press the button. “It’s OK, Meena. Everything’s fine.” A tiny vein throbs at the side of Bobby’s temple, just above his right eye. He whispers in a little-boy voice, “I had to punish her.”
“Who did you have to punish?”
He gives the ring on his right index finger a half turn and then turns it back again as if he’s tuning the dial on a radio, searching for the right frequency.
“We’re al connected— six degrees of separation, sometimes less. If something happens in Liverpool or London or Australia it’s al connected…” I won’t let him change the subject.
“If you’re in trouble, Bobby, I can help. You have to let me know what happened.”
“Whose bed is she in now?” he whispers.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The only time she’l sleep alone is in the ground.”
“Did you punish Arky?”
More aware of me now, he laughs at me. “Did you ever see The Truman Show ?”
“Yes.”
“Wel sometimes I think I’m Truman. I think the whole world is watching me. My life has been created to someone else’s expectations. Everything is a façade. The wal s are plywood and the furniture is papier-mâché. And then I think that if I could just run fast enough, I’d get around the next corner and find the back lot of the film set. But I can never run fast enough. By the time I arrive, they’ve built another street… and another.”
6
Muhammad Ali has a lot to answer for. When he lit the flame at the Atlanta Olympics there wasn’t a dry eye on the planet. Why were we crying? Because a great sportsman had been reduced to this— a shuffling, mumbling, twitching cripple. A man who once danced like a butterfly now shook like a blancmange.
We always remember the sportsmen. When the body deserts a scientist like Stephen Hawking we figure that he’l be able to live in his mind, but a crippled athlete is like a bird with a broken wing. When you soar to the heights the landing is harder.
It’s Wednesday and I’m sitting in Jock’s office. His real name is Dr. Emlyn Robert Owen— a Scotsman with a Welsh name— but I’ve only ever known him by his nickname.
A solid, almost square man, with powerful shoulders and a bul neck, he looks more like a former boxer than a brain surgeon. His office has Salvador Dali prints on the wal s, along with an autographed photograph of John McEnroe holding the Wimbledon trophy. McEnroe has signed it, “You cannot be serious!” Jock motions for me to sit on the examination table and then rol s up his sleeves. His forearms are tanned and thick. That’s how he manages to hit a tennis bal like an Exocet missile.
Playing tennis with Jock is eighty percent pain. Everything comes rocketing back aimed directly at your body. Even with a completely open court he stil tries to dril the bal straight through you.
My regular Friday matches with Jock have nothing to do with a love of tennis— they’re about the past. They’re about a tal , slender col ege girl who chose me instead of him. That was nearly twenty years ago and now she’s my wife. It stil pisses him off.
“How is Julianne?” he asks, shining a pencil torch into my eyes.
“Good.”
“What did she think about the business on the ledge?”
“She’s stil talking to me.”
“Did you tel anyone about your condition?”
“No. You told me I should carry on normal y.”
“Yes. Normally! ” He opens a folder and scribbles a note. “Any tremors?”
“Not real y. Sometimes when I try to get out of a chair or out of bed, my mind says get up but nothing happens.” He makes another note. “That’s cal ed starting hesitancy. I get it al the time— particularly if the rugby’s on TV.” He makes a point of walking from side to side, watching my eyes fol ow him. “How are you sleeping?”
“Not so wel .”
“You should get one of those relaxation tapes. You know the sort of thing. Some guy talks in a real y boring voice and puts you to sleep.”
“That’s why I keep coming
“Who did you have to punish?”
He gives the ring on his right index finger a half turn and then turns it back again as if he’s tuning the dial on a radio, searching for the right frequency.
“We’re al connected— six degrees of separation, sometimes less. If something happens in Liverpool or London or Australia it’s al connected…” I won’t let him change the subject.
“If you’re in trouble, Bobby, I can help. You have to let me know what happened.”
“Whose bed is she in now?” he whispers.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The only time she’l sleep alone is in the ground.”
“Did you punish Arky?”
More aware of me now, he laughs at me. “Did you ever see The Truman Show ?”
“Yes.”
“Wel sometimes I think I’m Truman. I think the whole world is watching me. My life has been created to someone else’s expectations. Everything is a façade. The wal s are plywood and the furniture is papier-mâché. And then I think that if I could just run fast enough, I’d get around the next corner and find the back lot of the film set. But I can never run fast enough. By the time I arrive, they’ve built another street… and another.”
6
Muhammad Ali has a lot to answer for. When he lit the flame at the Atlanta Olympics there wasn’t a dry eye on the planet. Why were we crying? Because a great sportsman had been reduced to this— a shuffling, mumbling, twitching cripple. A man who once danced like a butterfly now shook like a blancmange.
We always remember the sportsmen. When the body deserts a scientist like Stephen Hawking we figure that he’l be able to live in his mind, but a crippled athlete is like a bird with a broken wing. When you soar to the heights the landing is harder.
It’s Wednesday and I’m sitting in Jock’s office. His real name is Dr. Emlyn Robert Owen— a Scotsman with a Welsh name— but I’ve only ever known him by his nickname.
A solid, almost square man, with powerful shoulders and a bul neck, he looks more like a former boxer than a brain surgeon. His office has Salvador Dali prints on the wal s, along with an autographed photograph of John McEnroe holding the Wimbledon trophy. McEnroe has signed it, “You cannot be serious!” Jock motions for me to sit on the examination table and then rol s up his sleeves. His forearms are tanned and thick. That’s how he manages to hit a tennis bal like an Exocet missile.
Playing tennis with Jock is eighty percent pain. Everything comes rocketing back aimed directly at your body. Even with a completely open court he stil tries to dril the bal straight through you.
My regular Friday matches with Jock have nothing to do with a love of tennis— they’re about the past. They’re about a tal , slender col ege girl who chose me instead of him. That was nearly twenty years ago and now she’s my wife. It stil pisses him off.
“How is Julianne?” he asks, shining a pencil torch into my eyes.
“Good.”
“What did she think about the business on the ledge?”
“She’s stil talking to me.”
“Did you tel anyone about your condition?”
“No. You told me I should carry on normal y.”
“Yes. Normally! ” He opens a folder and scribbles a note. “Any tremors?”
“Not real y. Sometimes when I try to get out of a chair or out of bed, my mind says get up but nothing happens.” He makes another note. “That’s cal ed starting hesitancy. I get it al the time— particularly if the rugby’s on TV.” He makes a point of walking from side to side, watching my eyes fol ow him. “How are you sleeping?”
“Not so wel .”
“You should get one of those relaxation tapes. You know the sort of thing. Some guy talks in a real y boring voice and puts you to sleep.”
“That’s why I keep coming
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