watched football on the couch with my dad. I’d had a crush on Jim McMahon and when he ran onto the field I’d hold up a homemade sign that read “Iyou Jim! Do the Super Bowl shuffle!” But Florida State and the obnoxious tomahawk chop, which stayed in my head for years, ruined the sport for me.
The host’s young Mexican wife, an ex–cocktail waitress from Binion’s, breezed through the room in a low-cut silk dress, looking as posh and polished as a movie star. A diamond-encrusted Star of David, a present from her husband when she converted to Judaism, fell into her cleavage. She offered the guests fresh-squeezed orange juice, toasted bagels and lox, and more chocolate hors d’oeuvres. She delivered a prepared plate to her husband, who sat behind his glazed desk. As lissomely as she entered, she departed. And once again, I was the only female in the room if you didn’t count sideline reporter Bonnie Bernstein.
And, let’s go down to Bonnie Bernstein. Bonnie?
The camera cut to Bonnie, standing on the sidelines, composed. A silver clip kept the wind from blowing her hair into her face. A quilted magenta coat protected her from the Green Bay chill. She brought the CBS microphone close to her mouth and began to speak.
Our host muted her commentary. “Cunt,” he spat.
Dink came to her rescue. “Hey, don’t be rude to Bonnie. She’s one of the tribe.”
“Cock! Sucker! I have too much on San Fran under. Anybody wanna piece of it?”
“I’ll take two dimes.”
“I’ll take three.”
“How do you have two dimes to bet on the game but you can’t pay me back the money I loaned you at Saratoga?”
“I got a joke for you guys. Two Muslims and a Jew are sittin’ next to each other on an airplane …”
On the TV below, players piled on top of each other.
He fumbles the ball and here comes the Ravens and … they … got it!
On the top TV, the Redskins prepared for kickoff.
“FUCK you, Schottenheimer, you inept FUCK,” Hair Plugs shouted. The camera cut to the coach pacing the sidelines and Hair Plugs lunged at him, the way high school bullies do when they want to make someone flinch. I thought he was going to spit at the screen. I had to look away.
“Baltimore’s shootin’ their load a little too early.”
“Niners’ defense is horrendous. This may be a very profitable day.”
“Can somebody mute Dierdorf?
‘An inopportune time to fumble.’
Is there ever an opportune time to fumble, jerk-off?”
“Fuck. I forgot my Xanax.”
On the divan sat a man so entranced by the game’s unfolding drama that he absentmindedly peeled psoriasis scabs from the back of his hand and popped them like movie candy into his mouth.
“Eating it’s not gonna make it go away,” Dink said, and then turned to me and asked, “Are you having a nice time?”
I nodded my head yes.
“You’re allowed to talk, you know.”
I shook my head no.
“You wanna piece?”
In addition to my salary, Dink gave me “pieces” of games we watched together outside of the office. It was an all-reward, no-risk situation. If he won, he’d give me two, three hundred dollars. To make it more fun for me, he said. He gave me my first piece of a game while we were in San Diego. Now, one week later, I was up eight hundred dollars for the week, in pieces.
I nodded yes.
“We need Falcons and under. Our root is for no one to score. But if someone must score, we want it to be the Falcons. We need the Redskin total to go over thirty-four in the first half, that’s a big one. We need Tennessee to get destroyed …”
Falafel was reprimanded for rooting too loudly for his three-hundred-dollar bet while his friend, the host, had five grand riding on the opposing team. This, Dink said, was one of the reasons he liked having me work for him. I didn’t gamble on sports, so if Dink needed one team, he could rest assured that I didn’t have a bet on the other side and was secretly rooting against him. That situation happened
The host’s young Mexican wife, an ex–cocktail waitress from Binion’s, breezed through the room in a low-cut silk dress, looking as posh and polished as a movie star. A diamond-encrusted Star of David, a present from her husband when she converted to Judaism, fell into her cleavage. She offered the guests fresh-squeezed orange juice, toasted bagels and lox, and more chocolate hors d’oeuvres. She delivered a prepared plate to her husband, who sat behind his glazed desk. As lissomely as she entered, she departed. And once again, I was the only female in the room if you didn’t count sideline reporter Bonnie Bernstein.
And, let’s go down to Bonnie Bernstein. Bonnie?
The camera cut to Bonnie, standing on the sidelines, composed. A silver clip kept the wind from blowing her hair into her face. A quilted magenta coat protected her from the Green Bay chill. She brought the CBS microphone close to her mouth and began to speak.
Our host muted her commentary. “Cunt,” he spat.
Dink came to her rescue. “Hey, don’t be rude to Bonnie. She’s one of the tribe.”
“Cock! Sucker! I have too much on San Fran under. Anybody wanna piece of it?”
“I’ll take two dimes.”
“I’ll take three.”
“How do you have two dimes to bet on the game but you can’t pay me back the money I loaned you at Saratoga?”
“I got a joke for you guys. Two Muslims and a Jew are sittin’ next to each other on an airplane …”
On the TV below, players piled on top of each other.
He fumbles the ball and here comes the Ravens and … they … got it!
On the top TV, the Redskins prepared for kickoff.
“FUCK you, Schottenheimer, you inept FUCK,” Hair Plugs shouted. The camera cut to the coach pacing the sidelines and Hair Plugs lunged at him, the way high school bullies do when they want to make someone flinch. I thought he was going to spit at the screen. I had to look away.
“Baltimore’s shootin’ their load a little too early.”
“Niners’ defense is horrendous. This may be a very profitable day.”
“Can somebody mute Dierdorf?
‘An inopportune time to fumble.’
Is there ever an opportune time to fumble, jerk-off?”
“Fuck. I forgot my Xanax.”
On the divan sat a man so entranced by the game’s unfolding drama that he absentmindedly peeled psoriasis scabs from the back of his hand and popped them like movie candy into his mouth.
“Eating it’s not gonna make it go away,” Dink said, and then turned to me and asked, “Are you having a nice time?”
I nodded my head yes.
“You’re allowed to talk, you know.”
I shook my head no.
“You wanna piece?”
In addition to my salary, Dink gave me “pieces” of games we watched together outside of the office. It was an all-reward, no-risk situation. If he won, he’d give me two, three hundred dollars. To make it more fun for me, he said. He gave me my first piece of a game while we were in San Diego. Now, one week later, I was up eight hundred dollars for the week, in pieces.
I nodded yes.
“We need Falcons and under. Our root is for no one to score. But if someone must score, we want it to be the Falcons. We need the Redskin total to go over thirty-four in the first half, that’s a big one. We need Tennessee to get destroyed …”
Falafel was reprimanded for rooting too loudly for his three-hundred-dollar bet while his friend, the host, had five grand riding on the opposing team. This, Dink said, was one of the reasons he liked having me work for him. I didn’t gamble on sports, so if Dink needed one team, he could rest assured that I didn’t have a bet on the other side and was secretly rooting against him. That situation happened
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