Big 12 Power Prankings: I'm Back
DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.
"How's your evening going?" The Barry Lewis asked me while I tried to down three Paddies consecutively. Bad actor, he. He almost could have won a Razzie.
"Worse by the second."
"That's not very polite."
"I'm not feeling like a very polite kind of guy. More a tight one."
"It's that time of the year again."
"What are you talking about? Football season is over."
"And now . . . basketball."
At which point I uttered a litany of curses such as no man or woman in the history of sports with balls and/or baskets.
"Why are you doing this to me, Barry?"
"What am I doing to you?"
"Ever heard of an executioner? The inquisitor? Persecutor? Tormentor? The gibbet? The gallows? The guillotine? The brazen bull or breaking wheel? The catapelta, cattle prod, catapult? Garrote or gag? Rack? Pillory? Stocks? Spanish boot?"
"I think I get the point."
"Instep borer? Head crusher?"
"I need your list of Big 12 Power Rankings by the end of the day."
"Barry. What did I ever do to you to merit this?"
"You want me to tell you?"
"It was a rhetorical question! Jesus!"
"I suppose the same reason America liked to torture you at the taco shop when you were still gainfully employed."
"And what in the name of God's good grace and reason was that?"
"It's fun."
Click.
Peace for just enough time for me to down another drink. Then the phone ringing again. SMILEY LEWIS on the screen, with a phone number just to remind me he existed. The phone: worst instrument of torture ever devised by any sadist in history, by far.
"Will you let me drink in peace for God's sake?"
"I need that list."
"Barry, I don't even know what teams are in the Big 12 right now. Who has a basketball team? Iowa State doesn't have a baseball team, I learned after much public humiliation. Do they have a basketball team?"
"Yes. Iowa State has a basketball team. The teams are the same as football. There are ten of them."
"Then why for God's sake aren't we the Big 10?"
"I guess because it's already taken."
"When do you need em by?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"You aren't one for timely requests are you? You couldn't have asked me last week?"
"I did."
"Bull hardy. When?"
"Four weeks ago."
"Exactly. Last year. You expect me to remember this long? I'm an inveterate drunk, in case you've forgotten. If it weren't for my bar tab I wouldn't remember my own name."
"But presumably you can remember your own school."
"Barry, I'm not even sure if Christian is in the title. Is it?"
"Haven't heard lately."
"There you go."
"I'll hear from you when you get that list. And it better be ready by tomorrow."
Click.
It was at that time that Rodney Bowens walked in. It was good to see him until he saw me. Then I remembered that for a boozer he had an excellent memory.
"Hey hoss, you got that two hundred you owe me?"
"Sure thing, Rodney," I said.
"Where is it?"
"Right here," I said, pointing at the drink and downing it in the same gesture. Slamming the glass on the bartop I said: "And that's the last of it."
"Son of a . . ."
"Boss," I said to The Boss, "could you get Rodney a Dewer's on the rocks and put it on my tab?"
"Which one?"
"Take a number."
"Thanks, Bruce," Rodney, ever the gentleman said. "Now as for you you down and out mother. . ."
"You should stop trying to be polite. It's unbecoming of you."
"I'll show you what you're about to be becoming if you say another word."
"Calm down, Rodney. I got an idea."
"What idea is that?"
"You know those articles I write?"
"Why should I?"
"You shouldn't. But maybe you can help me write one."
"What's it pay?"
"Ten bucks."
"You'd have to write twenty of them just to pay me back before you even tackle your tab."
"And then it would go to tax. But where there's a will there's a way."
"That's the devil talking."
"Also George Herbert."
"Who?"
"Poet."
"A poet. What I call the devil's ass piece."
"You really know how to help a guy's self esteem. I ever tell you that, Rodney?"
"No."
"It's true. Probably the reason we're such fine friends."
"I'm about to smack you in the mouth."
"Wouldn't be the first time. So you want to help me out here?"
"I don't know nothin about basketball, I'm a musician!"
"With a devil's mouthpiece."
"Look at you talkin."
"So who's gonna help us?"
"You, you mean," Rodney said. "Who's gonna help you?"
Just at that time the Stubbs came strolling in. I say strolling. He walked up to the bar as slowly as if were he to step too close, my very look could fry him.
"Stubbs!"
"Don't hurt me."
"I wouldn't think it!"
"I don't know man. Last time I was in your company I ended up getting run over by a Hellcat."
"Which I wasn't driving."
"But you were driving the Buick that ran me over before that."
"It was an accident!"
"I don't know, man. All I know is every time I show up and you're around I get my foot crushed by a keg or stabbed in the ass by a dart or vomited on . . ."
"Do you still have that skill from when we resurrected you after the Hellcat?"
"Which one?"
"Knowing the Big 12 Power Rankings?"
"Oh God. What do you want to know?"
"What the Big 12 Power Rankings are?"
"TCU's No. 1."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Baylor's No. 12."
"12 or 10?"
"Whatever's last."
"Okay. Sounds better."
"And the rest I reckon you could just fill in the blank."
"Starting with?"
"Is there a team in Kansas?"
"I don't know. Is there?"
"Gotta be. Wilt Chamberlain played there."
"How in God's name did you know that?"
"Everyone knows that."
"Okay. Kansas. No. 2. And there's another Kansas school. Who cares?"
"Then there's Texas."
"And Tech."
"Is there an Oklahoma school?"
"We'll assume so. And Barry and I mentioned Iowa. This is great. Thanks, Stubbs!"
As soon as Boss handed me a pen and the six foot long receipt on my tab, I scrawled the following ranking:
1. TCU
2. Kansas
3. The other Kansas
4. Texas
5. Texas Tech
6. Oklahoma
7. Iowa
8. Whoever's left
9. Ditto
10. Baylor
"A masterpiece," I said. "Now, Boss, I'm going to get paid a much needed 10 bucks for this. Throw me another Guinness."
"What's that?" Rodney said, fist flying. I ducked. And only realized Rodney's fist landed on Stubbs' jaw around the time Stubbs screamed a word that can't bear repeating--lest Sports Illustrated ban me for life, and I don't want to give the Baylor Administration the satisfaction--and a pop sounded and poor Stubbs was lying in a puddle of spilled beer.
"Better make that a round, Boss. Stubbs is going to need one when he comes to."
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