It was good to help Frank set up the table in the back room. It didn't exactly make me feel like I belonged, not that I would even want to, but it made me feel less out of place. People could look at me and think--"Oh, that's the guy that helps Frank set up the table," instead of "the fuck is that guy doing here? He don't belong here!" Playing Backgammon had served a similar purpose while it lasted. I felt less self conscious as long as I was occupied.

Frank didn't seem the least bit self-conscious himself, in his Golf shirt, khakis, etc. He had changed out of his Grandfather's golf shoes because of the little cleats (he probably never would've started playing if his Grandfather's shoes hadn't happened to fit him), and had on a non-descript pair of black Docs. Closer scrutiny would reveal that the little crest on the shirt was not from some eastern prep school, but from an old rugby team Frank used to play for. It was as if Frank needed to leave something out of place, to give some sign that while he was among these country club fucks, he was not of them. On some level the insignia on that shirt was the equivalent of raising a Jolly Roger in their midst, this despite the fact that in the rest of the civilized world rugby is regarded as the domain of the efeete uppercrust. I knew that deep down he hated them as much as I did.

Maybe hate is a bit too strong--maybe--

But that was why I'd shown up early and played Backgammon with him. Frank was desperate for something to do between golf and poker besides mingling with Biff, and Roger, and Ted...and Tad...and Chad....Inbreeding is alive and well in the upper crust--

Something to do while he sobered up.

The game was on in the back room. Top of the 6th, Cleveland had just tied the score 2-2, and now the Tigers were batting. Frank liked having the game on, and so did I. Ordinarily Frank would be pulling for the Tigers, but today a win by the Indians could put them ahead of the Yankees for the AL Wild Card lead. Frank didn't bet on baseball games, but he had the White Sox at 9-1 to win the AL Pennant. Frank didn't want the White Sox to have to play the Yankees in the playoffs, so he had a rooting interest in the Indians, for now at least.

The poker game got under way, and I got off to a good start. I was up a sizeable chunk by the time the Indians took the lead in the 6th inning.

"Geez, if I keep winning like this I might have to start sucking up to these guys like Frank does to keep from getting banned," I thought to myself. Already I could see dirty looks cropping up. These Country Club guys were pretty friendly as long as they thought they were going to win. Once they saw that things weren't quite going their way, they started to get edgy.

Not as bad as hippies on a nitrous bender, (at least not yet), but edgy...

Frank hadn't been getting many cards, and had been folding for the most part. He made up for this by sharing his NFL lead pipe locks for Week I.

"I got Philly at Atlanta, giving 1 1/2."

"You're going against Vick?"

"I'm with Vick--against Duke that is."

"Very funny--did you see what Michael Vick did to the Rams last year?."

"Of course--I had Atlanta that game, because the Rams have no defense. In fact, their defensive co-ordinater was last seen passing out flyers in an East St. Louis project for this place called Wok and Roll."

Hmmm...Frank was stealing my material. But he had disguised it a bit, and the "Wok and Roll" line was a nice touch. He could have it. Frank was working the crowd. I think he figured that since these guys were paying him, they might as well get their money's worth. If Frank was in the proper frame of mind he could keep these guys smiling as he took their money. It was fortunate that a good caffiene rush put him there, or he mighta kept drinking, liquor being a social lubricant and what not.

If Frank was a happy drunk, he was a downright giddy overjoyed java tweaking fuck, I tell ya what.

This was more like stand up comedy than poker. Frank had a lot of energy, but then so does Juan Valdez. So does Juan's donkey. Juan's donkey has TONS of energy....In fact, the donkey probably has enough energy to keep these country club trust-fund baby fuck-o's smiling as he takes their money. But he plays poker like...well, a donkey.

Ergo, Juan Valdez's donkey cannot keep ANYBODY smiling as he takes their money. Neither can I. I'm far too lazy...

Not to mention anti-social....

Some would say misanthropic....

Why would they say that? To show off their burgeoning vocabulary, I suppose--

But enough about me--

"Get it? Wok and Roll? Get it?" Roger nudged Ted.

"I get it. But it's not funny."

Biff jumped in, "Yeah, those Chinks can't help it that they say 'wok' instead of 'rock!'"

Roger laughed, "Careful, we wouldn't want to offend anybody!"

"What, there's none of them here; they're not even allowed here."

"What, there's no rule..."

"...at least not on paper!" The laughter peaked, and it got quiet. I wondered if this was a good time to tell them my kids were slopes. I decided against it, but I was having a hard time keeping quiet.

"The flaw in the joke," I explained, "is that the Chinamen would never hire the Ram's defensive co-ordinater."

"Why not? Paperboys have more responsibility."

"Because they are all family businesses. They always hire their nieces and cousins after they smuggle them over here."

There was sort of a stunned silence. I wasn't sure if I had somehow offended these guys, or if my sense of humor was too dry. In the end the reason doesn't matter. If somebody doesn't like you, he'll figure out his reasons later. If he is part of a group that doesn't like you, the group will decide his reasons for him--no thought required.

I didn't know why Ted didn't think the joke was funny, but I was indirectly taking a jab at him by agreeing with him, but in an absurd way. Absurd because while I was convinced that my statement was 99% accurate, I knew Ted would never think of it. Wet fucking blanket, that guy.
Now these cocksuckers thought I was pulling some sort of socio-economic deconstruction of Frank's joke. (My joke goddamnit!) No, they wouldn't even know what de-construction was.
Education is such a burden. It dawned on me that my great offense was to make these guys think. I really didn't mean to do that. Next they might start playing better--

"Bullshit!" Frank broke the silence. "A place called Wok and Roll would hire him, because they're obviously a chain like Mongolian Barbecue, run by Americans."

"Why's that?" demanded Ted.

"Because those little Nips would never think of that name. Hell, most of them couldn't even pronounce it!"

My PC radar was too numb at this point to discern whether or not this was more or less offensive than the previous barbs, but the room exploded in laughter. I'm convinced that I would've been run out of town for insensitivity if I'd said the same thing. This despite my gook progeny, if not because of it. I shoulda married a jewess.

Biff saw a loophole. "Maybe a 2nd generation chink. Then he wouldn't say 'Lok and Lorr'."

"Right!" glared Frank, "Because he's an American!" This was getting surreal. I wasn't sure what Frank was getting worked up about. At that moment he reminded me of Bill the Butcher in Gangs of New York, explaining what he meant by "native," though in this case Frank seemed to be favoring the immigrants, or at least their first generation offspring--

Then I knew. America had country clubs. America might even be run by guys from country clubs. But America was not a goddamned country club! Here it comes, I thought. Frank's going to get us kicked out of here--but Frank turned away from Biff.

"I know what Ted's problem is. He's still pissed off because I said Joe Paterno is senile!" Woah--I'd been practically hearing the Battle Hymn of the Republic in the background as Frank stood up for the poor, huddled masses yearning to be free, while in the background the argument had been about a university on the geographic cusp of the Big Ten--

The room got quiet again. Here we go, out of politics, and into religion--metaphorically speaking, of course--Joe's not the Pope, he's just Italian. This had to be done. Frank was passionate about football, but he rarely got angry about it. Making other people angry though, well....

"He is senile," said Biff. Firm grasp of the obvious, that one. This started the whole table arguing. But if Joe Paterno was the Pope, Frank had some protestant allies in the room. White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, in fact.

"I'll show you senile! What's the line on the Penn State?" Ted was glowering now.

Frank consulted his little black book. "Ummmm, 18 1/2."

"Who are they playing?"

"Cincinnati, at Penn State."

"I'll bet $250 on Penn State to cover."

"Okay."

"Ummmm, make it 17 points."

"No."

"Come on."

"Fine. But its $350 to win $250."

"Make it three."

"No deal. You're already paying $275 to win $250 with the vig. I coulda went 21 and you wouldn't know, since you've got such a hard-on for Penn State, but I didn't. Now if you wanna prove that Joe's not senile, show me your cash. If you want 17, then drive down to Cincy and find it."

Ted glared at him, silently.

"If you want to back out, just do it. Don't start trying to change the bet and foul the deal."

"Maybe I'll just drive to Cincy."

"You could, but it wouldn't be the same, would it? You need to beat the bad man that was mean to good old Uncle Joe."

Ted had been called out. Now that he had gone through all these negotiations with Frank, he would really be pussing out if he didn't bet. Ted didn't want to roose face. His wallet would be hurt much less than his pride.

"I need to cash out some chips."

Roger spoke up. "Can he get it on credit? We don't want the game to dry up."

Frank looked at Roger. "You vouch for him?" Roger had alot of chips on the table. He could cover Ted. Something told me that both of them had plans for Ted's stack. In his delicate condition? I definitely did.

"Yeah, I got him."

"Lets play some cards."

The deal passed. It was quiet for a couple of hands. Then Biff spoke up.

"So who else you like?"

Frank might be out some on Cincinnati soon, but he had clearly established himself as the resident expert on football.

"Indy giving three at Baltimore."

"Does that mean you won't take action on Indy?"

"Nah. Just let me know soon so I can lay some off."

"Okay...anyone else?"

"Not really...well, just my lead pipe lock of the week!"

Everyone perked up, even Ted. Regular E.F. Hutton, this guy.

"I don't want to offend anyone!"

They were eating out of his hand; fuckin' Pied Piper with these rats. They promised not to be offended.

"Carolina at home. Give the seven."

"Who are they playing?"

Frank almost whispered, "New Orleans."

Everyone groaned.

"You're going to hell Frank."

"Panthers/Katrina by seven over the Saints! How can I refuse? What's their routine like? Do they have one? These guys are already anticipating being worn out after their home opener--in the Meadowlands. Even once they get their "home field" I'll probably consider it a neutral site for at least a week or two!"

"Maybe they'll rise above the adversity and seize the day."

"When was the last time the Saints overcame adversity? You want inspiration, take LSU. They just might deliver."

"You taking 'em?"

"Nah. But you can. Go ahead."

With that the game resumed. Apparently Ted's bet in defense of JoeyP had not satisfied him, because he proceeded to raise in situations that really did not warrant such aggression, and he proceeded to piss away his entire stack. Roger and I were both sitting to Ted's left, and much of his stack found it's way over to ours. Most of Ted's country club chums tightened up and played to exploit his mistakes as much as Frank or I did. Frank had crummy position relative to Ted, and largely stayed out of his way. Meanwhile several of the players took turns placing bets with Frank on various weekend games, mostly college, these being alums of various establishments and what not.

I suspect that Ted would've sulked his way home once his chips were gone, had not Frank's trip fours beaten Ted's kings for the remainder of his stack. This rubbed Ted's ego the wrong way, and suddenly he was getting another rack on credit.

Early September. Almost autumn. Baseball season winding down, football heating up, nice weather. Really nice weather. A good time to golf. If you were ambitious, it was a good time for eighteen holes, followed by a couple of hours of backgammon, topped off by poker into the wee hours of the morning.

Frank didn't consider himself to be terribly ambitious.

Maybe that was why he only played nine holes.

Maybe he just didn't want to get too lit.

Frank never got through nine holes without being a couple sheets to the wind. He figured if he went 18 he might not be able to walk.

The crew he golfed with always had an extra cart for beer, along with the odd pint of bourbon. Frank noticed that this bar on wheels didn't have a roll-bar. Neither did any of the other carts. Frank liked to say that when the carts got roll-bars, he'd roll through a full 18 holes.

Loosen up a little, Frank.

Truth was, Frank wasn't much of a golfer. Maybe he liked walking around (or riding) in the nice, clean, green open spaces, flanked by little groves of oak and pine. Or maybe he golfed for the conversation. Lofty minds, floating in a sea of booze, debating great causes and the days events.

"So who you got? Ohio State or Texas?"

Frank steadied himself on one of his grandfather's clubs. "I'm liking taking Texas and the point, but I think they're snakebit. Ohio State is probably overrated, but they're at home, and the 'horns are a bunch of choke artists."

"Well then--"

"I'm sitting that one out. Reminds me of Auburn-LSU last year."

"What happened again?"

"I figured LSU was co-champs, Auburn hadn't proven themselves yet, and LSU shouldn't be a dog, even if it was at Auburn."

"So--"

"I was wrong. Auburn won, 10-9."

"So you lost."

"No. I got LSU while the spread was 1 1/2. They covered."

Frank wasn't sure he was making his point. Whatever. There was no law saying you had to bet on every game.

"So who else you like?"

"Nebraska giving six at home against Wake Forest."

"Yeah?"

"Nah." Money's coming in on Wake. Word's out. Nebraska sucks. They aren't Nebraska anymore."

"Who are they?"

"I'd say they're about 30 years from becoming the next Penn State, give or take a decade."

"Huh?"

"They're already living off their past rep and suckering their followers into expecting a turnaround. Now they just have to keep the same coach long enough for him to get senile."

Frank looked up expectantly. One of these days he was going to make some crack about Joe Paterno and someone was going to take a swing at him. Ted just got quiet. Frank knew that look. Ted saw him as a boor and a ruffian. Talking about the old man was like talking religion or politics. Seriously. Frank doubted he could offend as many people making jokes about the pope. Maybe the late pope....or the Virgin Mary. Frank considered them off limits, unless they started trying to intercede in the BC-Notre Dame game. If they did they were fair game.

Frank had a feeling there wouldn't be much more conversation from Ted. Fuck it, only a couple more holes to go.


As the sun set on the country club, Frank bellied up to the bar with a Backgammon board and Jimmy. Jimmy didn't play golf. He'd just now arrived. Honestly, Frank was mildly surprised that the club let Jimmy in. Geez, if they'll let Jimmy in here maybe I should join a more exclusive club. Frank washed down the Beam & Bud aftertaste down with a gin & tonic before switching over to coffee. As the caffiene took hold, Frank became more animated. The air was filled with the sounds of rolling dice, mixed with a healthy measure of talking shit, as was their custom. Frank liked to talk shit while playing backgammon because it really didn't require much concentration on his part, at least not against the locals. Truthfully, he didn't really need to be sober to play backgammon well either. But as much shit as he talked as he got hopped up on java, mostly Frank talked football.

"I'm taking Cal, giving nine at Washngton. They got QB problems, but Washington's got PROBLEMS. Fresno State destroyed them last year. Notre Dame destroyed them."

"Now they've got Notre Dame's coach."

"Good. It'll be a very intriquing matchup--until the kickoff, when Notre Dame destroys them again."

"Great. But who cares about the west coast? USC's the only team out there that matters."

"Well, Cal almost beat 'SC last year. But fine. Here's your east coast pick: V-Tech at Duke. Give the points."

"How many points?"

"Twenty. On the road. Do it anyway. We're talking top ten team vs. (according to ESPN), bottom ten team. Marcus Vick did respectably well against what was last year's #1 defense in the nation, beating NC State last week. This week he goes hog wild."

"Stella!"

"Stella!" The local backgammonners always yell Stella when they roll double fours. Unless it is a low-key game. Then they just say Stella.

"What about Michigan-Notre Dame?"

"Mmmmm...seven point spread."

"Michigan favored?"

"Of course."

"So?"

"I want 7 1/2, but I'm taking Notre Dame anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Supposedly Michigan's offense is awesome, but look what Notre Dame did to Pitt last week. All that scoring was in the first half."

Jimmy perked up at this. "Yeah, Michigan doesn't really have a "D." Their defensive coordinator was last seen putting flyers from a Chinese restaurant under wiper blades at an Ann Arbor mall."

"I thought it was a Ypsilanti mall."

Jimmy considered. "Hmmmm...maybe a strip mall. I don't think Ypsi' has any real shopping malls."

"Good point," Frank agreed. Betting aside, he liked to get his digs in against Michigan when he got the chance. As for the digs against Ypsilanti, well, those were just inevitable.

Something occurred to Frank. "You know, if JoePa coached at EMU, people probably wouldn't mind if you talked shit about him."

"Huh?"

"Just something I've been thinking about. You know, the way people look at you like you're unclean if you suggest that Paterno ought to hang it up."

"As I recall, you've mentioned 'firing his ass' in the past."

"Yes I have."

Jimmy took a deep breath and stared at Frank, the stare of someone who was about to release a deep truth. "If Joe Paterno was at Eastern, nobody would talk about him at all. Nobody would know who he was."

Frank wasn't sure he was willing to take it that far. This was turning into a deep philosophical question. Sort of a nature vs. nurture question. After all, maybe EMU would have a couple of national championships if Joe was there. Maybe the MAC would be considered a football powerhouse conference. Maybe Penn State should've joined the MAC, conferring upon them instant legitimacy....Maybe--

Jimmy nodded towards the far side of the bar. "Looks like the poker crowd's arriving. I think we've got quorum now."

Frank followed his glance across the room. "Lets go get the table ready." Joe Paterno's virtues and vices, such as they were, would have to be put on hold. They had work to do.