A Donation With Stings Attached

I called up Cedars-Sinai, Centinela, all the big L.A. hospitals.

“Do you take donors?”

“What?”

“I want to be a donor,” I said.

“You mean money?”

“No. I can’t spare any money,” I said.

“How about organs?”

“What?”

“Can you spare any organs?”

“That’s exactly what I’m calling about,” I said.

“Splendid. What can we put you down for? Eyes? Liver? Heart? Kidneys?”

“Hamstrings,” I said.

“Pardon me?”

“Hamstrings.”

“You want to be a hamstring donor?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, do you think there’s a desperate need in Los Angeles for healthy hamstrings?”

“Of course there is,” I said. “What about the Lakers?”

“What about the Lakers?”

“The Lakers aren’t going to win another championship unless somebody does something about their hamstrings.”

“Be specific.”

“Hamstrings! A group of three long thigh tendons--the semitendinosus, semimembranosus and biceps femoris-- that bend the knee and straighten the thigh.”

“No, I know what hamstrings are. Be specific about the Lakers.”

“Magic Johnson and Byron Scott hurt theirs,” I said.

“Ah, I see.”

“If they can’t run and jump, they can’t play basketball. If they can’t play basketball, they can’t beat Detroit. The Lakers must have hamstrings! Their kingdom for a hamstring!”

“Yes, I can see that now.”

“Personally, I think those Detroit guys are doing something to their hamstrings, behind their backs,” I said.

“Would Detroit guys do that?”

“Yes, I believe they would.”

“Are any other Lakers in danger?”

“Yes, I believe they might go after Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s hamstring next.”

“That would be terrible.”

“Yes, because his are very old, very long hamstrings.”

“I can well imagine.”

“The poor man’s a week or two away from retirement.”

“So, your proposal is?”

“I’d like to donate my hamstrings to the Lakers,” I said.

“Run that by me again.”

“I don’t need my hamstrings for anything. I just sit on my fat fanny all day, eating and typing. What’s a guy like me need hamstrings for? Let ‘em have ‘em.”

“You mean, donate your hamstrings right now ?”

“Yes. I’ll bring Magic and Byron over this morning, if you have a doctor free.”

“Free to do what?”

“The transplants.”

“The what?”

“I want you to do a graft,” I said. “Give my healthy hamstrings to the needy.”

“What an extraordinary gesture.”

“I know. I only pray it doesn’t give them white man’s disease.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the inability to run and jump without looking as though you’ve hurt your hamstrings.”

“That’s a myth about the white man, you know.”

“Not about this white man, it ain’t,” I said.

“Sorry to hear it.”

“You ought to see this Laimbeer guy with Detroit. I’ve seen suits of armor move better.”

“Why are you doing this for the Lakers?”

“Oh, it’s just so unfair, the Lakers losing their chance at another championship just because of a couple of lousy hamstrings. And here I am with two perfectly lovely hamstrings, and no use for them.”

“I see.”

“Maybe Magic could give me an autographed picture in exchange.”

“That would be nice.”

“Maybe Jerry Buss would give me a Rolls-Royce.”

“That would be nicer.”

“I could literally give till it hurts,” I said.

“Yes, you could.”

“I could go down in history as the guy who aided the Lakers in their hour of need.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Because right now, they don’t have a leg to stand on.”