the triple sec on the bottom shelf next to its specialty liquor brethren, I snagged the bottle and slowly made my way to the counter. Ms Shifty had a wild-haired pony tail and was sporting an ate up pair of jeans and a dirty T-shirt without a bra. My first impression was that she was a basehead.

She couldn’t stand still, kept touching her arm, touching her face, looking left and right. This was all in less than a minute as she spoke superfast and supersketchy to the counter guy.

“Gimme a lighter. The cheep ones, man. What are those fifty cents? Ok. Here you go.”

That’s when her cellphone rang and she proceeded to have what I felt was a fairly private conversation, at cheerleader volume, right in front of us. This wasn’t a speakerphone convo, so I guess she gets credit for that much restraint.

She had already paid for the lighter and had seemingly no reason to still be in the liquor store. I mean, yes, I’m a guy buying booze at 11 a.m. on a Sunday, and yes, the counter guy isn’t exactly a civic leader, but when your conversation is so explicitly about getting crack and smoking crack, I would think you would keep that shit on the DL.

But not Ms Shifty.

“Hey, yeah, I’m down here looking for my guy right now. What? He said he was going to smoke a gram with me. Who? Stacy? What? She went to Indiana without me? I know that bitch didn’t go to Indiana without me…”

That’s about when the counter guy looked at me with eyes that said “welcome to my everyday all day” as he gave me the receipt for the bottle.

“So, uh, which po-lice station you work at,”  he said.

This brought out a good laugh from the one other guy who was listening. The rest of the guys drinking beer and sitting on lawn chairs or milk crates in the alley between North and Le Moyne basically went back to doing that and not paying attention to me.

“I don’t work for the police, man,” I responded with a grin, hoping he was joking.

“Yes you do. You saying you ain’t the guy who arrested me around the corner in ’72?”

“Shit, I wasn’t even alive in ’72.”

“Man, I’m just fuckin wit you.”

That was good to hear. Only a few minutes into my first neighborly act of goodwill, it didn’t take long for the obvious joke to pop up: I’m white, therefore, I’m po-lice.

This was about a week after moving into our new place in Humboldt Park. We were still getting settled and were still getting used to the neighborhood, which was described in real estate talk as “changing over” or “in transition.”

Adjacent to all the fun shit in Wicker Park and Bucktown, Humboldt Park has a lot of great things to offer in terms of location and the park itself is amazing, and only a few blocks away. There is still gang activity with all that has to offer. There is a general lack of respect for communal areas with trash dropped seemingly where the fuck ever. There are market rate homes next to boarded up crapshacks and subsidized apartments.

This was not unexpected, but as part of the gentrifying horde spreading its way west of Western Avenue, I am not feeling the shitty parts of the neighborhood. But whatever. I do feel uneasy in terms of being the carpetbagger, outsider, invading presence, etc. This is a self-imposed feeling I believe, for the most part, as all my new neighbors have been courteous. All have said hello when I said hello. All waved back when I waved.

But the cable guy, who said he used to “run the streets over here”, said he had to move to the South Side because it got too wild over here “in the old days.” He also told the joke/truism that back in the day if you saw a white person running through the park the homeboys would look behind them to see who was chasing their ass. “Now it’s people jogging and walking their dog, crazy.”

So when I stepped out of my front door on the first morning we lived there, with my inlaws in tow, I took it in stride when I saw three cars with their windows busted out and two with all four tires slashed. They weren’t our cars. This was obviously a personal beef, so we said “look at that” and went up to Logan Square for breakfast.

This hypothesis about personal beef was confirmed when the grapevine told me that another house had an arson fire in its garage a few weeks prior, torching the owner’s classic car. Seems fair enough.

When I got a text message from my upstairs neighbor that said “Did anyone call an ambulance?”, I simply responded “Not us” and didn’t tell my wife.

When I got the mail a few days later and saw the Cook County CrimeStoppers poster asking for info about a murder that happend last fall a few blocks away, I looked at the victim’s photo and though how sad it was for a kid that young to be dead. Later that week I saw several of these posters ripped in half or defaced along North Avenue, telling me not everyone around the way feels so sad for the kid.

For the first few days in Humboldt Park, I waved to everyone I passed in the alley or on the street, walking or driving. The ones who recognized me the most were the boys in the alley. Just north of LeMoyne, they hang out most all the time, sitting on both sides of the speed bump with their plastic chairs and cheap beers.

When I cruised past that first Saturday morning, I was heading to the South Loop to pick up the dry cleaning I left there before we moved. I said hello at the speed bump and was greeted by one guy on a bicycle who asked me for money.

“I’m not going to lie, man, I need a beer.”

“Nah, man. Tell you what though, I will be drinking beer later anyway, and I will stop down and have one with you,” I responded, feeling a little offended that I was getting the tourist treatment

They weren’t buying that story, but said “OK have a good one, son.”

When I got back, I took the six-pack of Budweiser I picked up along the way and walked down to the boys. Before I got down there, I ran into a couple of the boys. Holding up the sixer, I greeted them and asked with a smile where they were going.

Cowboy said he had to go finish up a piece of cement work. “Got to make it pretty to get paid,” taking a pull off his Natie Light.

Tall — at least 6-4 — and with high pants, Cowboy has catchers gloves for hands and an even bigger grin.

“Go ahead down there with Gary and them. That’s all family down there.”

Peeling one off the plastic for Cowboy and one for myself, I have never thought of Budweiser as a high dollar brew, but I got to say, I was showing class that day. Above the surprise of my return (He came back, yo!”), there was the quick yes please to the King of Beers.

“Bud, oh shit, I’ll take one of those.” Six pack gone.

The boys ranged in age from later 30s, looking like 47, to early 60s, looking like more than that. “I’ve been knowing Cowboy for more than 40 years,” said one of the old heads, who had lived in Humboldt Park on and off for most his life.

They asked me where I was from and how old I was, but when I went to say which house I had moved into, they stopped me short and said they already knew. “Across the way from Ken and them…”

When the beer was gone I stomped my can and tossed it behind the fence, as Jerry kind of scolded me for actually putting it in the garbage can the first time. I had lived in a South Loop high rise for three years and not shared a beer with a single person in that building. I don’t think this simple act erased my outsider status, but it did make me feel like I was their neighbor.

This was validated a few days later when I was going to the park to run and saw Gary across the street. He smiled, and waved before calling out to me.

“Hey Mike, howyadoin?”

My name’s not Mike, but whatever, that was good enough for me.

That brief pleasure was immediately trumped by dread since in my haste to jump on the train I forgot that I was on the north side of Lake Street, meaning this train was heading to the West Side, which was not where the fuck I wanted to go.

After changing to the other side of the tracks and catching the next inbound train, I sat down just as the conductor blurted the announcement that the doors were closing. It wasn’t a regular recorded announcement, but one that the driver has to say at each station, saying it with more displeasure each time.

“That’s that new shit they have to say, hear that?” the guy sitting in front of me said.

“Yeah, what because of that lady and the baby?” I said after realizing he was talking to me.

We went on to talk over the story of the mother who said her baby was sent flying off a platform when the stroller was caught in a closing door. There was a lot of stuff in the news about how the story might have been screwy, but we weren’t sure. But, the CTA was in the midst of figuring out this nightmare, and the announcements were a quick response.

“My name’s Sincere,” he said, offering his right hand to mine.

“I’m Sean, nice to meet you Sincere.”

He was out job hunting this morning, having just meet with a job placement agency. Said he had to be there super early and whatnot and got one lead out of it, but the interview wasn’t for another few days. He thought the interview would be today, but the lady said no.

“You heard of this?” he said, showing me the appointment card that had Hudson News listed as company looking to hire.

“Um yeah, that’s the place at the airport that sells magazines and overpriced snacks and candy. Maybe they have other locations, but I know they are at the airport for sure.”

We were almost to my stop and I started drifting off to my work day. Sincere was still talking about needing to get work, asking me a few more questions about Hudson News. I wondered if it would be weird working at the airport, being around a bunch of people all in a rush to go who knows where all day long, when all you have to look forward to is work.

As I got up to get off the train, we shook hands again, wishing each other well. Stepping onto the platform at Roosevelt under the flutter of two dozen pigeons, I glanced down the road at the aquarium and then looked back at Sincere, waving to him even though he wasn’t looking.

The gnat floating in the iced tea doesn’t know that it’s a part of something more.

It’s just drowning in the crushed ice and my Dad’s proprietary blend of powdered tea and lemonade.

But the tea, the bug, the sawdust coating my jeans and boots, the muggy afternoon, that lazy breeze and those Labs trying to coax us toward the swimming pool are all part of it.

Baseball, to us, was an afternoon of leisury labor with the Cubs game on the radio as our timekeeper. That pile of logs won’t last the first inning. What did Harry just say? We can have everything done and on the stack by the vegetable garden before three are in the books.

After that, we break for lunch. Lunch means thick slices of ham on hearty bread with corn chips on the side, another round of tea and the game on TV. We usually took the tea out to the pool. Those dogs are persuasive. And there is a radio in the shed, so we can hear the end of the game while Nick fetches the boat bumper and shakes out his coat on us.

Sometimes we listened to the game while we drove to the hardware store. Baseball on the radio is a must for a trip to town, and there’s always a reason to go to the hardware store.

That felt natural. Because, for us, baseball was a road trip; a transient experience spent looking out the back of a station wagon.

We went to the arch in St. Louis before we sat out a long rain delay to see Jerome Walton extend his hitting streak during his rookie season.

We went to County Stadium for a Brewers game and a swarm of bugs showered down all night as they died in the lights. It was so bad, we moved up to the cheaper seats to take cover. That was the same year Grandma died and our house burned.

One time, my Mom took me — without my Dad or older brother — to Comiskey Park. I couldn’t have been 10. We sat in left center. Home plate looked 100 miles away.

Dad didn’t go when we saw our first game at Wrigley Field — in fact, he didn’t cross Addison and Clark until this year. He missed seeing Hawk belt two home runs against the Astros. That was the first curtain call I’d seen in person.

In Cincinnati, we saw the Hit King at Riverfront, and a legendary rollercoaster and miniature Eiffel Tower.

Other than Wrigley, those ballparks exist only in our memories now. The Cardinals, Brewers, White Sox and Reds all have new digs. Even the Triple-A team in Indy has a new stadium downtown.

Stadiums are turned into parking lots all the time now. The Indians’ old one — Busch Stadium — was turned into a 1/4 mile dirt track and renamed 16th Street Speedway.

You didn’t always have to do a lot of driving to catch a game. There was one at Loeb about every day of the spring and summer between the high schools, American Legion, the Colt World Series and the Leopards (for a few years).

It was all played there next to the zoo with the monkeys, the giant slide, the putt-putt, the custard stand and the pizza place that promises a free pie for a player who hits a homer over the sign in left field.

Baseball, to me, recently was walking into this store that mainly sells T-shirts with catchy slogans, but also hawks trinkets and bottle openers with your favorite team logo, as well as other clothes. (I got a pair of Dickie’s for five bones from this discount bin.)

It had been years since I bought cads, since after the house fire. I bought three wax packs from 1991. It was like picking up where I left off half a life ago.

I was surprised that the packs were 50 cents each. I’m pretty sure they cost that in 1990, or at least that much. I started peeling them open on the walk to this tapas spot on Sheffield. Two of the first three cards out of the Donruss pack were Detroit Tigers — Lou Whitaker and a 50 home run club card of Cecil Fielder.

In 1990, Royals rookie Kevin Appier won 12 games and almost threw a no-hitter. You know who had the only hit?

Lou Whitaker. Why do I know that? It’s on the back of Appier’s card I got in the Score pack.

It’s not just nostalgia. Baseball, to me, is also the present. It’s walking into the visitor’s dugout at Wrigley Field, and seeing a friend from high school. Since the last time we saw each other — in a similar setting a few thousand miles to the West — he played in the World Series.

We didn’t talk about that though. It didn’t even come up.

We were too busy discussing his four-month old daughter, who arrived — with a sense of timing — on the eve of spring  training.

When I sat in the left-center bleachers for a Sox game a few weeks later, I didn’t notice the play on the field as much as the questions parents kept fielding from little boys and girls who couldn’t have been happier.

Baseball, on this day, is the story of love between a parent and a child on a sweltering afternoon on the South Side.

Baseball is for kids, even when we grow up. Because the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd and the call of the hot dog vendor all can provide a timeless feeling.

And that feeling is well worth the price of admission.

It was a typical Thursday afternoon. The regulars were shooting pool in the back, coming to the bar every so often for another round. There were a few tables filled with patrons having a late lunch.

Jerry leaned on the rail with his back to the bar. He almost felt guilty about not being more productive.

Fuck it, he thought. Let the next guy worry about it.

Instead of starting a round of dishes or dumping ashtrays or checking the kegs, he turned up the volume on the television that was hanging from the ceiling behind the bar.

Just as he began to get into the E! True Hollywood Story about John Holmes and the Wonderland Murders, he heard the tell-tale jingle of the door slapping against the brass bell mounted on the inside of the door jam.

I ought to call the police and report this one for disturbing the peace Jerry thought as a short, bearded man stumbled into the pub. He took his time walking to the bar, not in a straight line, but kind of wandering around like he had never been there before. Jerry sure didn’t know who he was. He just knew he was messing with his TV time.

The short, bearded man wasn’t as drunk as he seemed at first, but he was drunk. He reeked of whiskey, cigarette smoke and maybe a little piss Jerry surmised. Those were three smells that Jerry knew all too well. Along with the odors, the short, bearded man had the requisite light brown stain on his oxford cloth shirt that had three buttons missing at the top.

“What can I do you for?,” asked Jerry, not really caring to know the answer.

“Dewar’s, a double, warm,” said the short, bearded man in a tone that suggested he was surprised that he was being served.

It had been a long day for him and it was just 3:21 p.m.

He rubbed his temple with both hands and tried to get his eyes to focus. No luck. He then scavenged through the pockets of his brown, wool sportcoat for his pack of Kools. The soft pack was smashed and just one smoke remained. He took a paper book of matches that was stuck in between the cellophane wrapper of his Kools and bent one match backwards and struck it without tearing it out of the book.

He lit his bent, crooked cigarette, inhaled deeply and tossed the matches on the bar top. Sighing more than exhaling, he sent a thin blue line into the afternoon sunlight that was invading through the window. He crushed the soft pack tightly in his palm before letting it drop to the bar.

Jerry brought the double shot of Dewar’s to the short, bearded man in a short, square-bottomed glass. He had poured it fat in hopes of a good tip since his shift ended in less than an hour and his day had been for shit so far.

“Six fifty,” said Jerry, noticing the matches with the bulldog logo on them. “You been to Hank’s today?”

“What?” the short, bearded man said while working his wallet of his back pocket.

“Hank’s, the bar. Your matches are from Hank’s,” Jerry said, his voice trailing off giving the man a chance to respond.

“I’ve been to a lot of places today, bud,” said the short, bearded man, handing Jerry a crisp $20 bill.

Walking back to the register, Jerry glanced at him in the Guinness mirror that stood in front of the various bottles of rum, vodka, whiskey, gin and tequila. Jerry noticed the desperate look on the man’s face, but he had seen that a thousand times. There was something about him.

Jerry laid the man’s change down on the time-worn mahogany bar just in time to see him down the rest of the drink. The man, who had spent the early part of the morning in court with his ex-wife, did not show any sign of relief from the double shot. He did not exhale, whistle, cringe or slam the glass down.

He just looked at the empty glass and ran his tongue over his front teeth. Back and forth three times over before motioning for another drink.

“Another double, bud,” he said.

“Fresh glass?,” Jerry asked, while reaching for the Dewar’s.

“This one will do,” he said listening to the hard crack of a new game of pool starting in the back room.

Jerry began to pour the drink, a healthy, four-fingers of whiskey and almost chuckled out loud, but caught himself on the safe side of a grin. In his time tending bar, a dozen or so years, he had always loved watching a man drink silly amounts of whiskey.

“Take it out of this?,” Jerry asked, pointing to the money still resting on the bar.

“Tell you what, bud, you keep that change,” the man said while grabbing for his wallet and pulling out a $100 bill from a stack of money that looked out of place in his raggedy wallet. “Let me know when this runs out and keep those drinks a coming.”

“No problem there,” Jerry said. “Since we’re such good buddies and all, what’s your name partner?”

The man pushed his wallet into the back pocket of his black dress slacks that seemed a burden for him to wear and drank half of the glass down as smoothly as could be.

“Joseph,” he said as he began to feel the warm rush of the whiskey bring him back to life.

“Nice to meet you Joseph, I’m Jerry.”

“You sell smokes?”

“In the machine in the back room,” Jerry said. “There’s a quarter changer next to it.”

Joseph finished his second drink, placed it gently on the bar and slid off his stool. He picked up a $5 from the change of his first drink that Jerry had yet to pick up and showed it to him, letting him know that he hadn’t forgot he was giving him that change one way or another.

Joseph, feeling much better now, slinked back to get a new pack of Kools. The sounds of the pool room, the click-clack of the balls against each other, the shit-talking of the players and the low rumbling of the blues coming from the jukebox, became much louder now that he was paying attention.

The cigarette machine was on the far wall, in the corner, below three small rectangle windows that were covered with wooden blinds. The blinds were half opened, so layered beams of sunlight shot in to the otherwise dark room. A green glass lamp hung from a chain over the pool table, but its light did not extend much past the table.

The song on the jukebox was familiar, but all blues songs sound familiar. It could have been Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray Vaughn or Bo Diddley. Joseph didn’t really care. It was slow, sexy and full of pain. Each pull of the guitar strings gave Joseph a jolt as he made his way towards the cigarette machine.

He noticed the five men in the room. Not as much as they took a look a him, but Joseph saw them none the less. There were the two men playing nine ball, one of them leaning on the fall wall with one foot flat on the wooden surface. He was tall and skinny, wearing a striped colored shirt unbuttoned over his crisp white wife-beater T that was tucked neatly into his pleated slacks. He looked like a pool shark from his polished shoes to the cigarette resting behind his right ear.

His opponent was working the table. He was an average looking younger guy, going bald but wearing a golf visor and sporting long lamb-chop side burns. This average looking guy did not have an average game apparently, working quick too, pocketing three balls before Joseph got to cigarette machine.

Joseph waited for the average looking guy, who Joseph thought was probably still in his 20s because of the baggy jeans he was wearing, to hit his next shot before he slapped the $5 into the changer. As the quarters started pinging down into the tray, the younger looking player shot a glance at Joseph before slamming home the nine ball, a little harder than necessary.

“Now what?!,” exclaimed the younger player, slowly stepping towards the shark. “That’s five straight Curtis. By my math, and I love some math, that’s $150. Pay me now or forever hold my piece.”

“Cool your jets son,” said the shark. “You got a bus to catch or some shit? Yeah you won your couple games or whatever. The question is, are you ready to play for some real jack?”

“Jack these,” the younger player said grabbing his balls and laughing nervously. “If I wanted to do this shit all day I would get a job. Plus, I’m not falling for your shit today Curtis. Pay me. Pay me. Payyyyyyy me.”

For the first time, Joseph felt a little tension in the room as he put the 18^th and final quarter into the machine and pulled the knob. Joseph picked up his pack, began packing it against his palm, and walked over to the jukebox.

He began looking over the selections on the jukebox as the pool players continued to argue.

“You saying that you’re too much of a pussy to play me again, son?” said Curtis. “Is that the problem? You win a couple games and now you want to run away.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever you say Curtis,” said the younger player who was now putting on his hooded sweatshirt. “Look, I have to go. You owe me money. It’s damn simple. I’ve never welched on you before.”

“True enough my man,” said Curtis laughing slightly. Curtis liked the kid’s spirit. Curtis appreciated his skill. The kid wasn’t as good as he was, but he won fair and square.

“Chris, pay the man,” said Curtis to the broad shouldered man playing solitaire at the corner table.

Chris was just as tall as Curtis, but had the build of a weight lifter. He had his head shaved as clean as a marble floor, but had a full, neatly trimmed beard. As he walked around the pool table, Chris pulled a thick money roll from his neatly-pleated slacks.

Chris was kind of in slow motion all the time, but then again he didn’t have to move fast if he didn’t want to. He didn’t smile unless he was making money. He didn’t laugh unless he heard something new. He just was not to be fucked with under any circumstance.

The money roll Chris took out of his pocket looked fake. A half-inch rubber band held what had to be thousands of dollars. He took his thumb, licked it once and peeled three $50 bills off and laid them on the pool table. He then snapped the rubber band back into place, tucked the roll back in his pants and went slowly back to the corner table without saying a word.

“There you go, son,” said Curtis, waving towards the door. “But I tell you this much. There ain’t no more $30 games, son. No, no, no, no, no. The next game you and I play will be for $150 and so will the next one and the one after that big man.”

“Aiight, whatever fellas,” said the now richer younger man. He put his earphones on, pulled his hood up and put his backpack on before leaving the room.

Joseph had made his two selections and started to make his way back to the bar.

“Hey son, you want to play?” Curtis called after Joseph.

“No thanks, dad,” Joseph said without turning around.

“Come on now it’s just a friendly game. Shoot some stick now, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Who said I was feeling bad?” asked Joseph, spinning back on his heels and almost getting fired up until he saw Chris and thought better of it. The whiskey was giving him a mighty buzz and a spot of onory to go with it. “I’m feeling pretty damn good as a matter of fact.”

Joseph downed the rest of his drink and chuckled, more to himself than out loud.

“Shit faced you are, I’ll give you that,” said Curtis, rubbing blue chalk on his tailor-made one-of-a-kind cue. “But no man that drinks whiskey like that and drops quarters on blues songs at 4 o’clock in the afternoon is feeling pretty damn good. Say I ain’t telling the truth.”

“You ain’t lying bout shit,” said Chris without looking up or stopping his solitaire game.

Joseph turned and walked out of the room, ripping the top off of his new pack of Kools, popping one out and lighting it almost in one smooth motion. He made his way back to the bar, where he found Jerry had already laid another four-fingers of Dewar’s in a fresh glass.

“I love your work, bud,” Joseph said. He slid the old glass towards Jerry, who was ringing up one of the tables of people who had a late lunch. They were professionals. Professional what, Joseph couldn’t tell. They were suits. Doctors, lawyers, accountants, whatever and who gives a rat’s ass.

His own suit was feeling awful on him at the moment. A bad morning and a bottle of scotch later, there wasn’t much room to expect anything to the contrary Joseph supposed. Where did he go wrong? Didn’t he always do the right thing? Sure he did. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. It’s a crock of shit, that’s what it is.

He mashed his cigarette into the previously pristine glass ashtray and took a pull off of his drink.

He watched Jerry give the people their change for each separate bill. Each of the four suits had to have their own bill. Bunch of non-trusting fucks. Couldn’t possibly pick up the check for the others or split it somehow. Maybe it was easier this way.

He watched as Jerry made a roady, an electric lemonade he thinks, for one of the suits. Two-thirds Minute Made, one third Stoli and lots of ice in a Styrofoam cup. Just what the doctor ordered. That made Joseph laugh. Maybe the suit was doctor. Maybe this doctor suit was going back for surgery and just couldn’t manage without a good pop right before.

He watched Jerry go pick up the glasses, plates and silver wear the suits left on the table. What a mess. There was half of a spilled Bud Lite with the bottle still laying on its side. There were crumbs and ketchup and all sorts of condensation marks. If cleanliness is close to godliness, then these suits are Satanists Joseph thought.

He watched the television for a few minutes as he polished off another drink, totally numb now to the warm relief it had given him just an hour earlier. But then again that was a baker’s dozen of shots ago too. He spun his glass on the coaster, mindful that it didn’t tip over. SportsCenter was back from commercial and it distracted him enough that he didn’t notice that Jerry had poured him another drink and it was sitting right in front of him.

“You’ve been pretty quiet for a while now,” Jerry said as he began to wash glasses in the sink behind the bar. “Fuck me running,” he yelped, shaking the hand that he damn near scalded in the sink.

“A little too soon for that, bud,” said Joseph, still amazingly not slurring his words in the slightest. “Let me ask you something. The fellas in the back. The one shooting pool is a hustler, isn’t he?”

“Not that I know of,” Jerry said in his for the record, yes sir, no sir tone. “I can tell you that he is a damn fine player. A virtual virtuoso of the felt lined-arts. Not a bad character altogether though. Why are you asking?”

“I’m getting an itch to play a few friendly games,” Joseph said, emphasizing the word friendly.

“I’ve never known Curtis to play friendly games before. Don’t let me stop you though. You’re still in the clear with me Joseph. In fact, here’s another Dewar’s for your trouble.”

Joseph smiled as he pulled another Kool from the pack. He smoothed over his beard with his other hand a few times before popping the match and inhaling deeply. Taking a step back off the stool, he grabbed the drink and began to stride to the back room.

For whatever reason he was smirking. Sure as shit he didn’t have a good reason to smile. Liquid cockiness he supposed. Can’t go play with this shark without a little strut to myself, a little pride on the outside as his high school coach used to call it.

As he walked into the back room he saw Curtis putting his stick into its titanium case and snap the fastenings shut. He was worried that he’d missed his chance until he saw that Chris was still playing solitaire. If the big man was still sitting down, then those two weren’t leaving yet Joseph supposed.

“Looky here Chris, our man has come back to play,” Curtis chirped with an ear to ear grin. “You do want to play don’t you? Yeah you do, I can smell it.”

“I can smell the whiskey on ‘em, believe that,” Chris chimed in.

“Yeah man, let’s play. Any of these sticks on the wall worth a shit?”

Curtis didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed all the balls out of the pockets and racked them up. Joseph walked over to assortment of cues placed haphazardly against the wall, some in the rack, some leaning in the corner. Most of them had worn-out tips. He found one that had good enough balance, better than his own anyway, and walked over to one of the corner tables on the opposite side of Chris and placed his cigarette into the ashtray.

“What are you smoking, son?” Curtis asked.

“Kools.”

“Mild or Kings?”

“Mild”

“My man, may man. Don’t you know that’s my flavor. Dammed if I’m fresh out though. Bust me a square son and lets get this game started.”

Hustling me already, Joseph thought as he walked over to Curtis and handed him two cigarettes to save himself the trouble five minutes from now.

“Oh shit Chris, we got a generous cat here. But is he generous with his paper? That’s the question. Or more accurately, that’s the $20 question.”

“Twenty is it? Twenty it is.”

Curtis strolled to the end of the table and re-racked the balls. With the nine ball locked firmly in the center, Curtis carefully picked up the rack and spun it between the palms of his hands, grinning the whole time. Curtis had this guy pegged as an easy mark. Whatever the case was, Curtis needed to get back some of that money he just lost. See, Curtis had the last guy pegged as an easy mark three weeks ago. Shit done changed.

He hung the rack under the table on its hook and walked back over to where Joseph was standing. Curtis reached into the right pocket of his pants and produced a silver dollar.

“Call it in the air, Kool Mild.”

“Heads,” called Joseph.

“Tails it is. Man listen, that wasn’t fair. That was my lucky silver dollar there. Tell you what, I won the flip but I want you to break.”

“Mighty kind of you, bud,” said Joseph, smashing out another smoke in the ashtray. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to hustle me, bud. It’s just that I really don’t give two shits.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Joseph went to the front of the table and began chalking his stick, hoping that maybe today having chalk on his stick will actually make a difference. Some days his pool game is about as useful as a two-legged dog. He blew the chalk dust off the tip and bent down to line up his shot.

Looking down the crooked shaft of the stick, he sees the cue ball appear and disappear from behind the bobbing, blue tip of the stick. Bob, bob, hesitate… Bob, bob, hesitate… Bob, bob, CRACK-CRACK! He sent the nine balls caroming around the felt, sinking the seven into the right corner.

“Well, well, welcome to the game Mr. Whiskey Kool Mild,” said Curtis. “Hustle you? I don’t know Chris. This man looks like the shark to me.”

“He ain’t a shark Curtis. He just whooping your ass like everybody else today,” Chris said in a not-so pleasant tone. “I’m working up a damn lather walking back and forth between paying out for you losses. That’s the damn truth.”

“You, are not funny,” Chris said feigning like his feelings are hurt.

“That’s just enough of the act,” said Joseph, while searching out the one ball. “I don’t want to hear all this yapping while I shoot.”

“Oh you don’t? That’s too bad, son. My table, my room, my mutherfuckin mouth talking as much and as long and as loud about whatever the fuck I want. Shoot, this is just a plain ole regular type of friendly game we got going here. This is friend-ly. I don’t play $20 games man. This is for sport. Shoot, tell me to shut up. You don’t want this to be un-friendly.”

Curtis was worked up now. Try to show a little compassion for the drunk stiff, build a rapport, make some conversation, be friend-ly and what does he do? Act all angry, disturbed.

That burns Curtis’ ass. It’s on now.

“Easy Curtis. Come on bud, you’re right, let’s just play,” said Joseph. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn skippy you’re sorry. Better take your shot and miss it so I can do my thing. Now I’m fired up. You done messed up now, y’hear.”

Joseph wished he had held his lip and just played pool like he was going to. The trash talk didn’t bother him really. At least it usually didn’t. It never bothered him when the bigger kids in grade school picked on him and made him cry in front of the class with their jeers and taunts. It never bothered him playing football in high school when some punk ass little safety would run his mouth after making a tackle. It never bothered him when Lydia, that cunt of an ex-wife of his, would come home all liquored up and talk shit until she passed out.

It never used to bother him. Never again would he just sit there and take it. No sir.

He looked the table over while taking a big pull off of his smoke. Walking over to the cue ball he called out his shot, lined up the three-to-one combo shot and click-clacked the one home. The two was buried behind the five on the far rail. Joseph couldn’t sink the ball, but he could play a safety, which he did.

“Just go ahead and take a seat, now,” said Curtis, strutting to the cue ball, not that he had a shot. Joseph had put the screw on real tight. Not that Curtis was worried. He had a feeling about this game and this dude. Uncle mo’ was swinging back to Curtis. That’s just the way it goes. Has to. He did all he could with the shot, but he left a slight angle for the short, bearded whiskey drinker with the superior taste in cigarettes.

What happened to me today thought Joseph. Was I in the wrong courtroom? ONE BALL RIGHT CORNER, ONE RAIL, clip-thud. Is that I’m an asshole? That I don’t make enough money? What the fuckety fuck fuck? TWO BALL, MIDDLE POCKET, clip-thud. A giant shit storm rained down on me today, bud. That judge has some nerve taking my boy away from me. And for what? Because I’m a man? I work. I pay bills. I never stayed out late. Shoot, I never go out at all. THREE BALL, STRAIGHT SHOT, clip-thud.

Bet ole Curtis is a shade worried now. Should be. I hope I don’t look like a fool. Just cause Ima drunker’n piss don’t mean I see crooked. What a mess.

“Say Curtis. Since you getting whooped again, why don’t you go grab me another pitcher of iced tea,” said Chris. He wasn’t asking. Joseph picked up on that a couple minutes ago. Chris was the heavy. Curtis was the mouth, the hustler. A shit-assed excuse for one at that.

“And don’t forget the pink packets this time either. You bring some Equals back here, there will be some reprecus-ions.”

“What? Fuck you Chris. I am concentrating on this game.”

Chris just glared over at Curtis with a look that expressed pure disappointment. People should know their place in the world Chris thought. Curtis knows damn well he wouldn’t talk that shit if someone else wasn’t there to hear it.

FOUR TO THE NINE, STRAIGHT, click-clack-thud.

“I’ll be a shit house mouse,” bemused Curtis as he began walking towards the bar. He walked the long way around the table. The way that wouldn’t bring him past Chris.

“And a fresh glass too,” called Chris with a gleaming smile.

While Curtis was fetching the tea, Chris kept playing cards and Joseph just leaned against the back wall power smoking another Kool. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

The room was starting to get dark, the shadows from the blinds had moved all the way across the table. Joseph looked at his watch and couldn’t believe it was already a quarter past five. He thought about getting another drink, but what good would that do. It wasn’t that he was developing some late-afternoon temperance. It was the fact that he couldn’t feel that burn anymore. It might as well be water. He could still feel a different burn that all the whiskey in every still in Tennessee had no remedy for. Every which way he thought it over, he had received the fucking of his life that morning. Raw, hard and without warning, his whole life was ravaged with the stamp and approval of the state of Indiana. That makes a difference too. The first time you see your name on official documents it doesn’t seem real. The fill in the blanks, methodical sound of the transcripts makes you feel unimportant and little.

He had no idea where he would go from here.

In the literal sense, he had no clue how he was going to get home from this bar. He was beyond drunk and didn’t really remember where his car was. There were several promising locations that he could check, but that was more walking than he had in him at this point. Taxis would not take him to his house out in the sticks or at least not without taking every last penny and he was close to being down to that shiny fucker at the moment. As he rubbed his temples with his rough hands, callused from years of hard work, he hoped some sort of clarity would arrive. Of all the thoughts surfing on the river of Dewar’s in his mind, none of them was close to the serenity he desired.

While the literal question of what to do when he eventually left the bar was far from answered, Joseph skipped right on to the figurative question of what to do next with his life. Curtis came back with the fresh pitcher of tea with a fresh glass filled with ice and a handful of pink packets of sweetener. Joseph didn’t hear Curtis the first three times he started in with his new line of chatter, but broke the balls hard and effectively, sending the five into the corner pocket about a second after Curtis picked up the rack.

“Damn, son! You bout broke my fingers with that shit. Hurry up and miss. I haven’t all day for your weird moods.”

“Did it cross your mind that I might not miss Curtis?” asked Joseph as he searched for his next shot. “It didn’t. Wow you don’t judge talent too well.”

It felt good to take somewhat of the upper hand with Curtis. It felt even better to control the game. ONE BALL, SIDE, CUT SHOT, clip-thud. He once had control of his life. That’s the way it always seemed. In control. Work, play, love, fight – it was all at his discretion. He made the rules because he followed the rules. TWO TO THE SIX, CORNER, click-clack thud. All his life, the comfortable life he always wanted, was on the verge of falling in or already in the shiter. His son was gone. TWO, CORNER. click-thud. His ex was taking more than her fair share of everything else. SEVEN TO THE NINE, CORNER, STRAIGHT, click-clack-thud.

“Got-damn, whiskey man. Seems that you have more game than you let on.”

“That’s they way it is sometimes Curtis.”

Joseph began walking towards the cue rack to put his stick away. He felt good about taking the two games from the hustler. One for the good guy. A small piece of solace for a shitty day.

“Where the fuck are you going son? Tell me you’re getting a new stick. I know you’re not leaving. No fucking way. You’re up $40. That ain’t shit.”

“I got to go man. Take your loss like a man.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Chris without looking up from his game. “He doesn’t have that ability.”

Joseph smiled as he paused at the corner of the table. He liked Chris’ calm demeanor. Here was his partner losing his money all afternoon and he still had a sense of humor. That meant two things; either he was just an affable type of guy or the type of money he’s losing might as well be coins.

“Tell you what. I’ll call it even for a favor.”

“Favor this motherfucker,” Curtis said while grabbing his crotch and acting a lot tougher than he possibly could be.

“I wasn’t talking to you Curtis.”

For the first time since Joseph walked into the room, Chris made eye contact with him. Still shuffling the deck of cards, grinding a thick wooden tooth pick in the corner of his mouth, Chris waved Joseph over to the table. Curtis was visibly pissed off at this. He had a really bad day. He wasn’t in the hole, but he had come too close to even in the last few hours.

“So you’re a quick learner. Most suckers take me for a body guard,” said Chris.

“It seemed obvious to this sucker.”

“So what is this favor. I am a man of many favors. Most are a lot more expensive than two twenties.”

“Well all I need is a ride home. I lost my car somewhere in between my first and fifteenth drink.”

Chris picks the deck of cards up and begins shuffling as he thinks it over. On face value this is a no brainer, an easy out. But Chris didn’t get his paper stacked so high by making hasty decisions. This drunk stranger, if indeed he is drunk or even a stranger, could be taking him for a ride.

It’s usually giving an example of people who play the game the right way. The announcer will say “Yeah, he’s just one of those guys, you know, like the Jeters, the Griffeys, the Roses…” The Griffeys were a bad example, but unless you’re talking about both Sr. and Jr., stop doing this now. It’s just lazy speaking.

The correct way to do this is to say “a Junior Griffey” or “a Rose” or “a Jeter.” If you must explain things with this lame format of lumping people together instead of expressing what the player in question actually does well, do it this way. It does the same thing and it has the Chicago ring to it.

Giving credit where it’s due, I’m not sure who to give credit for this type of speaking exactly. The guys on the Afternoon Saloon show on ESPN 1000 talk this way, saying “it was the first time I had the opportunity to sit down with a Jerry Angelo.” Maybe it’s a Chicago thing in general. Whatever.

It’s better than the stupid plurals thing.

New Carlisle is about an hour from Chicago, where on Monday the FBI arrested a New Carlisle woman and her boyfriend as they tried to complete a murder for hire scheme that involved a used swimming pool plus gas money payoff.

This is the lede of the Tribune story I read in print today. So awesome.

An Indiana woman offered an undercover FBI agent posing as a professional hit man her above ground swimming pool and $200 in gas money to kill an ex-boyfriend who wanted custody of one of her children, federal authorities in Chicago charged Tuesday.

The belly laughs don’t stop in this story. First, there’s a guy out there whose life was valued in terms of of a used swimming pool and gas money; conjoined with the concept that the pool was ”…a few years old but its about all I really got worth anything,” to quote accused murder-for-hire honcho Heidi Friedburg in her post on Craigslist.

Second, that Heidi Friedburg had the balls to question the talents of a hit man who was willing to snuff a guy for $200 and a used swimming pool. “…So he’s good?” was one of the quotes according to Trib story. Seriously, that takes stones.

Third, Friedburg and her boyfriend William C. Alexander were pinched as they were unloading the swimming pool. That was the clincher on that parlay. OK, so I got the gas money, but where’s my pool, SUCKA! That’s when the squad busts in with guns blazing and badges high.

To get the local perspective on the big bust, I turned to my old friends at the LaPorte County Herald-Argus. Before I tell you what two of the top five headlines posted on heraldargus.com are — the Heidi Friedburg arrest isn’t one of them – let me just say the H-A doesn’t have FBI sources in Chicago and shouldn’t be expected to break this story.

With that said, the top story is:

“Man injured after falling out of truck”

One of the other five stories from the Tuesday afternoon edition, and my personal fav, was this bombshell:

“Man finds racoon corpse inside bag”

I didn’t have the heart to read the links to the stories, so I can’t confirm whether or not this was the same man both finding a dead racoon and busting his ass falling out his vehicle. It could be a multi-part series on shit to do in LaPorte County. I don’t know.

What I do know is that those headlines are funny. They’re not swimming pool/gas money murder funny, but funny nonetheless.

I will paraprhase the questions posed by Larry Mayer, show Angelo’s response and then boil down Angelo’s response to the information he actually provided sans bullshit.

The first question asks Angelo about the offensive line, saying if the line has three new starters, what’s the key to the unit gelling, and ho long does that take typically?

 JA: Since I’ve been here, we’ve been able to get that done through training camp. I’m not saying they’re going to be as good as they can be in Game 1, but they’re certainly going to be good enough and will continue to grow as the season goes on. I’ve always said that the two key components are the line coach and the health of the players. In some cases, staying healthy so the unit can play together is every bit as important as the talent itself.

Sans bullshit: I have no idea. It would be great if nobody gets hurt, but if there are injuries, then I will fire the offensive line coach.

The second question asks Angelo about 2008 first-round pick Chris Williams, who didn’t play much last year after showing up to camp with a back injury everyone other than Jerry Angelo knew enough about to not waste a first-round pick on. The question asks if Chris Williams can play right tackle and perform “at a high level”.

JA: I’m very confident. Chris was a very good player coming out of Vanderbilt. He was one of the better tackles I’ve seen. He has everything you look for at the position: size, athleticism, intelligence, work ethic and strength. He possesses all the components to be a very good tackle in this league. It’s just a matter of him getting acclimated to the right side. It’s something that we’ve seen other quality tackles do in previous years, most recently with Pro Bowler Jordan Gross of the Carolina Panthers. Last year was his first season as a left tackle. He came into the league as a right tackle and, like Chris, was a left tackle in college.

Sans bullshit: I hope Chris Williams turns out to be as good as Jordan Gross.

The third question asks Angelo if the coaching changes (Lovie Smith taking over play calling on defense/hiring of Rod Marinelli for defensive line/adding Jon Hoke to defensive staff) can make a big difference.

JA: I think they’ll make a huge difference. When you have quality coaching, you’re going to see it reflected in the performance of the players. It’s a coaching league. We see that because of all the attrition that each team has every year. Coaches have to get players up to speed right away. I anticipate that our coaches will have a very big impact, just as much as a quality player would have.

Sans bullshit: Lovie Smith will never get to make decisions again about hiring coaches if they fuck it up this season.

The final questions asks whether Devin Hester can be both a great kick returner, as he was in 2006 and 2007, along with a starting wide receiver.

JA: It’s very important because he impacted games; not just field position, but the outcome of games in a positive way. I think he’s going to be much better in that role. Danieal Manning takes some of the load off his back with the kickoff returns. We also expect Devin to take a big step as a receiver this year. How prolific of a punt returner will he be? I can’t say that. He set the bar to the point where it was ridiculous. But I anticipate him doing a lot better this year in part because he’ll be more understanding of his role as a receiver. He needed to go through that experience, which he did, and I feel that he will be more comfortable with that role and it won’t be as demanding as it was last year given his experience.

Sans bullshit: If he doesn’t get perform this season, I will kill him myself.

Atarilogic is a hip-hop producer and founder of the independent label Tone Def Systems. Amongst other things, we discussed satin jackets, yard bowling, which five records he would grab if his roof was actually on fire and who would win a tag team wrestling match between KRS-One and Rakim vs. Big Daddy Kane and Chuck D.