I got my guitar
back from Valdez’s Guitar Repair roughly two weeks after I came back from
Detroit and I must say Art Valdez did an exemplary job repairing the
decapitation, but the guitar was damaged goods. I could hardly see the hairline
crack in the headstock but I knew it was there. It would never have the resale
value it once had, and I also knew one day I would have to part with it. At
least I still had my 1958 Telecaster and my 1964 Gretsch Anniversary which I am
thankful to still have in my possession while I am writing this chapter.
It
was now the summer of 1987 and the black top on my maroon TR-6 up was
constantly down. I had met a bunch of guys at the park just down the road from
the Hollywood sign who played a pickup game of softball every Sunday and I
latched on to them. I hadn’t played the game in awhile but my chops were still
pretty good. I was a pitcher and a second baseman. I remember one of the guys
was Stuart Duvall who was Shelly Duvall’s brother. I loved her in the Shining
and hoped that she would come by to watch the games but she never did. After
the games we would all go down to the local pub and have a few beers and order
food. It was a good time for all. I’ll never forget the time I was pitching and
Jeff Conaway came to the plate. He was in the TV show, Taxi, which was one of
my favorite shows ever! I had to let him get a hit. I didn’t want to see him
fail since the show had wrapped up he wasn’t getting much work. I kind of felt
sorry for him. I tossed an air ball that had the words hit me all over it and
he smashed a line drive up the middle. Yes! Go Bobby Wheeler!
On
Labor Day I had nothing better to do so I dropped the dogs off at my mom and dad’s
house on Canton Drive and went up to the park to see if there might be a game.
None of the regular guys were there but I did see a game in progress and asked
if it would be alright if I played. They were agreeable so a trotted out to
left field and joined in. In the bottom of the seventh inning I had gotten a
single and made my way to third base with only one out. The score was tied and
I knew I had to cross the plate or die trying. The next batter hit a slow
roller to first base and I took off but I never made it home—not in one piece
anyway. My spikes must have caught in one of the imperfections in the base path
and I heard my right ankle snap and then snap again. It was bad and I knew it.
I clawed my way over to the side of home plate and curled up into a fetal
position. The other players came to my aid but when they looked my ankle I
could see nauseated expressions on their faces and one woman even fainted.
Imagine how I felt. I didn’t know a soul there and was starting to blank out.
One of the players offered to give me a ride home but I couldn’t even remember
the address on Canton. I was in shock. After taking a few breaths and a swig of
vodka someone had brought to the game, I began to focus. The guy (I can’t even
remember who he was but if you are reading this THANK YOU) took me up to my
parent’s house and I limped in using a baseball bat as a crutch. He asked me if
I needed a ride to the hospital but I told him I would get a lift from my mom
or dad.
“Hello,”
I cried out to anyone who could hear me, but no one did. The house was empty.
Even the dogs were out of my sight. I had to call somebody but I couldn’t
remember anyone’s phone number and I am usually very good at remembering things
like that. I was afraid to look at my ankle but when I did I saw that it was a
compound fracture and the bones were protruding from the skin. It was very bad.
I finally remembered Paul Downing’s number and told him what had happened. He
raced over in his Jag and gave me a ride to the UCLA emergency room. I don’t
know why I told him UCLA when I should have said Cedar’s since it was a lot
closer, but it’s all I could think of.
Paul
helped me into the waiting room and I was soon, after filling out forms and
such, was ushered into a room where I waited for the doctor to come. It seemed
like an eternity but he eventually came in. He took one look at my ankle and
said, “This is going to hurt a lot.”
“Great,”
I said. “It can’t hurt much more than it already does.”
“Oh,
it will. So I want you to brace yourself.”
I
took my wallet out of my back pocket and placed it firmly between my teeth. Now
if you have a week stomach you may want to skip this part. He grabbed my right
foot and extended my leg out as far as it could go. He then twisted my ankle in
an unnatural position with extreme force— like Linda Blair’s head in The
Exorcist, not once, not twice but three times until he felt it was in place. I
thought I was going to die right there and then on that gurney. The teeth marks
in my wallet were so pronounced you could get my dental records from them. It was the most agonizing pain I had ever felt
in my life— like having fifteen pound triplets being delivered out of my leg
without any anesthesia. The doctor said I had to have an emergency operation
and they were going to install not one, but two metal plates in my ankle and I
would have to keep it there for at least a year. My softball career was
definitely forestalled.
I
was in the hospital for three days and nights and when I got back to Canton
Drive my dad told me the bizarre events of that Labor Day. Apparently when I
got home with my injury it was assumed one of the larger dogs, Jean Claude,
Danielle or Bridget Bardog, had attacked the little cockapoo named Oliver and
had killed the poor little guy. I really liked that dog and I couldn’t believe
all that had happened while I was struggling with trying to remember phone
numbers so I could be taken to the emergency room.
Well,
I was staying up at my folk’s guest room and taking too many pain pills and
drinking single malt scotch as well. I thought I was bulletproof and didn’t
even think I could have overdosed. I kept taking more and more pills and
drinking because my resistance to the stuff was increased by all the usage. I
was there for three months watching TV, listening to and playing my J-200. I had
even persuaded a girl named Iris to come visit me and have codeine and scotch
induced sex. I was headed for a bigger fall than I already had taken on Labor
Day and I knew I had to get sober. I went to an AA meeting in late December,
right before Christmas, and of all people, Doug Fieger was leading the meeting.
We talked for awhile after and he told me some of the war stories in his life.
He had gone over the top with his meteoric rise to fame and tried to balance
thing out by ingesting as many pills and drinking as much booze as he could. He
finally got sober but it had caused a rift in the band, especially with the
drummer, Bruce Gary, who almost everyone hated anyway. Doug suggested I get a
sponsor and I asked this guy Terry Kirkman, who used to be in the group, The
Association, to be my sponsor. He agreed. He was tough on me and I hated him
for telling me I was in complete denial about my problems. He also said I was
one of the most negative people he had ever met. I dumped him but kept on with
the program until one fateful day, Valentine’s Day 1988, where my dad would
leave a glass of scotch on the coffee table before going out to dinner with my
mom to celebrate the holiday festivities. That led to an incident which would
alter my path and send me straight to jail without passing GO or collecting two
hundred dollars. I guess it was inevitable.
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