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EVENTS
CENTERS
CNNSI.com GROUP
COMMERCE
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I am, actually. I'm as high as Robert Downey Jr. on a neighbor's lawn as the private jet with which I've been entrusted for the next 24 hours zooms over the Atlantic. It's quite a lively crew we've assembled, from bodacious booster Luke Campbell to loquacious hoopsters Bill Walton and Charles Barkley to curvaceous booters Julie Foudy, Mia Hamm and Brandi Chastain. Everyone is dressed to impress and devoid of stress -- and who's that over there in the corner, working the blender? It's Barry Switzer, mixing some of the tastiest margaritas known to humankind. Every good day begins with a run, and our first stop is Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls. Lest we be subjected to pain in Spain, we, like many runners, are sufficiently lubricated before beginning our mad dash. Midway through, I wonder: Is that a bull horn jabbing at my butt, or is Dennis Rodman just happy to see me? "Been awhile, bro," Worm intones in his ultra-low rasp. "Gotta run," I pant. "Will you be joining us for breakfast?" "Of course. I'll rev up the 'copter and see your tired ass at Centre Court." Ah, breakfast at Wimbledon, and what could be better than an Anna Kournikova-Jelena Dokic final? Kournikova takes the first set, but Dokic fights off six match points to win the second and takes a 5-0 lead in the third. But wait -- a series of disturbances: Sergei Fedorov sobbing uncontrollably in the royal box ... Rodman's helicopter blowing strawberries and cream all over the grounds ... and now a portly, drunken man, loudly spitting curse words, stumbles onto the court and falls face-down on the service line. "Dad!" Dokic wails, "you aren't allowed on the court." Order is restored, and Kournikova sweeps through the next seven games to record her first tournament title. About the time the newly crowned champion is insisting the Duchess of Kent curtsy to her we high-tail it out of there and off the continent. The plane comes courtesy of 49ers owner Denise DeBartolo York, who, while not overly enamored of my reportorial elegance, apparently still feels guilty for having repo-ed her brother Eddie's corporate jet years earlier. It makes a quick stop in Philly, where we all wolf down some raw-egg spritzers and dash up the "Rocky" steps with Sly Stallone. Enough exercise; now it's time to chill. We're behind the plate at Yankee Stadium, 10 rows back, watching Pedro and the Rocket duel. Eighth inning, no score, one baserunner per team, 18 strikeouts apiece. Clemens fires a fastball toward Red Sox slugger Manny Ramirez, whose broken bat flies to the mound. Clemens picks it up and fires it back toward Ramirez, but it sails up, up, over the screen... and right toward us! Everyone ducks, but disaster is averted when rapper Jay-Z snatches the splintered wood on the fly and waves it around like a microphone. Time to pick up the pace. Here we are strolling onto the 18th green at Augusta National; next we're blowing through New Orleans where I suck down a bucket of boiled crawfish with Ricky Williams at Frankie and Johnny's (throwing the discards on the restaurant floor); then we're stopping in Nashville for some home-cooked chili, courtesy of Titans coach Jeff Fisher's wife, Juli; and, with Juli now working the blender, we're racing ahead to Louisville in time to place our bets for the Derby. Churchill Downs is a blur of mint-julep-laden madness. After watching the most exciting two minutes in sports we head back to the plane, shed our fancy get-ups and zoom off to Kansas City, where we pour out liquor at Kelly's (one of Derrick Thomas's old Westport haunts) to honor a fallen friend. As the plane charges ahead toward the promised land, we are captivated by the in-flight video: A special Celebrity Deathmatch in which Counting Crowes singer Adam Duritz (who majored in pre-dred at Cal) dismembers Tiger Woods (who majored in pre-Nike at Stanford), and it sets the stage perfectly for our next stop. Ah, Berkeley, home of Cal's resplendent Memorial Stadium, where we witness the first prime-time version of the Big Game. Down by one with 20 seconds to go, the Bears pull off an updated version of The Play, this time tossing laterals through the Stanford rugby team (which forfeited its 2001 match against Cal, citing fear of bodily harm) for the winning score with two seconds to go. The Cardinal responds with its own lateral-laden return, and one of its players looks headed for a score -- until a Cal rugby player charges onto the field and face-plants him into the grass. Our postgame celebration ends up -- where else? -- on the deck of Andre Rison's penthouse apartment in downtown Oakland. Staring out at the lovely San Francisco Bay in the wee morning hours, it strikes me that the ultimate sports fantasy day is not yet complete. I gather Walton, Luke and a few other survivors and stagger back to the limo, we roll into the plane for a few hours of shut-eye. At the break of dawn we're flat on our stomachs, surrounded by blissful blue water as we body-board at Shipwrecks Beach in Kauai. On the day's last tube ride, I straighten out and wash up along the soft, sandy shore. I look up toward the sunrise, but instead see a familiar face hovering above. "Hey," Switzer howls, shaking a large blender, "how 'bout a couple of margies?" |
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