City Snickers

Another Chargerless post-season run to the Super Bowl has my crusty neighbor, Benson Hedges, flabbergasted. I’ve never seen him so despondent. Benson is hard-core—behind his ears are blue-and-gold face-paint stains from 1996.

We’re at Seau’s. The restaurant is morosely quiet. Channel 8’s Larry Himmel is interviewing patrons—the intrepid reporter from the Chargers’ flagship station is getting the scoop on what the team needs to do to regroup for next year.

Himmel thrusts the microphone toward Benson. The light atop the cameraman’s lens illuminates Benson’s bloodshot eyes. His pupils shrink. Ordering another Jameson’s-and-rocks, hold the rocks, Benson clears his throat, rough from the effect of Philip Morris by-products.

“I hope you got a lot of tape in that thing,” begins Benson. Himmel already looks nervous. “There’s this scene in

one of those Saturday Night Live skits where these flight attendants usher airline passengers out of a plane. They say, ‘BUH-BYE ... BUH-BYE now.” And when the passengers take too long to leave, ‘What part of BUH or BYE do you not understand?’”

Benson turns, empties his glass of Jameson’s and motions for another. He leans back into the camera.

“The time has come to say these words to the Chargers. In particular, the Chargers’ ownership. BUH-BYE, Mr. Spanos. Don’t let the revolving door on the head coach’s office hit you on the way out.

“And if the team won’t go, then that ticket guarantee has to. BUH-BYE, millions of lost city revenue. We can keep the money. And spend it on important things—like city council pension funds and Port commissioner junkets to the United Arab Emirates.”

Himmel clearly wants to move on. But Benson is in full rant.

“All together now, BUH-BYE, Ryan Leaf! You don’t deserve the right to play a position once owned by Dan Fouts and Stan Humphries. Actually, you never even earned the right to carry Jim Harbaugh or Moses Moreno’s jockstraps. Take your signing bonus—what’s left after you pay your dopey rent-a-friends—and buy yourself a human personality.”

I’m pretty sure Channel 8 isn’t live right now, but you never know. Benson grabs the mike from Himmel.

“Now that we’re finished saying our buh-byes, it’s time for another greeting. This one comes from that venerable ’70s sitcom Laverne & Shirley. Remember Lenny and Squiggy? They would burst through the door, and Squiggy would holler, ‘HELL-ooo!’”

I’ve never heard Laverne & Shirley called venerable before. This could get interesting. Himmel is motioning for the cameraman to cut, but Benson keeps talking.

“I think we should say BUH-BYE to the Saturday Night Live Chargers and say HELL-ooo to the XFL. It’s gonna be throwback football. Smash-mouth football...”

Benson and I had just been talking about the XFL—a new football league. It’s the brainchild of professional wrestling front man Vince McMahon, the finely fabricating fellow who introduced the world to Hulk Hogan, The Rock and a TV army of leotard-wearing behemoths. The XFL is supposed to be real sport—with some odd twists on NFL rules.

“If the Chargers aren’t going to win, we’ll take an XFL team. That’s how a football league should be run. HELL-ooo, salary caps. HELL-ooo, cheerleaders dating players. HELL-ooo, Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura as color commentator.”

The CBS cameraman is gone now—he left at first mention of XFL games, which will air on NBC. While Benson signals the bartender, I try to change the subject.

Oops. Bringing up baseball spring training was a bad idea.

“Yeah, we can keep the Padres,” says Benson, refocusing. “And I’ll go down there with my own forklift and build the downtown ballpark myself. Do I have to do everything in this godforsaken sports town? That’s it! I’m gonna go to the Padres’ fantasy camp in Peoria, make the team as a walk-on, sign for half what I could make as a free agent and donate the rest to cover cost overruns...”

Next time, I’ll stick to an easier topic. Like politics.

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