The Lost Legend by Jim Taylor
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CHAPTER 3 COMING UP ON NOVEMBER 30, 2005
Chapter 1
RED CARD
I tap danced down the right sideline, then deftly infiltrated the
enemy barricade like a commando in the streets of Baghdad.
Spying an open lane, I dished the ball to Giggs camped on the
far wing. The goalie trembled, a frightened sentinel guarding a
silent tomb. The ball screamed by his outstretched arms,
cracking the crossbar as it dropped in.
“Stick that middle finger up your as-!” I yelled to a stunned Sir
Red, England’s reigning champion. “Gunner rules!”
A sold-out Madison Square Garden rocked. My teammates
swarmed, bobbing me overhead on the way to the podium. I
raised the silver trophy. Flashbulbs flashed. Reporters stuck
their snow cones in my face.
“Gunner, how does it feel to win the Triple Crown of table
soccer two years in a row?”
“Mons. Elbuef. Now the 1994 World Cup! Amazing!” I struck a
pose for the BBC cameraman. “And to do it against a former
colonial power---that makes it even more special.”
“Gunner, what are you going to do with the $10,000 first prize
and the new Mercedes-Benz?”
“Pick up girls!” The Fourth Estate broke out into laughter.
“Do you have any advice for players?”
“Play hard!”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, always keep your options open.”
“We love you, Gunner!” the crowd sang in unison, as I cradled
the giant cardboard check.
Page 2
“Dad, are you alright?” my 15-year old daughter asked. “Why
are you holding a table lamp above your head?”
I bolted back to reality. My forehead glistened in cold sweat. I
gave the bulb a tight twist and put the lamp back on the glass
table in our living room. “Yeah, I’m fine," I reassured her. "The
light was flickering.”
“Why do I always have to play with a Some-Booty-Oh plastic
keeper?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s pronounced Sub-
boo-tee-oh!”
“Can we stop playing now? My feet hurt.”
“OK. Anything for you. You know I love you.”
“Oh, Dad. You just love beating me.” She sighed, her face
peppered with Crest toothpaste to fight off pimples.
Slipping the Hasbeen bases back in the box, J. Lo scampered
upstairs, rapping to a gangsta song. The orphaned box lay on
the white carpet.
Was I really OK? I wondered. Banned by FISTF in 1995, I was
still having violent flashbacks 10 years later. Up 2-1 in the
quarters at Sucy, I spotted Hooverhagen’s elbow assaulting my
figures. I pleaded my case, but the Dutch referee dismissed
my whining with a wave of the hand. The game turned into
rugby. I played sheriff and stopped the clock. The referee
threw the red card at me. I threw it back. Then I tackled my
blue-eyed, stick-figured opponent, swiftly kicking him in the
groin and choking his chicken neck, bouncing his bulbous head
like a beach ball on the rubber mat. Spectators dragging me
away, I flipped a few tables, figures scattering across the floor
like marbles.
The Tammany Hall disciplinary hearing in Brussels was a sham. I
was the best player in the world and this was their way of
whacking me. They didn’t like me, my game, my opinions, my
country, and my endorsements. Among the officers sat Italy’s
pretty-boy Fabio Salerno, owner of Astralbase. He resented
that I told people his bases were as expensive as Mikimoto
pearls.
FISTF’s president, the mild-mannered Smiles Coppernipple,
wasn’t much better.
Wearing a badly knotted tie, he was eager to please the other
racketeers.
God knows what money was being passed under the table as
these thieves rubber-stamped each other’s new products.
Page 3
“Mr. Legend, after careful deliberation, the 5-member board
has reached a decision. Do you have anything that may alter
our judgment?” Coppernipple stiffly asked, his Chiclet teeth
nervously clicking.
I sat upright in my chair. My black T-shirt read: Public Enemy
#1.
“First, thank you for giving me this opportunity to exonerate
myself.” I paused, taking a sip of chilled Evian before kicking off
in the most important game of my life. “As you know, I’ve
been playing this game for over 20 years, my hard work finally
paying off in 1992 when I won Mons. My resume is impressive.
Ten straight prestigious European victories in 1993. Two Triple
Crowns. The 36-hour marathon. Unprecedented worldwide
press coverage. I spawned thousands of little Gunners.
Turned the U.S. into a contender. And let‘s not forget the
Perfect Game, the match where I didn’t miss a shot or an
offensive flick in a 6-0 trouncing of Belgium’s lanky Gil Viveur.”
“Is that it?” interrupted Fabio, tightly marking my attacker.
“I like to believe I bring both a frown and a smile to the game.”
“That said,” Coppernipple raised the gavel like an executioner’s
axe, “We hereby …..”
“One more thing!” I interjected.
“Yes?”
My defense was in shambles. I tried a Hail Mary flick. “The
Dutch referee was partially blind. Long John Silver wore a black
patch over his right eye! I’m surprised a parrot wasn’t perched
on his shoulder!“
“Gunner, we believe you are a menace to society.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous? You are the one who is ridiculous!” Coppernipple
thundered.
Portly Olivier Pear calmed his fellow countryman with a soft pat
on the back.
“What do you think you looked like as you pummeled
Hooverhagen?”
“Like a man trying to win a tournament.”
Chapter 1
RED CARD
I tap danced down the right sideline, then deftly infiltrated the
enemy barricade like a commando in the streets of Baghdad.
Spying an open lane, I dished the ball to Giggs camped on the
far wing. The goalie trembled, a frightened sentinel guarding a
silent tomb. The ball screamed by his outstretched arms,
cracking the crossbar as it dropped in.
“Stick that middle finger up your as-!” I yelled to a stunned Sir
Red, England’s reigning champion. “Gunner rules!”
A sold-out Madison Square Garden rocked. My teammates
swarmed, bobbing me overhead on the way to the podium. I
raised the silver trophy. Flashbulbs flashed. Reporters stuck
their snow cones in my face.
“Gunner, how does it feel to win the Triple Crown of table
soccer two years in a row?”
“Mons. Elbuef. Now the 1994 World Cup! Amazing!” I struck a
pose for the BBC cameraman. “And to do it against a former
colonial power---that makes it even more special.”
“Gunner, what are you going to do with the $10,000 first prize
and the new Mercedes-Benz?”
“Pick up girls!” The Fourth Estate broke out into laughter.
“Do you have any advice for players?”
“Play hard!”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, always keep your options open.”
“We love you, Gunner!” the crowd sang in unison, as I cradled
the giant cardboard check.
Page 2
“Dad, are you alright?” my 15-year old daughter asked. “Why
are you holding a table lamp above your head?”
I bolted back to reality. My forehead glistened in cold sweat. I
gave the bulb a tight twist and put the lamp back on the glass
table in our living room. “Yeah, I’m fine," I reassured her. "The
light was flickering.”
“Why do I always have to play with a Some-Booty-Oh plastic
keeper?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s pronounced Sub-
boo-tee-oh!”
“Can we stop playing now? My feet hurt.”
“OK. Anything for you. You know I love you.”
“Oh, Dad. You just love beating me.” She sighed, her face
peppered with Crest toothpaste to fight off pimples.
Slipping the Hasbeen bases back in the box, J. Lo scampered
upstairs, rapping to a gangsta song. The orphaned box lay on
the white carpet.
Was I really OK? I wondered. Banned by FISTF in 1995, I was
still having violent flashbacks 10 years later. Up 2-1 in the
quarters at Sucy, I spotted Hooverhagen’s elbow assaulting my
figures. I pleaded my case, but the Dutch referee dismissed
my whining with a wave of the hand. The game turned into
rugby. I played sheriff and stopped the clock. The referee
threw the red card at me. I threw it back. Then I tackled my
blue-eyed, stick-figured opponent, swiftly kicking him in the
groin and choking his chicken neck, bouncing his bulbous head
like a beach ball on the rubber mat. Spectators dragging me
away, I flipped a few tables, figures scattering across the floor
like marbles.
The Tammany Hall disciplinary hearing in Brussels was a sham. I
was the best player in the world and this was their way of
whacking me. They didn’t like me, my game, my opinions, my
country, and my endorsements. Among the officers sat Italy’s
pretty-boy Fabio Salerno, owner of Astralbase. He resented
that I told people his bases were as expensive as Mikimoto
pearls.
FISTF’s president, the mild-mannered Smiles Coppernipple,
wasn’t much better.
Wearing a badly knotted tie, he was eager to please the other
racketeers.
God knows what money was being passed under the table as
these thieves rubber-stamped each other’s new products.
Page 3
“Mr. Legend, after careful deliberation, the 5-member board
has reached a decision. Do you have anything that may alter
our judgment?” Coppernipple stiffly asked, his Chiclet teeth
nervously clicking.
I sat upright in my chair. My black T-shirt read: Public Enemy
#1.
“First, thank you for giving me this opportunity to exonerate
myself.” I paused, taking a sip of chilled Evian before kicking off
in the most important game of my life. “As you know, I’ve
been playing this game for over 20 years, my hard work finally
paying off in 1992 when I won Mons. My resume is impressive.
Ten straight prestigious European victories in 1993. Two Triple
Crowns. The 36-hour marathon. Unprecedented worldwide
press coverage. I spawned thousands of little Gunners.
Turned the U.S. into a contender. And let‘s not forget the
Perfect Game, the match where I didn’t miss a shot or an
offensive flick in a 6-0 trouncing of Belgium’s lanky Gil Viveur.”
“Is that it?” interrupted Fabio, tightly marking my attacker.
“I like to believe I bring both a frown and a smile to the game.”
“That said,” Coppernipple raised the gavel like an executioner’s
axe, “We hereby …..”
“One more thing!” I interjected.
“Yes?”
My defense was in shambles. I tried a Hail Mary flick. “The
Dutch referee was partially blind. Long John Silver wore a black
patch over his right eye! I’m surprised a parrot wasn’t perched
on his shoulder!“
“Gunner, we believe you are a menace to society.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous? You are the one who is ridiculous!” Coppernipple
thundered.
Portly Olivier Pear calmed his fellow countryman with a soft pat
on the back.
“What do you think you looked like as you pummeled
Hooverhagen?”
“Like a man trying to win a tournament.”
Page 4
Coppernipple’s wooden grin shattered in a storm of anger.
“I’ll tell you what you looked like! Better yet, I’ll tell you
what Le Monde thought!”
He furiously shook a rolled-up newspaper at me, like he
was swatting a fly.
Snapping open the paper, his eyes swam in circles. Fabio
quietly pointed out that the newspaper was upside down.
“Quote: ‘Gunner looked like Andy Kaufmann in leotards
fighting an ugly female wrestler.’ Unquote.”
“Only on page 2, huh? I thought that was headline stuff.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether you’re trying to be serious
or funny.”
“Call it Performance Art.”
“I call it Global Disgrace!” Smiles yelled, gulping a handful
of pills with a swig of water.
“Apparently, our difference of opinion is as wide as the
Atlantic.“
“I’ve had enough! This isn’t a banana republic!”
“I beg to differ.”
“You are a danger to yourself and to others. However,
we do recognize your small contribution to the sport.
Therefore, we hereby ban you from playing official FISTF
and ASS tournaments for 3 years, effective immediately.
We
also strongly recommend anger management counseling.
You’ll be eligible to compete again in 1999. By the way, if
you get therapy, please do so back in the States. Your
French is terrible.”
The chip shot struck me between the eyes. Starry
constellations swirled.
Distraught, I left the hearing in a stretcher. Word of the
banishment spread faster than a California forest fire. “Say
it ain’t so, Gunner!“ wrote the New York Times.
Page 5
Before the FISTF slander machine could kick into high
gear, I chartered a private plane to Nike’s world
headquarters in Beaverton, Oregon to see the vice
president of marketing. A framed picture of me in my
white club jersey hung behind his desk.
I discreetly ensured my gold cufflinks were snapped and
my zipper zipped.
“Mr. Baron, I’m ready to sign that six-figure contract we
were talking about.”
“Gunner, I’ve been doing some thinking.”
Oh-oh, too late. Damn, FISTF!
Mr. Baron raised his putter, the ball rattling into the crystal
glass 8 feet away.
“In the last few weeks, we’ve looked at the sport’s
demographics.
Sure the game is bigger than lacrosse, but we anticipate
fewer people will be playing over the next few years in the
United States. Less people means fewer people buying
athletic shoes. It’s just not you, Gunner. It’s the fact
that there are more sports to choose from. We’ve
decided to bet the house on foosball.”
“But we had a deal, Mr. Baron! A pinky promise!”
“This isn’t a game! This is business. I’ve got to answer to
our shareholders. But I like you. You taught me how to
chip. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He unsheathed the
contract from a leather folder. “Let’s see what the
landscape looks like in 4-5 years. If participation is up and
you’re still winning big events, we’ll reevaluate our
position. Sound like a plan?”
“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” I weakly replied. I was boxed
in a corner with nowhere to flick.
“Until we meet again, I’m going to keep this contract in a
safe place.” He slid the document and my future into a
desk drawer and locked it, tucking the skeleton key in his
shirt pocket.
As I turned my back on him and my career as a
professional table soccer player, Mr. Baron solicited my
advice as I slinked out the door.
“What do you think?” He pointed to the wall where my
photo once hung.
“Looks great, Mr. Baron. Just great.” Michael Jordan
beamed down at me.
-------------
Read Chapter 2 HERE
(c) Jim Taylor 2005
All Rights Reserved. No part of this story may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission
from the author.
Coppernipple’s wooden grin shattered in a storm of anger.
“I’ll tell you what you looked like! Better yet, I’ll tell you
what Le Monde thought!”
He furiously shook a rolled-up newspaper at me, like he
was swatting a fly.
Snapping open the paper, his eyes swam in circles. Fabio
quietly pointed out that the newspaper was upside down.
“Quote: ‘Gunner looked like Andy Kaufmann in leotards
fighting an ugly female wrestler.’ Unquote.”
“Only on page 2, huh? I thought that was headline stuff.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether you’re trying to be serious
or funny.”
“Call it Performance Art.”
“I call it Global Disgrace!” Smiles yelled, gulping a handful
of pills with a swig of water.
“Apparently, our difference of opinion is as wide as the
Atlantic.“
“I’ve had enough! This isn’t a banana republic!”
“I beg to differ.”
“You are a danger to yourself and to others. However,
we do recognize your small contribution to the sport.
Therefore, we hereby ban you from playing official FISTF
and ASS tournaments for 3 years, effective immediately.
We
also strongly recommend anger management counseling.
You’ll be eligible to compete again in 1999. By the way, if
you get therapy, please do so back in the States. Your
French is terrible.”
The chip shot struck me between the eyes. Starry
constellations swirled.
Distraught, I left the hearing in a stretcher. Word of the
banishment spread faster than a California forest fire. “Say
it ain’t so, Gunner!“ wrote the New York Times.
Page 5
Before the FISTF slander machine could kick into high
gear, I chartered a private plane to Nike’s world
headquarters in Beaverton, Oregon to see the vice
president of marketing. A framed picture of me in my
white club jersey hung behind his desk.
I discreetly ensured my gold cufflinks were snapped and
my zipper zipped.
“Mr. Baron, I’m ready to sign that six-figure contract we
were talking about.”
“Gunner, I’ve been doing some thinking.”
Oh-oh, too late. Damn, FISTF!
Mr. Baron raised his putter, the ball rattling into the crystal
glass 8 feet away.
“In the last few weeks, we’ve looked at the sport’s
demographics.
Sure the game is bigger than lacrosse, but we anticipate
fewer people will be playing over the next few years in the
United States. Less people means fewer people buying
athletic shoes. It’s just not you, Gunner. It’s the fact
that there are more sports to choose from. We’ve
decided to bet the house on foosball.”
“But we had a deal, Mr. Baron! A pinky promise!”
“This isn’t a game! This is business. I’ve got to answer to
our shareholders. But I like you. You taught me how to
chip. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He unsheathed the
contract from a leather folder. “Let’s see what the
landscape looks like in 4-5 years. If participation is up and
you’re still winning big events, we’ll reevaluate our
position. Sound like a plan?”
“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” I weakly replied. I was boxed
in a corner with nowhere to flick.
“Until we meet again, I’m going to keep this contract in a
safe place.” He slid the document and my future into a
desk drawer and locked it, tucking the skeleton key in his
shirt pocket.
As I turned my back on him and my career as a
professional table soccer player, Mr. Baron solicited my
advice as I slinked out the door.
“What do you think?” He pointed to the wall where my
photo once hung.
“Looks great, Mr. Baron. Just great.” Michael Jordan
beamed down at me.
-------------
Read Chapter 2 HERE
(c) Jim Taylor 2005
All Rights Reserved. No part of this story may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission
from the author.