Has to be The Worm.
Well, that sucks. He probably got it right there.
Might have to stop before we start.
You can’t beat that. A professional athlete who called himself The Worm. We’re talking the early Rodman here. Before the Bulls and the piercings and the multi-coloured hair. Before Madonna. Just a skinny freak of nature going up for the ball, boxing out guys six inches taller than he was. He gave up at least forty pounds every single night and still nobody could stop him. Defensive Player of the Year a million times. Crazy.
They had Spider Salley back there, too. All arms and legs. Coming off the bench. The front court was full of bug names.
James Buddha Edwards?
Nobody, nobody, worked the Fu Manchu better than that guy. It looked normal on him.
And you think Rodman was skinny, what about Tay Tay?
I like the way George Blaha says his name: “Tayshaun scoops it and he scores it.”
Even Blaha kind of works when you think about it.
Yeah. Blaha is a possibility. You just leave it out there by itself: The Bla and then the Ha.
That’s not a nickname, though, right? Blaha is his real name.
Fuck you.
Big Ben is too obvious. Swinging his sledgehammer with his homegame Afro teased all the way out.
‘Let’s go to work.’ That was perfect.
Or Zeke. Remember when Isiah did those public service announcements for Detroit Edison. I guess they were trying cut down on accidental childhood electrocutions.
— Hey kids, look up.
— But, Isiah, I don’t see anything.
— That’s good, because there might have been power lines.
He was off the charts for the unintentionally hilarious.
Mahorn and Laimbeer. Evil sons of bitches. The real bad boys. Kept knocking Jordan on his ass for years and years before he got through.
And the new guys: Rip and Sheed and Chauncey.
Mr. Big Shot.
Rasheed bought an actual heavy-weight championship belt for every guy after they won. Said he’d take his five against any other five in the world.
He, Sheed, is the absolute greatest of all time. The G.O.A.T. Unstoppable whenever he felt like trying. Seven feet tall. Shooting the threes and taking the T’s.
Best nickname in the history of the Pistons. Should have thought of it sooner: Vinnie Johnson.
A moment of silence. We nod our heads because this is true. There is no need to proceed.
Bigger than the Pistons, really, when you think about it.
Probably the best nickname in the history of sports.
Vinnie — The Microwave — Johnson.
Awesome.
It is time for the Microwave.
Remember that?
I most certainly do.
We need the Microwave right now.
His jump shot moved against the laws of physics.
How could that work? A line drive with no arc whatsoever.
I don’t care how or why it worked. Just know it always went in.
Yep.
Put him in stone cold and he heats up to a scorching inferno in less than a second.
That’s why they call him the Microwave.
Because he bringeth the heat.
Vinnie could sit on the bench for three and a half quarters doing nothing. He could be there in his street clothes and a pair of loafers, clapping his hands and telling jokes.
You put him in only when you need him.
Game on the line, down by four, three minutes left. Chuck makes the call.
Then, Boom, The Microwave goes off for 12 points down the stretch. He makes two threes and draws a charge on the other end. The starters sit to make room for him.
He’s the guy who will walk to the line and sink both free throws to win it at the end, even when all the time has expired.
I want to propose a toast to the Microwave.
Yes. To Vinnie Johnson. For all he’s given us.
To the Microwave for always delivering when it counted.
You can live a long, long time, but you will never see anything else like that.
Not the Romans or the Mongol hordes. Not Alexander, or the Crusaders, or the Spanish Armada, or Napoleon and the Nazis. No one was ever strong enough. All brought down in the end. This is Zinsser’s true fascination. The history of the world indexed to the life of an insect: “this creature which has carried the pestilence that has devastated cities, driven populations into exile, turned conquering armies into panic-stricken rabbles.” Lenin, during the revolution, millions dying around him. The outcome unsure. He doesn’t know what is going to happen. It hangs in the balance. He says: Either socialism will defeat the louse or the louse will defeat socialism.
All the lights on in our house. Three in the morning. Something wrong. We come up the stairs and they are all waiting. She stands between my mother and father. The baby completely white now. Skin almost translucent. Purple eyelids. Lips dry and orange.
She threw up red, she says.
We have to go to the Hospital. You hold her and I’ll drive.
Emergency room at Christmas time. Tree in the corner with a sign. These gifts are empty boxes. Please refrain from opening.
Rows of moulded seats with metal arm rails that make it impossible to lie down. A Saturday night crowd during the holidays. Woman with plastic bag socks. She has a shopping cart full of empty pop cans parked outside the sliding door. A guy sleeping across from us, legs splayed wide like an upside down “Y.” Small separate bruises on the right side of his face. Ambulances rolling in and out. Stretchers. Overdoses. Bar fights. A man with a knife stuck right through his hand. Nurse tells him to leave it in and wait for further instructions. Triage.
We fill out our forms and huddle. Health Cards from a different province. Suspicion. You may have to pay for this up front and get reimbursed when you return home. Her temperature keeps rising. Wheezing when she breathes. Brown pus around her eyes. They take blood and urine samples right away. Then we wait.
Five hours. Six.
The light of the next day comes up. Regular staff arrive with coffee and their bagged lunches. Smile at each other. Talk about good two-for-one sales at the mall last night. The folding corrugated wall around the gift shop is opened up and the cash register blinks to life.
We take turns holding her. Passing the limp body back and forth. She hasn’t opened her eyes all night. No sign of Vinnie Johnson.
Talk to them, she says. What is going on? They think they’ve called us. They think they’ve already called, but they haven’t. They have our results by now. They have to have them. We’ve been here all night. Our file must be in the wrong place. Nobody would leave a baby out here, in this room, for an entire night at Christmas. Go talk to them.
At the desk, I say, do you think we can take our baby home, please, and maybe you can call us with the results? I don’t think you fully understand the situation. We’ve been here for hours with a newborn and nothing is happening. Nobody has even checked on her.
At that moment, a doctor comes through the swinging doors and calls our name.
The nurse points at me.
Right there, she says. They want to know if they can go home.
He pulls the results out of a pile and looks me over. The same clothes for two days. The stink of the drive. No toothbrush or razor. He can smell The Bridge all over me.
This child, he says, flipping the pages of the report, stretching it out. This child is not going anywhere.
He slams his clipboard down on the counter of the nurse’s station. The swack brings the attention of the whole room onto my back. His eyes are furious. I am one of a hundred. There are a hundred every night. A thousand nights in a row.