Hava Nagila

The little blimp outside my balcony floats lazily in the breeze looking like it could be advertising a used car sale in El Segundo. Upon further review I can see a camera mount dangling below the white balloon. It’s a real Spy Cam which must be monitoring the border with the Republic of Georgia (Abkhazia). Stalin was born over yonder but these days the Russians don't trust a lot Georgian exports (Wine and Champagne excepted). 

The little blimp is the first line of defense in the Ring of Steel. So far so good, in the security department for these Games. We’ve reached the halfway point and all seems calm.

My cathartic moments continue. I took a detour on my way to skating yesterday and, yet again, ended up in the NeverNeverLand of my past. Uncle Big Al, like he has for more than 50 years, made a Big Brother demand.

“Hey clown, meet me in the lobby at 4:00. We’re going to the hockey game. Don’t make up some doody about another worthless meeting. You’ll have plenty of time before skating starts. Be there!”

The hockey fixation began when we were kids. Both of our birthdays fell during the NHL season. I have sweet memories of those days with our dad. Dinner at Toots Shor’s followed by the Rangers at the Garden. We didn't care much about birthday cake. We wanted Andy Bathgate, Lou Fontinato, Dean Prentice and Gump Worsley. Sometimes we would get lucky and see the evil Bruins or the exotic Montreal Canadiens come in. After the game we would be thrilled when fights broke out in the stands. It was good consolation if our beloved Rangers lost.

As we know, Uncle Big Al’s voice is etched in Olympic Hockey History. His words are iconic. But last night we were just a couple of bums watching USA vs Slovakia.

We sat there together as we have sat at countless Rangers, LA Blades and LA Kings games. In the old days he would always buy the official program and a pencil. He doesn’t want to watch a game “un-armed.” Nothing had changed. Last night he had printed out his own rosters with all the salient information.

If you told us when were just two kids from Brooklyn that someday we would be sitting in Russia watching a hockey game hearing Hava Nagila on the organ surrounded by thousands of clapping Russians you would have been declared insane.

So there we were, in one of life's sublime moments. Just my brother and I and a lifetime of memories. We were just watching a hockey game. Just two bums from Brooklyn still acting like a couple of rascals in our old age.

So what if it was a crappy game.

Later that night I lost a 1000 ruble bet to Sam Flood, the Producer of Uncle Big Al’s show. With my Russian cultural and historical background I should have known better. Too often I follow my heart and not my head. And if you’ve followed this Blog I might have taken a cue from my own words . . . Things here are NEVER as they appear.

As much as I’m a dreamer, Sam is pragmatic. The bet was simple . . . . Would Evgeny Plushenko of Russia skate in the Men’s competition. At age 31, after multiple knee and back surgeries, the greatest Russian single skater in history had already helped his team win the Skating Team Gold Medal. He was now poised to skate in Men’s singles in front of an adoring Russian crowd. As we headed toward his warm-up and Plushenko was in costume, I was confident that I had vanquished nasty Sam and won the money for the Dreamer Team. For more than 20 years Sam and I have had a playful competition over which force was more powerful, head or heart.

I sent him a text asking that he give the 1000 Rubles to Uncle Big Al tonight.

Not 10 seconds later my heart sank. Uh, oh! Our ace backstage cameraman Mike Brown brought the sad pictures into the truck. Plushenko’s coach Alexei Mishin had motioned Mike to come over. With his finger he outlined the newest scar on Plushenko’s spine and gave a Russkie shrug.

Sam had conceded at this point but I had to confess in the next text to Sam . . . It ain’t over until the music starts.

I’m always excited when our NBC cameramen get the amazing shots that the rest of the world will never see. But as Brownie, WooMan, Gary Damaro and Mr Andy continued to chronicle this piece of Russian theater backstage. I knew I had lost.

Plushenko took the ice in warm-up, attempted a Triple Axel and then grimaced in pain. It then played out like it was scripted. Plushenko conferred with Coach Mishin and then, when he was announced, skated over to the referee and withdrew.

Earlier in the week I told his agent Ari Zacharian and Coach Mishin that NBC would make Plushenko a real hero on TV. I’ve known these characters for a long time and they know I’ve always given the Russians a fair shake. In Vancouver we had made Plushenko a villain, but a lovable villain. Ari loved that. But this time America would truly understand him.

About an hour after Plushenko pulled out, the text to the WooMan came in from Agent Zacharian.

“I hope the pictures were good for you.”

Has the Potemkin effect come to Skating too????

(See my Blog post “A Bag of Flaxseed.”)

As a follow-up to earlier escapades, a few people have wondered what it was like to have the fish eat my skin at the Sochi Spa. Access Hollywood producer Steve Harding sent me the definitive picture this afternoon.

Judge for yourself.