Bowl. He could sure help me observe some things for the book.
The reason Jim Tom's not here is because of that piece of Kotex he works for, the Fort Worth Light & Shopper . He only has a three-man staff, including himself. And the other two, from what 1 hear, are what you call your undependables. There's a desk man named Big-un Darley who eats cold green peas out of a can, and one other writer named Jerry Toby who, according to Jim Tom, spends most of his time trying to shake down the local bowling proprietors.
On the phone the other day Jim Tom said, "Sure like to join you out there, Stud, but the Super Bowl happens to fall right in the middle of a very important event here at home. The Fourth Annual Fort Worth Light & Shopper High School Basketball Festival."
I said I didn't see how anything could be more important than one or two old boys from Fort Worth being in the Super Bowl. Or one of the paper's famous columnists writing a book about it.
"Our editor doesn't know about the book," Jim Tom said. "He only likes books about religion and soil conservation, anyhow. I'm gonna stick some soil conservation up his ass if this sumbitch sells any copies. The main thing, though, is that I've got to keep the official box scores and present the trophies at the festival."
"I suppose teams are coming from all over," I said. "It's all very exciting, I'm sure."
Jim Tom said, "Aw, you bet. We got the Itasca Wampus Cats coming in, and the Hutto Hippoes, and the El Campo Rice Birds."
I said, "How about Coleman's Fighting Blue Cats?"
He said, "How about Trent's Gorillas and the Port Lavaca Sandcrabs?"
"Sounds action-packed," I said. "Can the Sandcrabs handle the Cuero Gobblers?"
Jim Tom said, "Yeah. They got more niggers."
I said, "Hey, you red necks down there better watch your language. Don't you know the Democrats can have you shot for saying nigger in public?"
Jim Tom said he knew all about language, otherwise he wouldn't be writing a book. Anyhow, he said, I probably hadn't seen a basketball game lately, had I?
I said I hoped not.
"It's not like you may remember it, stud," he said. "There's not much defense or strategy. The high schools are like the NBA now. You've heard what a game in the NBA is, haven't you?"
What was the joke, I asked.
Jim Tom laughed and said, "Ever twenty-four seconds ten niggers jump up in the air."
Then he said, "Listen, Paschal's got one now you'd really like. Astronaut Jones. Is that a good name? Last spring he won the hundred-yard dash in the city meet and when he crossed the finish line he released a small parachute from the back of his shorts. Funniest thing you ever saw."
"Does he put the ball in the air?" I asked.
"Hey, stud," said Jim Tom. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"
I chuckled.
"He crosses midcourt," said Jim Tom, "and down at the press table you can hear him holler, 'Tryin' one.' Then he fires. And he can hit. Schoom. Two . He say two ."
"Tryin' one," I mimicked.
Jim Tom said, "He'll say, 'Tryin' one,' and when the ball's about halfway there and he knows it's in, he'll say, 'Yawl come on back now.' Is he great?"
"Tryin' one," I said.
"Astronaut Jones," said Jim Tom.
I offered to pay Jim Tom's way out to the Coast and cover all his expenses, including hookers, in case he didn't choose to bring along his fat wife, Earlene. But Jim Tom said the paper still wouldn't let him come. And he couldn't trust Big-un and Jerry Toby anyway.
He said, "Big-un would drink himself a lot of that Colorado Kool-Aid and go to sleep in the middle of a double overtime between Paschal and Port Lavaca."
I said, "Does Big-un like his Coors?"
"Oh, he'll drink that Colorado Kool-Aid," said Jim Tom. "He don't like it any more than he likes gettin' fed and fucked before sundown."
I don't actually know very much about the newspaper business, other than what little I've heard Jim Tom complain about over the years. All I know is, he's got a fairly rotten job for a hundred and fifty a week and a
The reason Jim Tom's not here is because of that piece of Kotex he works for, the Fort Worth Light & Shopper . He only has a three-man staff, including himself. And the other two, from what 1 hear, are what you call your undependables. There's a desk man named Big-un Darley who eats cold green peas out of a can, and one other writer named Jerry Toby who, according to Jim Tom, spends most of his time trying to shake down the local bowling proprietors.
On the phone the other day Jim Tom said, "Sure like to join you out there, Stud, but the Super Bowl happens to fall right in the middle of a very important event here at home. The Fourth Annual Fort Worth Light & Shopper High School Basketball Festival."
I said I didn't see how anything could be more important than one or two old boys from Fort Worth being in the Super Bowl. Or one of the paper's famous columnists writing a book about it.
"Our editor doesn't know about the book," Jim Tom said. "He only likes books about religion and soil conservation, anyhow. I'm gonna stick some soil conservation up his ass if this sumbitch sells any copies. The main thing, though, is that I've got to keep the official box scores and present the trophies at the festival."
"I suppose teams are coming from all over," I said. "It's all very exciting, I'm sure."
Jim Tom said, "Aw, you bet. We got the Itasca Wampus Cats coming in, and the Hutto Hippoes, and the El Campo Rice Birds."
I said, "How about Coleman's Fighting Blue Cats?"
He said, "How about Trent's Gorillas and the Port Lavaca Sandcrabs?"
"Sounds action-packed," I said. "Can the Sandcrabs handle the Cuero Gobblers?"
Jim Tom said, "Yeah. They got more niggers."
I said, "Hey, you red necks down there better watch your language. Don't you know the Democrats can have you shot for saying nigger in public?"
Jim Tom said he knew all about language, otherwise he wouldn't be writing a book. Anyhow, he said, I probably hadn't seen a basketball game lately, had I?
I said I hoped not.
"It's not like you may remember it, stud," he said. "There's not much defense or strategy. The high schools are like the NBA now. You've heard what a game in the NBA is, haven't you?"
What was the joke, I asked.
Jim Tom laughed and said, "Ever twenty-four seconds ten niggers jump up in the air."
Then he said, "Listen, Paschal's got one now you'd really like. Astronaut Jones. Is that a good name? Last spring he won the hundred-yard dash in the city meet and when he crossed the finish line he released a small parachute from the back of his shorts. Funniest thing you ever saw."
"Does he put the ball in the air?" I asked.
"Hey, stud," said Jim Tom. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"
I chuckled.
"He crosses midcourt," said Jim Tom, "and down at the press table you can hear him holler, 'Tryin' one.' Then he fires. And he can hit. Schoom. Two . He say two ."
"Tryin' one," I mimicked.
Jim Tom said, "He'll say, 'Tryin' one,' and when the ball's about halfway there and he knows it's in, he'll say, 'Yawl come on back now.' Is he great?"
"Tryin' one," I said.
"Astronaut Jones," said Jim Tom.
I offered to pay Jim Tom's way out to the Coast and cover all his expenses, including hookers, in case he didn't choose to bring along his fat wife, Earlene. But Jim Tom said the paper still wouldn't let him come. And he couldn't trust Big-un and Jerry Toby anyway.
He said, "Big-un would drink himself a lot of that Colorado Kool-Aid and go to sleep in the middle of a double overtime between Paschal and Port Lavaca."
I said, "Does Big-un like his Coors?"
"Oh, he'll drink that Colorado Kool-Aid," said Jim Tom. "He don't like it any more than he likes gettin' fed and fucked before sundown."
I don't actually know very much about the newspaper business, other than what little I've heard Jim Tom complain about over the years. All I know is, he's got a fairly rotten job for a hundred and fifty a week and a
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