Thursday

27 April 2097

— and another late April morning of heavy frost

Good Morning All,

Just before 6:00 this morning, I completed my crossword puzzle, put the book and red pen down in their usual place on the corner of the bathtub, completed other attendant business, and found I was now in possession of an empty cardboard toilet-paper spool.

The white plastic wastebasket was under the sink, slightly over five feet away (5 feet 3 inches, as I later discovered), between the radiator and a tall red fire-extinguisher.

Why I was keeping the fire extinguisher in the bathroom, I was not sure. My brother-in-law Joe used to say that a decent Indian curry needed to be hot enough so that you could sit on the can at 2:00 in the morning and read the newspaper by the glow of your backside. But it was impossible to get such a curry here in Denmark.

I shifted the toilet-paper spool to my other hand, and it was at this point I heard the unmistakable voice of Johnny Most, the Celtics’ legendary announcer, whispering hoarsely somewhere above me, “Well, fans, there’s utter silence now here in the Garden. Seventh game, Lakers and Celts all tied up. Time has expired and Pierce is at the line for his second foul shot. 

"Not Paul Pierce, that is, but Bheka Pierce, who has suited up for every game since 1958, but had never been called in off the bench until just five minutes ago, when he swished those two quick three-pointers, then got fouled as time ran out, made the first shot to tie the game up. And now, here we are. He makes the second shot, the Celts win #17. He misses and we go into overtime, although Bird, Parrish, and Kevin have all fouled it.”

I take a deep breath, realizing that from where I am positioned, I will have to make the shot both underhand and backhanded, high enough to clear the rim, but low enough not to bounce the spool off the front of the sink. 

As if I am not nervous enough, it now also occurs to me if I make this shot, I will get to live until I am 85, the customary mortal-coil moment for members of the Pierce family, but if I miss I will have a major coronary thrombosis in the process of getting up to grab the toilet spool wherever it landed and rip it apart .

I take a moment to steady myself. I look up and see way above me in the nose-bleed balcony of the Garden fifteen nuns in the front row all furiously doing their beads. Down behind the Celtics’ bench, President Kennedy is holding little John-John on his lap. Little John-John has his eyes squeezed shut and his hands pressed together in a prayerful attitude.

Bobby and Teddy sit on either side of JFK. Behind them, Good Lord, sit Hawthorne, Thoreau, Melville, and Emerson, all wearing my team jersey, number 159. And, yikes, there is J.D. Salinger, right behind them, all the way down from New Hampshire, wearing a red hunting cap on backwards.

With my forehead now doing an excellent imitation of Niagara falls, I take one more deep breath and let go my shot. The spool in slow motion spins end-over-end, too high, too high!, then dips, slips to the left, bounces off the radiator, squeezes behind the drainage pipe, kisses off the fire-extinguisher handle, and falls into the very center of the basket. 

I actually feel faint, but elated, of course, not to mention relieved, and the next thing I know my bathroom seems filled with Red Auerbach’s cigar smoke.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron