9701050231
DETROIT FREE PRESS
970213
Thursday, February 13, 1997
METRO FINAL
1D
Photo KARIN ANDERSON/Detroit Free Press
Jazz trumpeter extraordinaire Wynton Marsalis guns from
downtown against Mitch Albom.
MITCH ALBOM Free Press Sports Writer
Copyright (c) 1997, Detroit Free Press
MITCH VS. WYNTON, THE REMATCH
HE FACES THE MUSIC AND TANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
Look, I have been humiliated before. Like the time when I was 16 and I was
trying to impress a girl on a cruise ship and I walked over and said, with all
the suave charm I could muster, "Hi, how ya do--'?" -- and I waved my hand
and knocked a glass of milk into her lap.
Took me years to get over that.
Still, a man has his pride, so you can understand why, when Wynton
Marsalis, the finest jazz trumpeter on the planet, came to our afternoon
radio show on WJR last spring and started trash-talking about his basketball
skill, and I said, "You can't be good at basketball, you're a trumpet player,
for pete's sake," and he challenged me to a game, challenged my manhood, a
trumpet player! and he pointed with one of those famous fingers and croaked,
"You and me, right now, man" -- well, you can understand why I could not
back down.
And so we played. That night.
And I lost.
I didn't lose big. I lost gigantic. The way I lost gave new meaning to the
word defeat. If I had been a lottery ticket, I would have read "VOID." Wynton
made his first eight shots, then made three more and we were done. Shutout.
11-0. It was over in three minutes. If I were a rodeo cowboy, the bulls would
have died laughing.
Ah, but in life, there is always another column, there is always another
album, and there is always another game. So when I saw that Marsalis was
coming to town for a concert, I wondered whether he'd be up for a rematch.
And then a fellow reporter at the Free Press did a phone interview with
Marsalis -- or, as I like to call him, "Mr. Lucky Bounce" -- and conveyed the
following message: "Wynton says he can't wait to whip your butt again in
basketball."
Which is when I started practicing.
The kid shows some brass
Now, granted, when I say "started practicing," I include the
thinking-about-it part. That began a month ago. The actual physical part
started the night before the game. I went to the gym, shot baskets for 30
minutes, then went home to soak my arm.
All night, I tossed and turned, dreaming about sinking buckets over Mr.
Platinum Album, Mr. Eight-Time-Grammy-Winner, Mr. Lincoln Center Jazz
Director. I dreamed of dunking, then saying, "If Louie Armstrong were here,
he'd be wiping your forehead!"
Hey, it was a dream. What do ya want?
Anyhow, before I knew it, morning came, and there we were again, same gym,
same smiling Wynton, telling a bandmate, "Don't worry, this won't take long."
And he drove, pulled up, and canned a 10-footer.
And he drove, pulled up, canned an eight-footer.
And he stopped outside, and drilled a 14-footer.
And I'm thinking, OK, where are the laughing bulls?
Now you should know that Marsalis and his troupe play basketball on tour.
Wherever they go, they find a gym. This may explain why Marsalis, 35, is so
good. In an earlier conversation, he told me, "Musicians are competitive like
athletes; you grow by competing, you grow by trying to be better than
somebody."
So I was happy to contribute to his growth.
Where's my royalty check?
"Like I told you, this won't take long," Wynton said.
"Three more minutes," he boasted.
Well. That was enough. Grammys or no Grammys. I grabbed a rebound, leapt
four feet in the air (feet, inches, what's the difference?) and drained the
rock through the cup.
In other words, I scored.
I won't say how, but I owe God a trip to a monastery.
Risk all that for a game?
But wait. I popped again from the outside. I drove and dipped and banked
off the window. Soon it was 8-5, Marsalis. He was breathing hard. (OK, I was
gasping, but he plays trumpet for a living! The man has lungs!) And I took
him to the hole again, ready to close this puppy out, six straight points,
here I come, baby, my shoulders square with his chin, and then I thought . .
.
Wait a minute.
Wait a minute! This is one of the great musicians of our time. And my elbow
is near his mouth? My god, what if I cut his lip? Remember that movie "Mo'
Better Blues"? The guy never played again.
Look at those fingers, I thought. What if I break one? What if Lincoln
Center throws him out and his record company cancels his deal and soon poor
Wynton is playing in a band called Four Jacks & a Jill, and they're doing bar
mitzvahs singing "Proud Mary"? . . .
Ohmigod. I can't be responsible for that!
Which is why I purposely missed the rest of my shots and he won, 11-5.
Hey. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.
Anyhow, soon it was time to go. Wynton -- whom I actually like very much
-- hugged me and said good-bye. Wynton thanked me for my hospitality. "You're
OK, man," he said.
Sure, I'm OK. I saved his career. But next time, look out. There could be
another rematch, just Wynton, me, and my new secret weapon:
Ever hear a trumpet with a glass of milk spilled in it?
THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION MAY DIFFER SLIGHTLY FROM THE PRINTED ARTICLE.
COLUMN; BASKETBALL; WYNTON MARSALIS; MITCH ALBOM