As I Was Saying Before I Was So Rudely Interrupted . . .

Hi, there!

Remember me? Yeah, that guy.

Thought I’d gone away for good?

I almost did.

Went under the knife at Cedars Sinai a bigger underdog than the San Diego Chargers. You got me and 40 points. Vegas wouldn’t even post a line.

But I had a great lineup, a great draft. Drs. Aurelio Chaux and Jack Matloff with Gary Sugarman, Jeffrey Helfenstein and Rex Kennamer coming off the bench. I mean, we’re talking about the ’66 Green Bay Packers of the medical league here. We beat the spread. Shucks, we won the game.

It wasn’t easy. Game went into sudden-death overtime, I was told. Had to have a great second half.

A lot of people from Eugene thought I ducked out to escape facing the Oregon fans in the Rose Bowl. But I had my own bowl game going. Five quarters against an opponent that made the 49ers look sluggish. I might have set the record for goal-line stands.

It all began when I started running out of breath. I mean, I didn’t mind when I ran out of breath going uphill, but when I ran out of breath going downhill, I knew something was wrong. When I ran out of breath just sitting down, I figured I had finally booked passage on the Titanic. I better learn the words to “Nearer My God to Thee.” Icebergs everywhere.

“You’ve sprung a leak, you’re throwing oil,” Dr. Sugarman told me.

Now, any race driver knows what that means: Get off the track. Pit before they black-flag. I needed a valve job. They had to overhaul the whole engine. I lost a lot of laps.

That’s not all I lost. I lost touch.

For example, where the hell are the Rams? Anybody see them lately? They were here a minute ago. They were in Anaheim when I went under anesthesia.

What’d they do--go back to Cleveland? It was only yesterday that they came out here from Cleveland with their hats in their hands, wiping their feet and bowing and scraping and begging to be allowed to play in the Coliseum. And now I come out of the anesthesia and all that’s left is a note on the door and their closet is cleaned out.

Of course, that’s one of the troubles with L.A. Turn your back for a minute and everything’s changed. You can’t find your way home anymore. New freeway. The bank you went to for 20 years is suddenly a parking lot.

I’m told the Raiders are all packed and studying road maps. You’d think L.A. was a hotel fire or a sinking ship. Everyone’s jumping off. I mean, what are we, Sheboygan?

Also, the memory plays tricks after an operation of this kind. For instance, anyone remember who won the World Series last fall? I can’t for the life of me call it up on my memory screen. They try to tell me there wasn’t one but I say, C’mon! Baseball couldn’t be that stupid! What’s America without a World Series? Latvia? France without wine? Germany without parades? Italy without music? England without poets? I know there was one. Had to be. We’ve had one every year since 1905.

There’s always been a Pepper Martin running wild, a Babe Ruth calling his shot, a Grover Alexander striking out Lazzeri when the bases were loaded and so was Grover. There’s Gibson’s home run. Willie Mays’ catch, the Red Sox, the Black Sox.

How could there be no World Series? Who would believe owners or labor leaders would let that happen? I’m not gullible enough to buy it. Next, they’ll be telling me George Foreman won the heavyweight championship.

The World Series and opening day are baseball’s two big showcases. No way they let them die. They’re as American as harvest moons. Fireworks.

Guys who go down in the mines strike. Guys who get $7 million for standing out in right field for six months, blowing bubble gum and scratching don’t strike. You strike to get 35 cents an hour more. I’ve done it. You don’t strike when you get $40,000 a day. For two hours a day. And no heavy lifting other than a 32-ounce bat.

No, these guys must think I was born yesterday to try to tell me baseball is going to disappear in a union dispute.

So, if I’m going to go back to work, I’m going to expect to see the Rams west of the Tehachapis, opening day in Dodger Stadium with Mike Piazza batting cleanup and a World Series every October. With big leaguers. If I’m going to cover a sport with players who might as well be wearing masks, I’ll cover wrestling.

I grew up in a business in which the World Series was as certain as a sunrise and boxing had a saying, “They never come back.” The hockey season began in October and Army-Navy was the Big Game, not one between a couple of football factories in Florida.

I’m down here this week to cover the 36th annual Bob Hope Chrysler Classic golf tournament. My kind of sporting event. Thank God golfers don’t worry about salary caps, strikes, lockouts, reserve clauses, antitrust exemptions. They pay their own money to play, believe it or not. They win the money they get. They don’t get paid whether they bat .230 or .330. If they bat .230, they get cut. They’re out the entry fee, the hotel bill, the air fare. And there’s no pension. There’ll be a U.S. Open, a Masters--and a Hope Classic--every year.

The President doesn’t throw out the first ball, he hits it. He plays it. Two other Presidents join him.

It’s nice to know some things are immutable. It’s nice to know the sport of Jones, Hogan, Snead, Nicklaus, Nelson and Palmer respects its traditions.

It’s nice to have something to write about you can count on. These guys aren’t going to move to St. Louis or picket the British Open or get guaranteed contracts. And just remember, when they hit a foul ball, they have to go out and play it. And not even Jack Nicklaus gets a no-cut contract. The only thing they strike is a Titleist.