Don’t Blink

Anyway, when I was eleven years old I saw the movie All the President’s Men with my parents. My father loved it because he despised Richard Nixon. Like Pavlov’s dog, he would always blurt out “That crook!” at the mere mention of Nixon’s name.

My mother was gung ho on the movie as well, but I’m pretty sure her motivation was a crush on Robert Redford. And maybe the young Dustin Hoffman, too?

My parents had no real intention of having me tag along. I was supposed to stay home under the evil eye of my older sister, Kate. Instead, I smooth-talked them into taking me. “Who knows, maybe I’ll grow up and be a famous news reporter one day,” I said, pleading my case. “I could be another Woodward, another Bernstein.”

Of course, that was a ripe load of bull. I was only in it for the bucket of popcorn, a Mountain Dew, and maybe some Raisinets if my dad was in a chipper mood.

But as I sat there in the theater munching and slurping away, something amazing happened. Magical, almost. Up on the screen were two young guys who were on the biggest treasure hunt of their lives, only they were searching for something more valuable than gold or diamonds, or even the Ark of the Covenant. I was only eleven but I got it – and till this day I’ve never wanted to let go.

They were searching for the truth.

So even after two flights, eight time zones, and twenty exceedingly long hours, I couldn’t wait to travel a few miles more. I quickly grabbed a hot, then cold, shower and changed into some clean clothes.

Then it was out the door and back into a cab heading down to 67th Street and Third Avenue.

At twelve thirty on the dot, I walked into Lombardo’s Steakhouse ready to meet one of the best pitchers and most confounding puzzles ever to play the game of baseball.

And if I handled everything just right, I’d have the story that a hundred other writers around New York would kill for. Dwayne Robinson, what really happened that night you were supposed to pitch the seventh game of the World Series? Why didn’t you show up at the ballpark?

How could you break so many hearts, including my own?

Chapter 7

“JUST ONE SECOND, SIR,” I was told after giving the hostess at Lombardo’s my name. “I’ll be right back to help you. One second.”

As she disappeared into the dining room, I leaned forward over her podium to catch a glimpse of the reservation book. When you eat out as much as I do, you get pretty good at reading your name upside down.

Sure enough, there was “Robinson/Daniels” on a line for twelve thirty. After it was a star.

The star treatment, perhaps? Not for me, of course. Maybe for Citizen magazine?

Seconds later, the hostess returned. “We have a nice quiet table reserved for you, Mr. Daniels. Follow me.”

If you insist.

She happened to be a very pretty blonde, and as my father’s father, Charles Daniels, used to say right up until his dying day, “If there’s one thing I have a weakness for, it’s pretty blondes. That’s followed very closely by pretty brunettes and pretty redheads.”

We arrived at a table along the back wall. “What’s your name?” I asked, sitting down.

“Tiffany,” she answered.

“Like the pretty blue box?”

She smiled, her eyes shining like gems. “Exactly.”

That was for you, Grandpa Charles. Hope you were watching and getting a laugh.

Tiffany turned, leaving me on my own – and that’s how I remained for the next ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour. What was this all about?

Thankfully, of all the restaurants in which to be stuck waiting for someone, Lombardo’s Steakhouse ranked near the top, thanks to its truly sublime people watching. It was easy to pass the time counting the Botoxed foreheads or, for the truly cynical, playing Hollywood Hamlet with the tabloid celebrities sprinkled in the mix.

Rehab or not rehab? That is the question.

I guess that’s why I had been a little surprised that Dwayne Robinson would agree to meet me here, let alone be the one to actually choose the place.

Sure, he was as famous as they come in the world of sports. Or maybe infamous was a better word these days. But even way back when he was the toast of New York – make that America – he never would’ve eaten at Lombardo’s. That’s how bad his anxiety disorder was.

So maybe he’s cured now. Maybe that’s one of the hooks of this interview, that he’s “going public” in more ways than one.

Or maybe not.

As I glanced at my watch again, I wondered if perhaps nothing had changed about him and my flying halfway around the planet with barely a minute to spare was all for naught. Dwayne Robinson was now an hour late.

What’s the deal? Where the hell is he? What an asshole this guy is.

I rang Courtney, who called me right back after getting in touch with his agent. The agent was equally as baffled, especially since he had confirmed the interview with Dwayne earlier in the morning. Now he couldn’t reach him.

“I’m so sorry, Nick,” said Courtney.

“You and me both. Well, at least Robinson hasn’t lost anything over the years. He’s still a no-show. What a chump.”

After another fifteen minutes, I finally gave up waiting. Dwayne Robinson was officially MIA – just like when he was scheduled to pitch that seventh and deciding game of the World Series and flat-out disappeared.

All of a sudden I felt like the kid who confronted Shoeless Joe Jackson on the steps of the Chicago courthouse during the Black Sox scandal of 1919.

Say it ain’t so, Dwayne.

Say it ain’t so…

But… it was so.

And Robinson wasn’t the chump – that would be me.

Chapter 8

CALL ME LAZY AND SHIFTLESS, but on the heels of being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty, trigger-happy militiamen, leaping from a speeding Jeep, and flying a gazillion miles for a career-making interview that didn’t happen, I decided to play hooky the next day. I didn’t trek into my office at Citizen magazine nor did I plan to work out of my apartment, something I do from time to time with decent results.

Instead I spent the morning in bed relaxing with some coffee (cream, no sugar), the New York Times (Sports section first, then Arts, then News in Review), and one of my favorite Elvis Costello albums (My Aim Is True).

And by records I mean, literally, the record. Nothing against CDs and MP3s, but I’ve yet to hear anything that quite captures the pure sound of a needle against vinyl. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m one of those people, a purist who still swears by his LP collection.

Anyway, at a little past noon I finally ventured out to my go-to neighborhood eatery, the Sunrise Diner, a few blocks south of my apartment. I was just being served my lunch (cheese omelet, sausage, black coffee) when Courtney called.

“Where are you?” she asked in a near panic.

“About to bite into a delish-looking omelet at the Sunrise.”

“Don’t!” she said. “Step away from those eggs!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re already late.”

For what?

I had no idea what she was talking about. Then it suddenly clicked without her saying another word. “You’re kidding me,” I said.

“No, I’m not. I just got a call from his agent. Dwayne Robinson is sitting inside Lombardo’s at this very moment waiting for you.”

“He thought our lunch was today?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly hang around for the excuse,” said Courtney. At least I thought that’s what she said. I was already clicking off the phone.

“Check, please!”

“Is anything wrong with the omelet, Nick? I’ll get you another one, honey.”

“No, no, it looks great, Rosa. I just have to run. Sorry.”

Luckily I had my shoulder bag with me – the same beat-up brown leather bag I’ve had since I graduated from Northwestern. Tucked inside as always was the one thing I absolutely needed to conduct the interview: my tape recorder. It’s actually a “digital voice recorder,” but thanks to that purist streak in me I’ve yet to get comfortable calling it that. Probably never will.