Michael Lewis & The Great Gazoo

A few weeks ago I finished reading Michael Lewis’ The Blind Side, a book that starts quickly with a rapid-fire account of the 4.5 second play that ended Joe Theismann’s NFL career.  Theismann, you may or may not recall, was brutally smacked from behind by defensive end Lawrence Taylor.  Most people remember only the gruesome image of Theismann’s leg bone being snapped.   Football is a strange sport, Lewis observes, in that none of the players ever sees more than a narrow slice of action.  In football, as in other pursuits, what you can’t see can truly hurt you.   Few of us ever get a wide-angle view of circumstances, and only someone like Lewis can connect the dots to create a bunch of fascinating social observations. 

In addition to an aerial view of the evolution of football tactics, Lewis also provides an up close look at the improbable life of a 350 pound black teenager named Michael Oher.   His mom was a crack addict and he was homeless and illiterate, until his wayward path collided with that of a wealthy Memphis businessman named Sean Tuohy.  Long before it was discovered that Oher possessed the rare qualities needed to protect an NFL quarterback’s blind side, the Tuohys had essentially adopted him into their family.  An all out college recruiting war ensued but, in the end, Oher decided to attend Ole Miss (where Sean Tuohy had been a standout basketball player).  Getting Michael Oher into college was a miraculous achievement.  But it also turned out to be a problem, as Lewis reveals:

“If the Tuohys were Ole Miss boosters—and they most certainly were—they had violated every letter of every NCAA rule ever written.  They’d given Michael more than food, clothing and shelter.  They’d given him a life.”

And so the NCAA was called upon to investigate.  In contrast to the book’s fast-paced opening, chapter eight begins with monotonous formality:

“This is Joyce Thompson, assistant director or Enforcement at the NCAA. There are other individuals in the room at this time and I would like them to state their names for the record.” 

The only ‘other individuals' present were Sean Tuohy and Michael Oher.  Yet Lewis was able to provide an amazingly detailed account of the NCAA woman’s interrogation, filled with the same tension created when Jack Nicholson was cross-examined in A Few Good Men.  How did he do it?

The day after I read that passage I was having dinner with my friend Constance, and our conversation turned (as it invariably does when we are together) to the subject of great writing. I described the interrogation scene and explained that I was baffled by how Lewis could have made a rote NCAA investigation seem so exciting.  Naturally, we both agreed, he had taken poetic license (“art is the lie that helps us realize the truth” and all).  But a vexing question remained: How much license does someone like Lewis feel entitled to take?  I told Constance that I’d love to have the chance to ask him that question.

The next day Becky told me that the Tennessee Williams Festival was being advertised in the local paper.  My unenthusiastic reaction prompted her to also mention that Michael Lewis would be at the festival.  I immediately went online and authorized the festival promoters to deduct $32 from my bank account. On the appointed day I rode my scooter along Magazine street, then up Decatur, until I came upon a little maroon car that was creeping slowly as though the lone occupant was taking some kind of meticulous inventory.  I then spotted the bumper sticker that read: “I brake for historical markers.” 

Ah, New Orleans. So many small things to keep me smirking.

I applied my own brakes a few minutes later, parking on a sidewalk along Toulouse Street (great things, those scooters!).   I made my way to the hotel headquarters and along the way bumped into Rachel, who was also going to hear Lewis.  In the hotel lobby I came upon a registration desk for the “Electrical Apparatus Service Association.” I smirked my way over to the other registration desk, where I was issued a ticket and directed to The Historic New Orleans Collection on Royal Street.  That’s where Michael Lewis was to be interviewed by a fellow named Michael Sartisky.  Rachel and I found each other and took seats in the fourth row.

The hour passed quickly.  Lewis was charming, engaging, and witty as he explained why he was repeatedly drawn to the subject of societal disruption.  First, he said, it’s easier to analyze culture from the vantage point of pronounced change, just as it’s easier to discuss paintings in comparison to other paintings.  He downplayed his great talent by suggesting that he was motivated by laziness and indifference as much as by curiosity.  He said when he was young his father would make him recite the family credo: “do as little as possible, and that unwillingly.  For it is better to suffer a slight reprimand than to perform an arduous task.”

Asked if he planned to write a book about New Orleans and the Katrina debacle, he confessed to being intrigued by the possibility. But he was unable to offer any notion as to what he might say, because the story he would be best suited to tell—if there was one—might elude him. 

A Katrina based study of New Orleans would certainly allow him to highlight the strange virtues of a city that many outsiders seem to misunderstand.  But, as much as I admire Lewis’ magical abilities, it’s obvious that a story about our city’s overlooked value is not at all like a story about the Oakland Athletics or Michael Oher.  The Athletics’ value can be measured in the indisputable metric of ‘games won.’  Michael Oher’s exact value will be determined at some point in the future, but still has a calculable present value (some sports agents estimate he will earn $50 million dollars during his NFL career). New Orleans has value, but certainly not the kind that can be confirmed mathematically. How does one explain the value of New Orleans to a righteous person living in, say, Kansas City?  For starters, you’d have somehow distract their attention from the well-publicized rants of Mayor Ray Nagin, or Bill Jefferson's cash-filled freezer.

When the question-and-answer time came, I had to face the fact that mine was too unwieldy for the setting.  Rachel, however, had a nice compact question: she asked whether the prospect of writing a book about New Orleans might bring him back to live here again.  He said yes. Obviously Lewis loves this place and wants to help free it from the metaphorical wheel rut it’s been in for several decades.  He downplayed one questioner’s insistence that New Orleans is hampered primarily by political corruption.   The real villain, he said, is political ineptitude. 

Katrina provided us with a unique opportunity, but we didn’t have the right leadership in place when tragedy struck.   And, thanks to post-diluvian voter ignorance, the inept are still on the job. So are some crooks, but they too are mostly inept.   A devilish grin appeared as Lewis suggested Edwin Edwards would have been up to dealing with Katrina, even though he would have “stolen a good deal of money.”  I was sure I’d hear a guffaw from at least one genteel audience member, but no one disagreed.  In fact, someone gleefully recalled the popular bumper sticker that surfaced when Edwards faced a runoff with neo-Nazi David Duke: Vote for the Crook: it’s important.

Indeed.  If only Edwards had been able to sense the oncoming federal investigation that ultimately landed him in jail our current prospects might be better.  (Joe Theismann, Louisiana feels your pain).

When the interview was over Rachel and I made our way through the courtyard and down the street.  We agreed that it’d be wonderful if Lewis returned to New Orleans.  Could he offset the PR disaster created by Nagin and Jefferson?  Perhaps not, but it’d be nice to have him around for moral support.  Rachel walked away and I hopped aboard my scooter and strapped on my helmet.  I put the key in ignition and then realized I needed to listen to my voicemail messages.  As I pressed the cell phone to my ear, I spotted a lone figure making his way up the street.   

Michael Lewis was approaching. And so, it seemed, was an awkward last-chance opportunity to present my question.   As he reached me I became starkly aware that I looked more like a paranoid kook than a harmless bookworm.  But my unquenchable curiosity was greater than my fear of embarrassment and so I went ahead and engaged him. Amazingly, he was quite willing to speak. (A unique opportunity I suppose, to finally meet the Great Gazoo).

I told him that that I enjoyed his talk and offered a brief reminiscence about Isidore Newman –the prominent school from which he had graduated in 1979 and from which I’d been sternly asked to leave after barely making it through Fourth Grade.

At this point I faced a dilemma.  If I began to remove my ungainly headgear he would naturally worry that a slight exchange of pleasantries would become the arduous task his father had warned him about.  And, yet, the only reason I had embarrassed myself up to this point was to learn the elusive secret of literary license.  I told him I had one quick question that I had wanted to ask, and he politely remained in place.

I referenced the confrontation scene and then proceeded to state the obvious assumptions.  “I know you didn’t interview the NCAA investigator, and I know that neither Michael Oher nor Sean Tuohy could have provided you with the detail you provided us in the book. So...how’d you do it?” 

I braced myself to receive The Secret Method Of A Great Writer.  He smiled quickly and said “I was there when the interview happened,” conveying utter amazement.  “I sat through the whole thing, and she had absolutely no idea who I was.” I stood there, completely astonished by an obvious answer that I wasn’t at all expecting to hear.  And so, with a burning mystery now safely behind me, I thanked him for his time and we parted ways.  I'd been blindsided, but not seriously injured.

Although I did have a rather large smirk on my face.

Comments

[Rick Klau]

An anecdote for the ages... thanks for sharing, I am sharing that smirk!

[Natalie]

Great Story! Also, I am also a scooter owner and I'm obsessed too. I've had mine since October and its already got almost 2000 miles on it. I just can't get over it every time I park in the Quarter.

One more thing: I remember reading one of your posts about Windows on the Mac. I was wondering where you bought windows xp? I can't find it on microsoft.com. Tulane law is finally allowing us to use Macs on exams (I'm so excited!) but we have to use Windows XP because the exam software is only for windows.

[Wayne]

Nice story! I'm sorry I wasn't in town for the talk this weekend, but your account helped me get over that.

So, anyone with suggestions for scooter mechanics? I've got a Venice, but Steve who sold it to me at Scooter-Ria keeps telling us it's fixed, and then two weeks later it won't start again. We've done this about a half-dozen times. I'd just as soon pay someone competent as keep getting it fixed under warranty.

[natalie]

I've been looking for a good mechanic too. No luck yet though.
Steve charged me 60 bucks for an oil change and to fix my brakes and they still aren't fixed either.

[liprap]

Waaaay cool!

I saw artist Judy Chicago speak at my alma mater years ago, and one of the images she showed reminded me of the parable of the dry bones in the Bible, where God shows Elijah a bunch of bones in a valley and reconstitutes them into flesh and blood people in order to show the prophet the power of words and ideas. She had some A/V trouble with the next slide, so she invited some quick questions and I took her up on it - in an auditorium of a couple thousand or so. The image wasn't inspired by the story, she said, and my curiosity was satisfied.

Sometimes you just gotta ask. I'm glad you took advantage of the opportunity.

[Ryan Mattingly]

I am having the same problem with Steve and Scooter Ria. Any way around this yet?!?! Any suggestions are helpful.