At Least He Isn’t in Denial

A receptionist turns to a man on a couch.

“Mr. Montana?”

“Yes?”

“The doctor will see you now.”

The man enters the doctor’s office.

“Mr. Montana?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Doctor Hackenbush.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Please, sit down.”

“Uh . . . “

“Something wrong, Mr. Montana?”

“Uh, may I lie down?”

“Certainly, Mr. Montana.”

The man reclines on the doctor’s sofa.

“Feel better?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Fine. Well, now, Mr. Montana. May I begin by saying that you are my favorite football player in the whole wide world of sports.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Doc, it’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“I’m uncomfortable. I’ve never seen a psychiatrist before.”

“Just relax.”

“OK.”

“Take a few deep breaths. Clear your mind.”

“OK.”

“Now, tell me. What’s eating you?”

“The Rams.”

“How’s that?”

“The Rams.”

“Rams are eating you?”

“No.”

“My, that is a bad dream.”

“No, doc. The football Rams. The ones from Los Angeles.”

“Oh. What about them?”

“I lost to them.”

“I see.”

“No, doc. You don’t understand. I mean I lost to them.”

“To the Rams.”

“Yes.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Incompetent! Incoherent!”

“Mmm-hmmm.

“Incredulous! In . . . in . . . sane!”

“Let it all out.”

“Ashamed! Afraid!”

“Afraid?”

“Yes! Who will I lose to next? “

“I don’t follow you.”

“Doc, I lost to the Rams!”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“I just told you!”

“OK, Mr. Montana, OK. Calm down.”

“But Doc, the Rams!”

“Easy, son.”

“I mean, who next--Tampa?”

“Try to relax.”

“Cincinnati? Buddy Ryan?

“Here, Mr. Montana, breathe into this paper bag.”

“Sorry, doc.”

“You’re hyperventilating. Relax.”

“There. I feel better now.”

“Joe, let’s try something. I’ll say a word. Then you say the first thing that pops into your head.”

“OK.”

“Apple.”

“Banana.”

“Black.”

“White.”

“Rams.”

“Incompetent! Incredulous! Ashamed! Afraid!”

“Joe, get a hold of yourself.”

“And I got shut out!”

“Joe, don’t stand on my couch.”

“Shut out! By the Rams!”

“Please. Scuff marks.”

“Me! Super Joe!”

“I thought that was Namath.”

“Doc, you gotta help me! Tell me it was all a bad dream! Make it go away!”

“Come see me twice a week.”

“Please, Doc. Gigantic 300-pound rams keep chasing me in my sleep, trying to stick me with their horns.”

“Make it five times a week.”

“I can’t show my face in San Francisco.”

“You mean Kansas City.”

“I mean San Francisco.”

“Here, let me prescribe these.”

“What are they?”

“It’s a miracle placebo. Take two and go beat the Raiders.”

“Gee, thanks, doc.”

“I’ll make you an appointment for next Monday, just in case.”

“So long, doc.”

The man leaves. The doctor buzzes his receptionist.

“Send in Marcus Allen now.”