Wilt's also dead

When I was a kid, Meadowlark Lemon was the best basketball player I ever saw. Lemon played guard for the Harlem Globetrotters and performed incredible dribbling and shooting tricks with flair, style and comic timing. The Globetrotters always won and Lemon embarrassed white basketball players every game. In other words, he was much like an NBA player now.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling my dad.

"Meadowlark Lemon? He's not real. He's a circus act. Wilt Chamberlain is the best." If Lemon's a circus act, then the 7-foot Chamberlain's a carnival sideshow. But dad was right: Wilt the Stilt was the best basketball player of his day.

I never met Wilt Chamberlain. But I did get his home phone number. Sometimes life gives you that which you don't deserve, and sometimes you have to steal it.

How I stole Wilt Chamberlain's phone number

When I was 20 years old, I worked for a record producer in Los Angeles, Mark Roth. Roth managed and produced rock stars. Since he was Jewish, he managed and produced black rock stars (it's traditional). Roth did at least two things right in his life:

1) Roth anticipated the popularity of the original Woodstock and arranged for his client, singer-songwriter Richie Havens, to take a helicopter. Since Havens was the first performer to arrive, he was also the first performer to go on stage. Since the movie of Woodstock turned out to be a chronological documentary, Havens also appeared first in the film. After the film, Havens became a bonafide star.

 

2) Roth hired me to do his shit work.

My experiences with Roth and Hollywood are better left for another column (likely about Norman Greenbaum), but I mention him because Roth happened to be friends with many black celebrities, including Flip Wilson (who owned the best grass), Lou Gossett (who owned the best personality), and Wilt Chamberlain (who owned the biggest dick, I'm guessing).

One day when Roth went to court to fight a traffic ticket, he left me in charge of the office. I ruled. As soon as he left, I went straight for the Rolodex. I stole several phone numbers, including Arlo Guthrie's (a hippie singer), Kenny Rankin's (a puss singer), Dallas Taylor's (a drug-addicted drummer for Crosby, Stills & Nash), Flip Wilson's (dead comedian) and Wilt Chamberlain's (very tall, recently dead basketball player).

What a coup. Now I owned the phone numbers of several celebrities I'd be too scared to call. Still, they were mine, stolen fairly and squarely, and I'm as proud of that as I am of the now-dead hamster I shoplifted in the seventh grade.

Shortly after my theft, I left my job with Roth to pursue a gig at the old Bar of Melody (also dead) playing cover songs on my Martin guitar and my then-incredibly-sexy voice. (Note: "One of These Nights" by the Eagles got me laid more than any other song. But "Country Roads" got me the best tips, especially from Bakersfield egg farmers).

Three months later, I was stopped by the L.A. police for Driving With Long Hair. The cops conducted an illegal search of my car, a '67 Chevy Impala.

"What's this book? Hmmmm. Arlo Guthrie? Flip Wilson? Wilt Chamberlain? Nothin' but hippies and niggers. You either a drug dealer or a faggot. Get up along the car, boy. We're gonna to do a search. Open your trunk," said the cop (also dead, I hope).

The L.A. cops searched my car. They didn't find drugs, but they advised me to get a haircut.

Two months later (or two weeks, I'm not sure), I took three Budget Rent-A-Car girls home to my singles-complex apartment, back when such a thing existed.

"Do you have any beer?" one of the girls asked.

"No. I have an ounce of grass, though." It was 1974.

"Nawww. What else do you have?" she asked.

I remembered my address book. I grabbed it and looked through the celebrity names. Arlo Guthrie? Naw, she doesn't like pot. Flip Wilson? Naw, she doesn't like pot. Wait! How about Wilt Chamberlain?

"I've got Wilt Chamberlain's phone number," I said.

"Really?" all three of them squealed.

"Yeah. Want to call him up?"

"I will," said the leader, Boozin' Susan.

She called up Wilt and Wilt answered. They passed the phone around so they could all talk to Wilt, and Wilt charmed their Bartholin glands to puddles.

Susan, the last to talk to him, hung up the phone after taking copious notes - directions to his house it turned out.

"Well, thanks Jasper. We had a good time. But we've really got to be going now."

As they left and I closed the door, I overheard one of them say, "Even if he's small for his size, imagine how huge he must be."

Damn, I thought. I should have bought beer.

Twenty-five years later, I read that Wilt Chamberlain's dead. In respect for the past, and him, I watched his interview on ESPN. During the interview, Roy Firestone asked Wilt, "Who's the best basketball player you ever saw?"

Incredibly, he said, "Meadowlark Lemon." Not Bill Russell, not Dr. J, not Michael Jordan - Meadowlark Lemon. Redemption at last. If only I could lord it over my dad.

Unfortunately, I can't. Also dead.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.