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GEORGE PLIMPTON |
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Not Dead |
 THE LIVING GEORGE PLIMPTON |
Reports of George's death
are greatly exaggerated
By MAURY ALLEN
of TheColumnists.com
I received this communiqué in a sealed bottle
thrown into the Atlantic last week by George Plimpton:
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The reports
of my demise are exaggerated, just the way Mark Twain’s
were. I am not dead. I am just hiding out in an undisclosed location,
near Vice President Dick Cheney, a stone’s throw from the
Saddam Hussein and Bin Laden hangouts. I wanted this to be my ultimate Walter Mitty scam, much better than playing for the Detroit Lions, pitching to Willie Mays, taking a punch in the nose from Archie Moore, hitting a few long ones with Sammy Snead, suiting up for Red Auerbach and tapping the triangle during Mahler’s Fourth under the direction of Leonard Bernstein. The death scam has been wondrous for me. Writers, readers, jocks and fans have been filling newspaper columns and television shows with Plimpton stories. I knew I was popular. I never knew I was beloved. How about the time I started the Paris Review 50 years ago and got a curmudgeon like Ernest Hemingway to sit down and give me an exclusive interview about writing? I was just a kid then, maybe 25 or so, and I thought Papa was flattered at how well I knew his style. Then I mentioned that he seemed to use birds in a lot of his stories. He bellowed at me, “If you think you can do it better, go ahead.” Boy, some writers are sensitive. My pal, Maury Allen, told me a Hemingway story that made me laugh: Hemingway went to the famous 1941 Joe Louis-Billy Conn fight in Yankee Stadium with restaurateur Toots Shor and Joe DiMaggio. When they walked down the aisle to their seats, kids yelled for DiMaggio’s autograph. One kid poked the bearded Hemingway and asked, “Are you anybody?” The most famous writer in America pointed to DiMaggio and replied, “Yeah, I’m his doctor.” Being dead, or faking it as I have, has its advantages. No more taxes. No more annoying fans. No more writers calling for cover blurb quotes on their boring books. Boy, do I hate that. One other thing about supposedly being dead. You think back to the old days. I first went to the Stadium about 1933 and saw Babe Ruth play. So what? He was just a fat guy. Then I became a big Yankee fan. I went to a game with the poet Marianne Moore once. Bill Monbouquette was pitching for Boston. She said his name in French meant beautiful private parts. What she remembered most about the day was how often Monbouquette tugged at his cup and his balls to see if they were there--about every other pitch. I read a lot of stuff by Paul Gallico. He was a great writer who started out as a sportswriter for the new Daily News of New York in the 1920s. He liked to get in there with the stars. He once boxed Dempsey. I started thinking that was a good idea. I got in there with Archie Moore, but when he punched me in the nose in the third round and I cried, I felt embarrassed. I played quarterback for the Detroit Lions and only lost 30 yards on the three plays I called. I got a damn funny book about it called, “Paper Lion,” and made some big bucks. I liked the movie, too. Alan Alda looked a lot like me. I liked these scams so much I tried it in about every sport. I did it in the circus and I did almost every night at Elaine’s, a New York restaurant where the boss, Elaine Kaufman, gives you a table based on your current success. A best selling author is up front. A guy who hasn’t had a hit in years is just about inside the kitchen. She enjoys keeping people out more than she enjoys letting people in to eat. My favorite scam was the creation of Sidd Finch. Like me, he isn’t dead, either. Actually he was never alive. Finch was a huge guy from the Himalayas. He could throw a fastball at 168 miles an hour. When I told the Mets about him they told me to bring him to spring training. Me and the Finchmeister traveled down to St. Petersburg, Florida (anything to get out of the New York winter) to line up a deal. The sportswriters, including my friend Maury Allen, were begging for the one on one interview with Sidd. I kept him under wraps. The bar fights for a few days were pretty tough as everybody bragged about getting the first Finch interview. I promised that to everybody. Then I got exposed. Finch was out of there, on the next boat back to the Himalayas. He didn’t like flying. You see, the idea of writing is to have fun. Sure, you want to make a little bread and meet some interesting guys and gorgeous gals but fun is the real deal. Otherwise you can go to Wall Street, get rich and suffer from terminal boredom until you check out. Now, of course, I haven’t checked out. I’m out here with these other non-deads like Papa, FDR, the Babe, Jesus, Moses, Gershwin, Picasso, Mantle, JFK, JFK Jr., Jackie, Edison and Joe D. How can they be dead? People talk about them every day in the present tense. Well, that’s about it for now. The landlord just told me I have to move to another undisclosed location. Chaney wants more room. You know I’m not dead. You know this is just my latest Mitty scam. Pick up “Paper Lion” or “Out of my League” and see how I live forever. |
©2003 by Maury Allen. The Maury Allen caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel. The photo of George Plimpton is courtesy of CNN.
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