OAKLAND — “Good morning, audience, and welcome to ‘What’s My Sports Line?’, the fabulous game show where fabulous celebrities try to guess the identity of our fabulous Mystery Guest! Panelists, if your blindfolds are in place, shall we begin?”
“YES. WE CAN HARDLY WAIT.”
“Mystery Guest, enter and . . . sign in please!”
J-O-S-E C-A-N-S-E-C-O.
“All right. Brent Musburger, you may begin.”
“Mystery Guest. Is your sport dangerous?”
“You could say that.”
“Is there speed involved?”‘
“You could say that.”
“Are you a race car driver?”
“The police like to think so–
“Uh, I’m sorry, Brent. That’s a ‘no.’ We’ll go on to Shadoe Stevens.”
“Mystery Guest, we know you’re in sports. Are you any good?”
“Good? I’m the best. There’s nobody like me. No one can do what I do. I’ll break all the records. I’m in a league by myself. Of course, I hate to brag.”
“Do you hit in your sport?”
“Me? Not lately.”
“Do you catch a ball?”
“Me? Not lately.”
“So you’re a second-stringer?”
“A second-stringer? Me? Do you know who I am?”
“Of course not, lunkhead. That’s why we wear these stupid blindfol–
“Uh, easy, Shadoe. Let’s go on to Tommy Lasorda. Tommy, your questions, please.”
“Mystery Guest, would I know you?”
“You would if you took off that blindfold.”
“Have you ever used steroids?”
“What are you, the Washington Post?”
“Are you involved in the 1990 World Series?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And what is your batting average?”
“Well, uh, so far I’m hitting .143.”
“What did you hit in the playoffs?”
“I hit .182.”
“Any postseason home runs?”
“One.”
“So you’re a utility infielder?”
“No way! I’m a power hitter.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’m Slim Whitman.”
“Uh, Tommy, we’re gonna give that a ‘no’ and move on to Tim McCarver.”
“Mystery Guest, against left-handed pitchers, on the sinking curveball, with wind blowing in from centerfield, would you say the pinky finger on your throwing hand creates friction with the bat handle thus causing a tendency to pull the ball into foul territory?”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. I thought I was on the air. Let’s see. Mystery Guest. Have you been involved recently in any controversial plays?”
“Well. There was this triple by Billy Hatcher. I tried to catch it. But it bounced off my glove. And there was this other hit by Barry Larkin that I kind of lost in the lights. I looked pretty stupid out there, slipping and sliding.”
“What did your manager say about those plays?’
“He said I blew them.”
“What do you say?”
“I say my back is killing me.”
“Let’s go to our last panelist, Kitty Carlisle.”
“Mystery Guest, do you have a large following?”
“No, I watch what I eat.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant, do you have a lot of fans?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Men or women?”
“Some men, some women.”
“What do they do?”
“They call my 900 number.”
“What do you tell them?”
“What I had for breakfast.”
“What do they tell you?”
“That depends. Some say ‘WE LOVE YOU!’ Some say ‘YOU’RE A BLEEP!’ The women usually just give phone numbers.”
“So you’re a sex symbol?”
“You said it.”
“Tall, dark and handsome?”
“Yup.”
“And you make a lot of money?”
“Around $5 million a year.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Uh . . . “
“I’m afraid that’s a big no, Kitty. And that’s it, panel. So let’s review:
He is not hitting well. He is not fielding well. Women love him. He is paid a fortune. And his back hurts. Well, folks? Who do you think he is?”
“George Burns?”
“Bob Uecker?”
“NO! Take off your masks, panelists, and meet . . . Jose Canseco!”
“Aw, gee . . .” “I KNEW IT!” . . . “Fix!”
“Tune in tomorrow, when our mystery guest is a manager who used to be a genius, until three days ago . . . ”
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