Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [13]
“Oh my, my, look who’s here. Miss Chicken! She is everywhere. I mean, you can be at the White House having dinner with the president and who’s there … Miss Chicken. Honey, you can fry her, bake her, grill her, boil her, wing her, poach her. I mean, the bitch is fierce. You can be at yo auntie’s house and who’s there? Miss Chicken … there she is. Fried golden brown. You want to lose weight? Who you gonna call? Miss Chicken, boiled without her crispy coat, will do the trick. You want to impress your trade into thinking they getting something fancy, then throw some extra spices on Miss Chicken and maybe a can of concentrated orange or pineapple juice and she becomes a delicacy. Now, Miss Fish, you can’t take her everywhere. Miss Chicken is the one. When was the last time you ate some boiled fish? I don’t think so. And nobody beats that bitch Miss Chicken when she’s fried. I mean, when was the last time you seen Church’s fried fish? So, honey, let’s give praise where praise is due,” Wylie said as he raised his glass. “To Miss Chicken, the fiercest fowl around.”
Many of the guests couldn’t clink their glasses because everyone was holding on to their sides with laughter.
“To Miss Chicken,” I said when I finally stopped laughing myself.
Calls Come … but Not the One
The inductees for the Pro Football Hall of Fame were announced today, and the name John Basil Henderson was not among them. I’m not sad or even slightly disappointed. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’ve had to remind myself that it’s rare when someone is selected the first time they’re nominated. I decided not to go to the Super Bowl in Tampa Bay, because I was sure all my associates would be telling me how sorry they were I didn’t make the hall. The truth is they’d be playa-hating if I had been selected the first time out.
If I’m feeling anything, it’s what I felt when I was a sophomore at Raines High School in Jacksonville, Florida. Although I had broken the city’s records for receiving yards during my first year, I didn’t make any of the all-state or all-district teams because many of the coaches and reporters who voted for the teams thought I was too young. They didn’t want me to get a big head.
Right now I feel out of sorts. The same way I felt the first season after I left the NFL. It was the first time since I was eight years old when fall arrived and I wasn’t strapping on a helmet.
Not getting the call from the hall has its benefits. I did get phone calls from the two most important men in my life. Right after the inductees were announced on the Internet I got a call from my Pops, who tried to cheer me up just like he had during my sophomore year. I think he was really disappointed, but he assured me I’d make it into the Hall one day. And later that evening I got a call from my nephew, Cade. He didn’t call to talk about the Hall of Fame, but to tell me he scored two touchdowns in the fourth quarter of his Pop Warner championship game. As he got off the phone he told me how much he loved me and it almost brought me to tears, just like when I watched the movie Remember the Titans. But I have a rule: Tears are the ultimate sign of weakness, and I am not weak.
When I was getting ready for bed, I got another call from another, kinda, sorta important man in my life. I picked up the phone immediately when I saw the Seattle area code.
“Is this who I think it is?” I said.
“If it’s Raymond Tyler.”
“’Sup, dude? How ya living?” I asked as I lay back on my bed, shirtless, with just my slacks and socks on.
“Just checking in with you,” Raymond said.
“So you heard I didn’t get in, huh?”
“Yep. You all right? I know how important it was for you,” Raymond said.
“How’d you find out? It hasn’t hit the papers yet,” I said.
“My little bro told me he saw the list on the Internet. Kirby’s down in Tampa for the Super Bowl.”
“How is your little bro doing?”
“He’s doing good. Had a great season, and getting ready for the arrival of his first child,” Raymond said proudly.
“So