The Re-Education of Neal Pollack
By Neal Pollack
Sure, I’ve been watching the big-ticket Olympic sports, jumping in the air when the men’s swimming relay team beat those arrogant French jerks with the black penis costumes, trying not to act like Humbert Humbert in the face of women’s gymnastics coverage, feeling annoyed that I’m expected to root for Kobe Bryant now that he’s put on the USA’s uniform. My real preference, though, is for the 10 a.m. CNBC broadcasts, the obscure low-weight boxing matches on Universal HD. I’ve developed odd attachments, finding myself, at times, rooting for a Korean female archer and a Latvian men’s beach volleyball duo, and wondering why the officials call so many fouls in water polo.
But nothing so far has excited me quite like the “creative portion” of the opening ceremonies, which was a military march, with children, in the guise of the greatest contemporary art installation of modern times. On Friday night I sat, baked out of my gourd, on old pal Gregg’s couch in San Rafael, watching the majesty unfold on his nine-million-inch Vizio.
“Whoa, dude,” I said. “This is unbe-lievable.”
“Totally rad,” he said.
“It’s like the Chinese are saying, we rule you supremely.”
“That’s definitely what they’re saying, dude.”
Each display was more impressive than the next: The guys in the letter-blocks, the guys with the neon costumes, the imperial fashion show, the 2008 synchronized tai chi guys, the ship flags. The giant LCD screen made me feel like I was living in a medieval village by comparison. I realized that the world had, forever, shifted. Chinese children were flying high above the crowd in a state-of-the-art stadium, and I was watching them, stoned. As a friend said to me later, “I was ready to turn in my passport and bow down to my new masters.” When the Chinese hoisted the astronauts and ran the image of the universe around the state-of-the-art scrim at the “Bird’s Nest,” I actually gasped.
“Holy shit,” I said. “This is the future, and we are the past.”
“OK, stoney,” said Regina.
Then came the musical portion of the evening. Atop a glowing yellow sphere, a zombified Sarah Brightman and a fat Chinese man with glasses sang a slow, drippy, insipid song called “You and Me” while a bunch of dancers ran around the globe attached by cables. It made me long for a good old-fashioned Britney Spears-and-Aerosmith halftime duet. The Chinese may own trillions of dollars of our debt, and may be moving forward while we’re cratering, but at least we’ve still got them when it comes to the rock. For now.
On Tuesday, it was back to the devil I know, and off to the stadium to see the suddenly pennant-contending Dodgers play the Phillies. This night had special meaning because it was the night of the Joe Beimel Bobblehead. Who is Joe Beimel, you might ask? Well, he’s an obscure but generally effective left-handed relief pitcher who’s been with the team for several seasons. He’s got greasy, shoulder-length hair, a permanently sleepy expression, and always wears a two-day stubble; his greatest moment of national prominence came when he knocked himself out of the playoffs in 2006 by getting drunk and cutting his hand on a glass in a New York hotel room.
Beimel was rewarded with his bobblehead through a “fan’s choice” ballot on the Dodgers.com website. The bobblehead box features a reaction quote from him: “It feels outstanding. It’s just one of those things that, as a player, you don’t really ever expect ... it’s very flattering. It’s just something that I never thought would happen.” We hate to break it to Joe, but his selection happened because of a concerted ballot-stuffing effort by the Dodgers comedy site dodgerblues.com. The contest happened at a time of year when no one else was paying attention, and Beimel is a guy who appeals to a certain kind of drunk smartass with too much time on his hands. His bobblehead is awesome, but it was awarded ironically.
Beimel’s box includes such factoids as “All Time Dodgers Leader in Games Pitched by a Lefty” and the fact that he has a plaque in the Duquesne University Sports Hall of Fame, not exactly the stuff of legends. In fact, when Beimel came into the game on Tuesday in a clutch situation – on his own bobblehead night – the crowd, which would give Nomar a standing ovation for tying his shoe, pretty much ignored him. Beimel got his men and then headed to the showers.
In the parking lot, people were already trying to sell off their bobbleheads, with no takers. I’d never think about selling mine. In 40 years, I’ll be an old man, probably sitting in the same basement I’m sitting in now. My grandchild will look at the yellowed doll on my shelf and say, “Who’s that, grandpa?”
“Why that’s Joe Beimel,” I’ll say. “He pitched for the Dodgers waaaaay back in aught-eight.”
Either that, or I’ll be at a Chinese re-education camp, watching women play doubles ping-pong.
Published: 08/20/2008
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