MEANWHILE, MIAMI . . .
A Double*Sporty exclusive from humble gridiron-greats:
Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford
ESPN hotshot interviewer, towering over two Wrangler legs sprawled under a '64 hot red Mustang, neatly sidesteps oil stains on the cement garage floor to the sidelines where the warm welcome of a Floridian day has left the door eyes wide open to any passer by to walk right in and have their say: "Saaaay there buddy, you look like a particularly astute red-blooded male of more than average sense and sensibility ~ Got a good soundbite for me to give our viewers as this SuperBowl Weekend shakes down with prognosticating excitement?"
In one greased-lightning motion the grease monkey rolls from under the Mustang, jumps up, wipes his blackened paws on his blackened work shirt and shooting one out to the crisply attired ESPN hotshot interviewer spouts, "Wally, Wally T.D. Winkle of Winkle One Way Welding and Wagon Works. What can I do ya fer?"
“Well, well there Wally Winkle, I was wonderin’ … uh, nope, s’OK, don’t really need to shake your outstretched welcome there … ya see, I need my hands free to work this Bic mighty darn quick over my trusty hotshot interviewer notebook. Yes, yes, to get back to my reason during gridiron season to be high’stepping into the hometown arena of your garage, I’d like to be the first in ten of my ESPN colleagues with the latest scoop on how the turf’s up for SuperBowl Sunday. My take is to follow a perfectly average – (clears throat) – um, strongly endowed sport about this sport. You up for my forward passes?”, she laterals, taking off her designer glasses.
“Well whoa it up there a second little lady, an’ lemme see if I follow.” Wally took no offense at the unshook shake and cocked the grimy thumb of his rejected mitt in his own direction. “You want me, a foam fingered follower and dyed in the wool, Don Shula Dol-Fan, to give you the skinny on the turf, the lay of the land at the Land Shark so to speak before the ‘aints and the Dolts sully the hallowed ground where Bob Griese and Larry Csonka once trod?”
“At your service!” Whooped Wally beaming bright as a jack-o-lantern with two candles. He shot his grubby paw back out and by damned if that reporter didn’t grab ahold for a shake this time.
Grins with candle-power can fan flames contagious, and Wally’s surely caught fire with fire. Bouncing off of Wally’s garage walls, past the whitewalls where the NFL pennants near the Quaker State motor oil were making their slick points, the ESPN hotshot interviewer returned grin with gusto and launched point-blank into her forward drive. “It wouldn’t be too presumptuous of me to out and out wonder if the ‘T.D.’ initials in your naming had anything to do with another 6 up on the scoreboard, now would it? And what’s the skinny on the pigskin pickems around your hometown? Will homey Archie’s boy Peyton make this his place or will the Brees blow over?” She still held her grin, his grin and his eyes, high as any goalpost hears the chant, ‘It’s good!’, while absentmindedly wiping one semi-blackened palm down the crease of the crispness of her cream Dior.
“Aw shoot, hold on.”Wally crossed the shop and fetched a can of G.O.O.P. from the back of a sink last cleaned during the Carter administration. He demonstrated by digging a trench in the center for his own hands and then held the can out for….. “What’s your name Darlin’?”
“I like Darlin’ fine, but it’s Veronica, Veronica Sinclair.”
“Well Darlin’, my ex-wife always said she could dress me up but she couldn’t take me anywhere. Looks like maybe you too?” Veronica poked her index finger into the slimy soap and answered, “No, me you can take places.”
They finished washing their hands and Wally handed her a clean shop rag, “My mother loved the movies, big Scorsese fan. I was born in the year of the bicentennial under the star of Deniro. T.D. is for Taxi Driver.”
“Ah, now I see, and here you are, now ~ you tokkin’ to me. You get that a lot, don’t you?” Wally’s nod was his answer, as imperceptible as the twinkle in his deep chocolate browns, but she read his play, made note of wide open holes in his defense and continued her audible. Why, encroachment was stirrin’ somethin’ near the line of scrimmage. This southern’boy has pocket presence! “Uh, now ~ back to game action Wally. I – uh - need something – uh - hot. Something our viewers wouldn’t find out from any yokel like Bradshaw Foxing around or Shannon being Sharp under the watch-me CBS eye with Coach Cowher. And oh my, weren’t those Steelers amazing last Super Bowl? But – uh - Wally, as soon as – uh - my job is done here – uh - I’m free to explore what the Who Dats and Colts have corralled in you’re-the-sure-thing of your Shula city . . .” Veronica’s lashes Maybellined down her cheeks to the doodles and circles and play-action patterns Uncle Vince had showed her how to sketch on cold wintry days while their cheese toast was warmin’ up in the oven back in Green Bay. This Wally guy, kinda wrigglin’ now from Nike to Nike, though a little younger, surges back some mighty fond memories of how a feller named Brett patiently learned her the wild cat. Oh Brett, it shoulda been you. You shoulda been the contender.
Suddenly self-concious that this Winkle man, what did he say he did again? – was reading her thoughts, she slid a careful sideways glance. No flags. He took her downcast for upstaged blushing. Men.
Wally wasn’t really sharp enough to read signals let alone thoughts but he took notice when the ESPN hotshot interviewer swiveled on a Snap-On stool by the counter and hiked the hem of her Dior, crossing her legs.“Well to tell you the truth the matchup I wanted to see was Vikings versus Jets. You know, boy wonder against father time?” Veronica looked up from her scribbling at this apparent slight to her beloved Brett. Wally went on, “I believe the better team won in Indy but I can’t say the same of the outcome in New Orleans. I feel a little bad for ol’ Brett getting so close. Some of those calls, too many men on the field? ” Never too many men on the field, Veronica thought. OK he was out of the dog house for now but she’d be watching him. “Drew Brees and the Saints are going to put up points but as we saw in their win against New England earlier in the season, Manning and the Colts will just put up more. So, as a red-blooded male of more than average sense and sensibility, I’ll have to say I’d give up the 5 points and bet the farm on the Colts.”
Veronica practiced a possible closing line, “And there you have it folks. The word on the street: Wally you tokkin’ to me? T.D. Winkle of Winkle One Way Welding & Wagon Works says: Bet the farm on the Colts…You mind if I change that to ranch? You know, Colts?”
“How about: Bet the ranch house with your mother in it?” Wally said clearing a Mustangle of mufflery miscellanea from under the wheels and lowering the car to the ground.
Veronica knew forward action when she saw it comin’ outta the huddle. This boy was fixin’ on what plays to call in takin’ over his time of possession. She wondered, for both of them -- as he was right likeable, brought fresh steam to her All American girl eyes when he bent and wrangled those Wranglers just so, and had a wit to match that intellect, (she’d done her homework well, The WW OneWay Welding & WagonWorks, though near the bottom of the franchise rankings, was a rookie automotive/industrial on its way up Fortune 500’s latest scouting report, like greased lightening, the sidebar read.) – could … this … go … all … the … way?
“Well Sport, from the look of the scrawl of my notes and your snappy finale line mixing up your DeNiro-loving-mama with Pacino’s and Matt McConaughey’s propensity in Two For The Money, to take the only sure-bet gamble that would cherish and protect something as sacred as a mother’s love . . . you got your cinematic sense of sensibility reeling reality rather pleasurable too.” Tossing a tousle of shimmering blonde over her right shoulder toward the gleaming machine with all its treads firmly on the ground, Veronica slid off her high stool, and met Wally eye to eye on an even line of scrimmage. Came a deeper hum from the back of her throat, her professional crispness now warmed, she slipped out of the cream Dior jacket to the form-fitting tank-top jersey with Peyton’s #18 true blue over her heart, and honeyed Wally’s way, “Sure seems my interview seems to be done around this part o’town. You fixin’ on takin’ the pleasure of a joy ride to test what male testosterone can do to a hot red ‘Stang?”
“Darlin’ I can’t think of much I’d like better than a joyride with you, but this here is just a loaner I need to deliver to Ben. If you’ll follow me down to Key Biscayne to drop it off, on the way back I’ll buy you a plate of conch fritters at Jimbos and take any road-test you come up with.” Wally tossed Veronica the keys dangling on a #7 Pittsburgh Steelers keychain. “You drive!”
(c) 2010 ~ Authors Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford
What can we say about Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford dueling delights in sports sensation scenarios? Well, that it's a JOY*Ride itself. That they eat this stuff up like Peyton Manning's Wheaties . . . then chew on their thoughts a bit and pass the torch (or attune the spoon) until the two of them have swallowed the gist, inspired and wove words and possible plot action round and round and jibbed and jabbed and jived in the double-time each their minds tend to resonate, from writing desks on the shores of Connecticut to Florida? Yeah, that sort'of sums it up. They know they're done when each of them can reach the endzone dance of, "Yeah, we're proud." You can't argue with a scoreboard like that when it comes to dual*writers running the same wildcat plays.
There's plenty of each of their writing styles' action hanging around AT THE BIJOU, as well as their upcoming stories in HARBINGER*33, publishing and ongoing-promoting the high sails of 33 authors and 3 artists all the more in voyages of literary destiny. So, whether you are a newcomer to our flair of theatre-fiction, or a treasured regular reader throwing popcorn during Double*Feature Tuesdays and Thursdays ~ Just scroll. Read some more. Catch some of their other site-action on the Showcase ShowOff Wall over there to the right. And above all, Harry, Katie, Veronica and Wally wish you ~
HAVE FUN
in all your forward pass action
this SuperBowl weekend!
~ AT THE BIJOU's very fine staff of renown heading over to the SUPER BIJOU SUGAR BOWL SHACK for the most delectable sweet offerings around WebTown. Get 'em now folks!
My Dad is Paul Pilarcik. He taught me football. He taught me Lombardi. He taught me Steelers. All I had to do was sit in the living room and watch TV with him. Oh yeah, I had to be quiet too. I sure did learn a lot though. My Dad, in his own strong, quiet, humourous way, coached my life. By example, by training, by the all-out drive to reach the 'necessary line'. First and ten, do it again. 
