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June 4, 2004 #
 Ben McGrath vs. Chris Gage, Part II For those of you keeping score at home (please use the stubby eraser-less pencils and scorecards provided), Ben McGrath of the New Yorker made overtures to contact me re: the fight. He queried for my email address and then . . . air deader than the look in my chauffeur's eyes. One can only presume at this point that McGrath is going to raise the stakes and go Plimptonian on my ass. (Yes, I challenged him, but I did so knowing that the streets of Darien, CT, imbued me with a certain I-can-buy-my-way-out-of-this tenacity that he would sense in my original challenge.) I bet he's now over at Cus D'Amato's old place working the heavy bag, while I sit here working the heavy breathing from too many Cubans. He's undoubtedly taking copious notes for a sprawling essay in that dainty mag of his, holding a micro-cassette recorder in one bloodied and taped hand and a thesaurus in the other, all while aping a Brooklyn accent for authenticity's delicious sake and on his way to winning a Pulitzer or Maggie or whatever it is that people who can write beautifully get lauded with. While my nanny raised me not to be a coward, if anyone has words of wisdom for me please forward them. I haven't been in a fight since I broke Eric Granger's serve and he fired a rocket to the jewels during the club's end-of-summer tourney. He was immediately disqualified and I placed second two matches later. Pray with me people for the same outcome here; I have no idea where McGrath was raised. Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. RSS. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
