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The World's Greatest Hockey Announcer before/after [It is the time of the hockey playoffs, once again, and in celebration and recognition of the fact, Saintly Stories would like to present two installments of a story that gets updated and sent out annually to those who care. It has no value, no simile nor metaphor, is dangerously thin on plot and is, in fact, a bit horrible. But its intention is two fold, to make people smile, and celebrate the start of the playoffs. Besides, today sucked ass, and I really don't want to write about it. Writing, escapisim, druguse have all intertwined in my life for a long time, and are a bit indistinguishable to me by now. Too bad I'm done with drugs. One third of my coping mechanisim is gone. But maybe drugs are done with me.
I watched canadian broadcasting tonight. I feel closer to those of you in canada because of this.]
Bill Clement is in his hotel room. The Greatest Hockey Announcer in the World has a live telecast tomorrow, and he is trying to brainstorm for new color material. His is a meticulous job. He lies on his back upon his bed wearing a suit, blue shirt and blue tie, full make-up, and has a clipboard with several phrases crossed out upon it. His uncomprehending eyes narrow. A thought rambles behind it dimly. "Ahhhh." Bill says with satisfaction, and scribbles his thought down. He has his color comment. He is ready for his national telecast. He turns off the light, and drifts into fitful, whimpering sleep. The next day, bill rouses himself, and smoothes his hair upon awakening. He brushes his tongue, adjusts his makeup, and is ready. A five-dollar cab ride and he is at the arena. He enters the arena with steady steps. He is in what he perceives to be his element. Bill sits down next to his broadcast partner, Gary Thorne. Gary is a small, strange man. Gary is an older man, a professional broadcaster for years. Gary has a square foot of forehead and beady eyes, with glasses. He pops pills with frightening regularity, is a raging alcoholic, has a disintegrating marriage, and a son whom he suspects is bisexual.
This relationship has worked exceedingly well for the both of them for years, without adjustment. "Goddamit, I know what's going on." Gary growls to himself as he pops a pill and throws it back with a large chug of black coffee. "Come home last night, and she's got cum on her face. On her face!" he moans. "Its probably those goddam wetback gardeners. Fuckers cut my lawn and gangbang my wife when I'm not around. Goddamit. She said she'd leave me, but loves my money. Sons-a-bitches." Bill turns his torso and regards his muttering mate with compassionless eyes. "I know the goddam difference between a fucking glazed donut and gardener jism on my wife's face." Gary growls. The telecast starts, as the announcers don their ear microphones. "Okay, Gary, Bill, here we go. Philly and the Isles. Gary, keep the names together. Bill, no weird shit, okay?" the producer says into the team's earpieces. "I am Bill Clement! I am the Greatest Hockey Announcer in the World!" Bill says with fervor. "Good, good, great, tiger, we all knew that going in, just no weird shit." the producer says. Gary stares absentmindedly into the crowd. "Godammit, its my only son. Of course I love him. I just wish he wouldn't suck dick, that's all." he mutters, turning to an uncomprehending Bill for the first time since Bill arrived. "We're on in five...four...three...two...� the producer counts down, and the show begins. It is a flawless piece of work. For all their faults, the two men are professionals, and the telecast progresses well until the middle of the first period. Down on the ice, Jeremy Roenick checks Marius Czerkawski into the corners. Czerkawski manages to freeze the puck. As a reward for his effort, Roenick rubs his gloved hand into Czerkawski's face, which is known as a 'facewash' in the parlance of the hockey world. "Ahhh,� Bill says, springing into action with his pre-planned comment, "Nothing like the smell of leather made wet by the sweat of grown men in the springtime." Gary Thorne does not notice. "That's right, Bill. Lets check the ABC Wide World of Sports shot total." "Whaaa-a-a-t!" the producer shouts, aghast in the production truck, making Bill wince in auditory pain, "Bill! What the shit! What the fuckin' gay shit! What the fuck! 'Sweat of grown fuckin' men!' Babe, what the fuck was that!! ." The producer's cell phone rings immediately. It is an executive from Disney. (Disney owns ABC, ESPN, as well as the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, God help us all.) "Yes, sir. No, sir." the producer backpedals, "I'm not sure, sir, but I guarantee it was not...what, sir? Homoerotic? Well, he might be a closet case...yes, sir, I'll take care of it." Meanwhile, Bill's comments flow. He has found a fevered pitch. "Look, here, Gary. Roenick just gets Cerkawski in the crease and sticks him. Boy, did he put it to him." Bill exclaims feverishly. "Cerkawski was bent over and he just got pounded from behind." "Bill." the producer haplessly starts. "Oh, man, is Roenick putting out tonight. He is just out there giving it to guys." Clement continues. "Bill!" the producer raises his voice in desperation. "Look! He put it to him so hard, Cerkawski went down to his knees! It was all he could do!" Clement keeps on. "BILL!! GODAMMIT" the producer shouts, making Clement wince, "I want you in my goddam truck between periods, you fuckin' cocksucker. You're not gonna' bury me!" Bill looks around blankly with insect eyes. A commercial TV time out. "Next thing I know, my son's gonna' be banging the fuckin' gardener," Gary mumbles, "Shit I should bang him, just to get a piece of ass. He's practically fuckin' family," Clement turns and regards his peer with emotionless eyes. Thorne nervously runs his hand through his rapidly thinning hair, pulls a hip flask from his pocket, and takes a hefty swig of whiskey from it, coughing heartily. The rest of the period progresses, and Bill is largely silent. Afraid to speak, his commentary is limited. He moves to the truck like a whipped puppy, a balloon deflated of gas. It is a quiet conversation. "Look, Bill,� the producer starts, "I don't know what you do in your spare time, and I don't care. It�s your business. But on the air it�s our responsibility to provide a family oriented product. So, do you know what that means?" He looks into Bill's blank, soulless eyes. And sighs. Clement looks at him without blinking. "It means no more gay shit, Bill," the producer snaps his cool demeanor, "That's what it means." "I am Bill Clement! I am the-" Clement starts. "Yeah, yeah, the greatest hockey announcer in the world. Sure thing, tiger. No more gay shit, all right? That's all that I'm saying. You got anything special to say beyond the stats we feed you, you clear it with me first, understand? " "Greatest hockey-" Clement continues, befuddled. "Announcer in the world, right, got you the first time. No more gay shit, Bill. Now get the fuck out of here." the announcer snarls meanly, snapping Clement in the head with his middle finger, like flicking an insect. Clement shuffles back to the announcer's booth for the next period. Thorne is hunched bestially over a small mirror, snorting. He rubs his nose maniacally, and scrunches his face, nose and mouth in the manner that only five year olds with boogers and cokeheads do. "Ahh-HHHH. Goddammit." Thorne says, recognizing he has a partner for the second time in the day, quickly hiding his paraphenalia, "What the fuck did that asshole want?" Clement turns his torso to his partner, and comprehends him with nothing to say. He is a battered man. The Greatest Hockey Announcer in the World is on well-worn turf, but an area he has never understood. Bill Clement is on a leash. It seemed so right, the perfect thing to say the night before in his hotel room. Bill Clement says not a word to his partner. "Shit, don't worry about it. You could be me. My wife just called me and said she caught my son sucking the gardener's dick," he laughs harshly to himself, washing down another pill with a belt of whiskey, "Boy was she pissed."
Chapter #3 Bill Clement slumped in his chair at the 'Blue Iguana'. The World's Greatest Hockey Announcer is depressed. The music thumps and the room is eerie with ultra-violet light. On stage, a scantily clad women sways arhythmically to the music, high on booze, amphetamines, life. Mostly booze and amphetamines. Gary Thorne walks over, rubbing his hands, his pupils a swim in ecstasy and pharmaceutical pain killers. He is wearing a mole-skin jacket, soft leather boots a few gold rings, a few gold chains, gold sunglasses, a fur bowler hat with an ostrich feather, and a white collared shirt and tie. Gary Thorne, Bill Clement's broadcast partner over the last generation of hockey, is pimping. "A little bump to get you by?" He asks his partner quietly. Bill lifts himself from his Tom Collins and stiffly turns his torso to look at his broadcast partner, showing no sign of acknowledgement or understanding, something that has been going on for years. Thorne palms the bullet and sits down. "Right on my main man. Whatsamatta, Bill? Looks like some one ran over your puppy?" Thorne asks. Bill Clement sighs and exhales into his moustache. How had it come to this? How had the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer get put on the leash by his producers? His thoughts swam back to two hours ago, when his producer snapped at him during his broadcast of the playoff hockey game. What had he said that was wrong? It seemed like so many of his other broadcasts. But now he had to run nearly every analysis by his producer. His telestrator was no longer his own. In truth, he didn't even feel like the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer. * * * "Don't worry about the producer, he's a prick anyway." Thorne had said, "It was a successful day, let's go celebrate." Bill Clement shuffled glumly behind his partner to Gary Thorne's waiting Mazda Miata, replete with tinted windows, and extra wide tires. "You're awfully quiet today, partner," Gary Thorne chided, "Don't worry, you're still the world's greatest hockey announcer. Here, take this." Thorne handed his partner a clover shaped pill. "It'll perk you right up." Bill slipped the pill into his pocket unnoticed. "Wash it down with this, it'll take the edge off," Thorne said, handing Bill Clement a pint of Kamchakta Vodka. In the meantime Thorne had also put on several gold rings and chains. "Try a few of these...for the pain." Thorne said, "Goddamit, of all the people she could fuck...the He muttered to himself as he passed Bill Clement a few perkodan and percocet. Bill put them in his pocket and sighed to himself. He was miserable. * * * And then there they were, at the Blue Iguana, music thumping, women writhing on various stages, simulating sex acts, looking bored, and Gary Thorne seemed to be reaching an emotional climax. He put one arm on Bill Clement's shoulder, "Goddammit, Bill," he said, licking his lips feverishly, "Goddamit," he said, over and over. "I....L-L-LOVE YOU, man." Thorne spat it out from deep in his soul. "Aww, that's so cute, Larry" one of the strippers said. "Yeah, that's real cute Barry. You're friend don't say too much, does he?" The other stripper said. "He doesn't have to say anything, girls." Gary Thorne said, the lights of the stage reflecting off his gold sunglasses, hiding his bug eyes. His large forehead shone in the darkness, and he spoke reverentially. "He is the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer." This got Bill Clement's attention. He turned to Thorne, in a look that was a mixture of shock and admiration, then stared down at his drink, clearly touched and humbled. "Well, whateveah, honey, are we gonna' party or what?" The first stripper asked. "Party? Party!? HELL YES WE'RE GOING TO PARTY?" Thorne exclaimed, "TO THE CHAMPAGNE ROOM!" "Here, Bill," Thorne said quietly handing Bill Clement a fistful of singles, "Give some of these to the girls. Loosen up. Try to have some fun, okay?" Gary Thorne whooped, clapped hard once, wiped feverishly at his nose for a minute, then threw his arms around the strippers and headed to the back VIP room, where nothing usually happens. "You know, girls," "The "It's somethin' to do with hockey," the other stripper replied. "Hockey? What's that? "The first stripper asked. Bill Clement sat alone at the foot of the stage, in pervert's row. A dancer crawled over, a glazed look in her eye, looking desperately thin, victim of low self esteem, eating disorders and tweak. She needed money. She blew Bill Clement a kiss, then crawled down from the stage, and thrust her breasts into Bill Clement's face, taking a single that had been lying in front of Bill as she crawled away. Bill's cheeks turned red, and he seemed to quiver all over. With a stiff arm he slipped another single in front of him, sitting bolt upright in his chair, hair askew from a rough day and mauling by stripper breasts. * * * The World's Greatest Hockey Announcer woke up with a start on a cot in a dark room. He was stiff. His sports coat was missing. One of his eyes had been blackened and his tie was missing, along with his shoe laces. His eyes stung and the back of his throat was raw. Slowly his eyes focused in the distance, and he saw bars. Many serious looking bars. He turned his head to one side. Many serious bars over the window. The World's Greatest Hockey Announcer is in jail. Bill Clement sat upright in his bunk, his mind groggily spilling back to the night prior. * * * It started innocuously enough. A stripper sat down next to Bill Clement.
Bill Clement turned his torso stiffly in his chair, his soul-less eyes running up and down her supple body. "I am Bill Clement! I am the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer!" He replied. "Bill? Is that it?" She asked, puffing on a Marlboro ultra light. Bill looked at her and evinced no response whatsoever. The stripper ignored this and simply plunged on with the conversation. "So, what do you do, Bill?" She asked. "I am the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer!" Bill said with aplomb. "Hockey?" The stripper made a strange face "What's that?" Bill Clement again looked at her with the soul less eyes of an insect, and made no response. * * * Bill looked around his bleak mono tone colored cell and coughed. His head hurt. His neck hurt. And there were strange markings around his wrists. He stood up and his bones creaked. His knee was sore, but that was nothing new. Bill Clement walked over to the bars of his cell. A nearby guard hissed at him, "Settle down, hockey boy. We don't want to have to get ugly with you again." Bill Clement snuffled and walked back to his bunk to lie down. He had until * * * "Well, whatever, sweetie." the stripper continued, "You wanna' go to one of those booths and play with me?" Bill Clement stammered and sucked on his moustache, trying to formulate some sort of response. Gaining nothing from the mental effort, he simply sat there. "C'mon baby," the stripper said, tugging on his arm, "Let's go." She pulled on his arm and he levitated as if by magic. She led Bill Clement over to a nearby booth and he trailed after her like a toy balloon. The stripper whipped Bill into his seat by a pole, and he landed with a thud. "Okay, honey, "the stripper said, "Thirty for topless, Forty for me to take it all off." Bill sat and stared. "You want a nude dance, honey?" The stripper asked. Bill stared intently. His eyes were intense with fervor. "I am Bill Clement!" He said, "I AM the World's Greatest Hockey Announcer!" "Sounds like a 'yes' to me," the stripper giggled, as she disrobed her scant amounts of stripper clothes. Bill Clement's eyes grew wide, and turgid with fear. * * * A guard walked up to Bill Clement's cell, rattling his nightstick on the bars as he passed. A voice shouts from down the hall. "Get your fuckin' ass UP, Clement. And no more funnybuisness! You made bail!" Bill Clement hacked hoarsely and sucked at his teeth, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Bill Clement was a free man. The door opened and he was escorted out. He approached the counter of the jail. They were giving him his personal effects. Nearby his producer was chatting with a lawyer from the Disney Corporation, who was reading from the police report. "...also in the report, the arresting officers said that Mr. Clement "snapped" and began to "grope the girls" at the establishment, did not have the money to pay for services rendered, when confronted with that fact, the perp., Mr. William Clement became verbally abusive with the staff and the bouncer at 4105 Sante Fe 'the Blue Iguana', and was forcibly ejected from the premises, resulting in his injuries. The police were called and Mr. Clement was found laying face down in the gutter. When confronted by the police about the happenings at 4105 Sante Fe 'the Blue Iguana' and his current behavior, Mr. Clement became abusive with the arresting officers, was restrained after being tear gassed and struck with nightsticks, while screaming repeatedly--heh, the officer made sure to put this in the report, get this, -- 'I am the world's greatest hockey announcer'. Upon intake into the county jail, the suspect was found to have controlled substances in his pocket, including a suspected tab of ecstasy and prescription narcotics for which the suspect had no prescription. Additional charges are pending." The producer eyed Bill Clement with a high strung mixture of hatred and disgust. Bill Clement stood at the window, sucking his front teeth like a hardened con, a swagger in his stance as the policeman at the property window handed him a manila envelope full of his things. He signed the release form and turned to his producer, standing at his elbow. "Bill! What the FUCK!" The producer screamed. Bill Clement was startled in surprise, but looked at his producer with no sense, no flicker of comprehension in his eyes, and sucked at his teeth again. The producer turned to the Disney lawyer, "Keep this out of the press."
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