In July of 1996, I was dating Erika Alexander. It was big fun for a lot of obvious reasons, but one thing that stands out from that year was the time she was invited to play in The Major League Baseball "All-Star Celebrity Softball Game" for charity that was part of the pregame of the 67th annual midsummer classic. It was to be held at Veterans Stadium in her hometown of Philadelphia. At that time, I really don't think Erika had ever so much as swung a bat in her life, but she was scrappy and naturally athletic, game for anything. Besides, a chance to see the home folks sounded like fun for her, and as a writer, I very much enjoyed my chance to observe scenes like this from a place of anonymity. Dating her, and later (after reader, I married her,) our lives were full of scenes like this.
The weekend of the All-Star Game came, and MLB flew the two of us out to Philly from LA and put us up in the Four Seasons in a suite we could, and did, bowl in with the in-laws. It was beyond swanky, it was swan-kaaay. There were thank-you notes from Bud Selig, the Commissioner, there was champagne on ice that never melted and even hats autographed by Pete Rose, which I suspect they were trying to get rid of. Not too frickin' shabby. If you ever doubt that Baseball is an enormously, stinkingly, drippingly profitable business for all concerned, spend some time around the All-Star Game; the money being spent is simply breathtaking. No hotel suite is too large, no limo too stretch, no party too floor-shakingly stoopid, no floral arrangement too gaga, no shrimp too jumbo. And don't even get me started on the working women, or as Philly's own Rocky Balboa would say, the HOO-ers. With far-flung regional accents as gaudy and diverse as their micro-clothing, (or so I was, y'know, told,) they had converged on the city, flooded the hotels and venues and, for a weekend, turned the Cradle of Liberty into Hoo-er Central.
The morning of the game arrived, and we were told to be on the bus by 9. I went down, but Erika, who has always had a rather easygoing relationship with time, needed a few more minutes. The bus filled with the celebs and demi-celebs, as well as actual major-leaguers, who were to play in the sofball game. I also noticed one or two of the Hoo-ers from our hotel's stately lobby. Well-played, ladies. One celeb who stood out: the amazing Rita Moreno, a ball of happy energy and laughter. Another who made a far darker impression: the Iron Man of the Baltimore Orioles, Cal Ripken Jr., then on the downslope of a career characterized by professionalism and intense dedication to the game. Ripken Jr. sat across the aisle from me and he was mad, yo, he was steaming behind his shockingly bright blue eyes. Why? We were running late. We were running late and Cal Ripken Jr., is never late to the game, ok? In my mind I said "Chill out, this is for, like, the United Way, it's cool." I said this to myself, because Junior looked like six foot four of I'll kick your fuckin' ass. As a last few stragglers made it onto the bus he said something under his breath about "idiots." He was nuclear, he was Chernobyl. At last there was only one celebrity missing. You already know who I'm talking about. When Erika finally came smiling up the aisle and sat beside me, Ripken Jr. was staring blue death-rays of death at her. It was only a charity game after all, but to the Hall of Famer across the aisle, her sin was a mortal one and death would be too good.
The July day was bright and clear as we got to Veterans Stadium, a huge, rat-infested old hulk which nonetheless boasted a gorgeous field of deepest green artificial turf. It was great to be down on the field, in the dugouts, seeing the place from a ball-player's perspective. Fans were just filing in to the stands. A fence had been built in the outfield to shorten it for celebrity softball, a vote of confidence if ever I saw one. The two softball teams were sorted. Erika was assigned to the blue team, and we saw that Ripken Jr. was the "manager" of the opposing, red team. The blues were managed by none other than Bill Cosby, another celeb Philadephia was proud to claim, at least then. Having discovered her for his "Cosby Show," he called her "Hometown." Erika's other teammates included the aforementioned Ms. Moreno, in all her EGOT glory, and a truly motley assortment of other "celebs" including novelist John Grisham, Hall-of-Famer Lou Brock and the lovely and talented Christopher Atkins, star of "The Blue Lagoon." From his dugout across the diamond, Ripken Jr. still managed to look intense, grrr, grrrr, still managed to give Erika evil looks, still managed to look like the manager of a team who needed their ass beat today in Veterans Stadium. Cosby picked up on Ripken's vibe and his own former athlete's competitiveness kicked in.
The five-inning game began, and two problems soon emerged: it quickly became apparent that, with the MLB ringers hanging back out of kindness, none of the celebrities on either team could hit the softball, no matter how softly it was pitched Like, none. The outfield fence could have been brought to Third, the celebs were in no danger of hitting the ball over it, or indeed, at all. There were bases on balls, there were runs on fielding errors, but hardly any hits. It also became clear by the end of four innings of play, that, out of competitiveness or sexism or both, Bill Cosby would not bring any of his women players to bat (neither did he let them pitch.) Rita Moreno and Erika complained, Cosby ignored them. Rita Moreno made and brandished a sign in protest. Nothing. Erika, never shy, complained more loudly, Cosby merely gave her his basilisk stare and kept sending the men to the plate. Dick move.
Came the bottom of the fifth and final inning. There were now sixty thousand people in the stadium to see the finale of this uneventful softball game. The score was 2-1 in favor of Ripken's Reds. The blue team had a potential game-tying man on third, Christopher Atikins, but was down to its final out. From some bottomless pit of perversity, Cosby hollered, "Ok Hometown, you're up!" Erika was in shock as the announcer called her name and sixty thousand people cheered the local girl made good. She selected a bat, walked to the plate, waved nervously to the crowd and tried to take some kind of stance. The pitcher for the red team, perhaps as disappointed with the lack of showbiz value in this boring game as the rest of us, or perhaps just admiring Erika's fighting spirit in the face of Cosby's bullshit, threw a gorgeous, sweet creampuff of a first pitch, and Erika knocked it the fuck over the fence for the game-winning homer.
Sixty thousand hometown Philly fans stood and cheered as she rounded the bases, the Hoo-ers too. I had a lump in my throat as Rita Moreno and Bill Cosby embraced her at Home and Ripken Jr. kicked something. I know for a fact that, innocent of the rules of baseball or softball as she was, Erika understood she'd hit the homer, but didn't realize at first that she'd won the game for her team and handed bitter defeat to Ripken and his Manson lamps. I wouldn't believe this story if someone told it to me, but I was there and I saw it, if I'm lying I'm flying. I've never seen anything in sports to rival that and I remain immensely proud of her to this day.
One celebrity member of the red team who came in to congratulate Erika warmly on her electrifying, Robert-Redford-in-The-Natural moment was the kind-hearted pitcher who'd contributed to that moment with that sweet pitch. It was Meat Loaf, who died at 74 yesterday. He was a lovely guy, a man who really loved that rock and roll and a lifelong baseball and softball player and fan. Thanks for the memories and RIP.
There are some women who are so beautiful that, as Stephen Sondheim said, the air changes around them, it crackles with a certain electricity. If we meet them, we're lucky, if they like us we're lottery winners. If they marry us, we walk on air, bulletproof. I encountered one such woman at a party at producer Lawrence Bender's house in 2001? 2002? Lawrence, who had produced "Pulp Fiction," "Jackie Brown," and other Tarantino films, had read my notorious "Fahrenheit 451" script and suggested we work together. We were "talking." That in itself was a kind of rare luck indeed and I was beyond thrilled. He hosted an annual Summer party, and he invited me, better and better. Doing my best to look like I belonged, I rolled up with an electrically beautiful woman, Erika Alexander, (did I mention I've always been lucky my damn self?) but we immediately found we had to do our best to remember our manners and to not gawk at the amazing guests Lawrence had invited to his cozy backyard in the hills.
To our left, Robert De Niro, surprisingly short. He was talking with Sylvester Stallone, surprisingly even shorter, even with the lifts in his shoes. To our right, husky-voiced Marlo Thomas, "That Girl," second-generation Hollywood royalty. My new instant friend Marlo (not to drop names or anything, you know I'd never, but Marlo really is the best,) offered us drinks, as she did with Sharon Stone, who turned out to be one of the quickest-witted people I'd ever met in this town, quick like a shortstop in conversation. There were congresspeople, directors, just scores of famous faces; Bender knew people. The sighting of all sightings, the miracle, was the elusive Joni Mitchell, Joni Mitchell!!, sitting crosslegged on the grass by the roses next to the garage, Joni Mitchell in a serape and pigtails, lost in her own private reverie, no one, not even the waiters, daring to come near. I went up to Lawrence Bender and said something like damn, this is some party. You know Joni Mitchell? He giggled like a little boy, like a fanboy unable to believe his own ridiculous luck and said "I know, right?"
As we headed to the bar for a second drink, SHE walked in. I felt it, Erika did too. Padma Lakshmi changed the air, made it crackle. Forget manners, everyone just stared, unabashed. Barefoot in jeans and a simple white, sleeveless top that showed the gnarly scar on her arm, she wore little if any makeup and looked as if she'd just stepped out of the shower, or maybe it was the ocean miles away in Malibu, like Botticelli's Venus of California. She smiled and nodded to the mere humans around her as she asked the bartender, or maybe my new friend Marlo for what? I don't remember. Champagne? Nectar of the gods? She was standing there radiating, the air crackling around her, when her then-husband walked up and put a decidedly possessive, somewhat meaty hand around her waist.
Salman Rushdie was ten plus years into the fatwa, a never-seen yet internationally famous-faced fugitive from Islamic fury, not to mention Cat Stevens, and yet HERE HE WAS in the unguarded flesh, in this most Hollywood of settings, no security in sight, here he was, smiling and squiring his cracklingly beautiful, much-younger wife. It was shocking. One of the better Hollywood jokes of that time had been "What's blonde, has big tits and lives in Florida? Salman Rushdie." But here he was in his memorably troll-like, real-ass form. Forget Joni Mitchell, Joni Mitchell who, you know? THIS was a coup for Lawrence Bender, a celebrity "get" for the ages, and a stunning, ballerific flex for Rushdie himself. I don't think I've ever met a man so entirely pleased with himself as he was at that moment. You wanna talk about luck? this was good luck squared. He was Lucky Luciano, he was Lucky Strike cigarettes, It was not only his beaming "look how unafraid I am" but also his smooth-daddy "...and have you met my wife, Paaadmaaa?" We spoke to them for a moment, though I can't remember what we said. I also can't remember whether it was Erika or I who said, as we walked away, "Even saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp, and it read, "Rushdie's a pimp!"
I never did make a picture with Lawrence Bender. Rushdie and Padma divorced in 2007, but he continued to cut a swath though the world's beauties. Some fool with a knife tried to end his lucky streak the other day. Apparently, he didn't know who he was fucking with.