Siddhartha’s Second Demise

With the Super Bowl upon us and NCAA March Madness not far behind, the following is dedicated to the throng of sports fans glued to big screens nationwide in the thrall of athletic action throughout the coming weeks.


Folks what knows me good, ol’ Elmer, can testify I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, rabid Kansas Jayhawker roundball fan (‘cept when they’s losin’, then I don’t even know’em, cause life’s got enough downers without backin’ a loser). Problem is, they plays on them dad-blasted cable channels what I don’t get cause I resents what I sees as triple billin’. Ya buys your dern TV and the electric to run it. That’s enough. So that explains why I mosey down ta Sulley’s sports bar when there’s a game on ta catch it on they’s big screens. And that’s how come I got myself acquainted with fellar KU ball lovers like Buddha and Bűb (pronounced “boob”).

Now, Buddha is a great big ol’ boy somewhere in his late sixties, weighin’ in at ‘bout 350 pounds. Always sportin’ a do-rag on his head, bib overalls, and black tennies, he’s got a long flowin’ gray beard like that Whitman poet guy we had ta read about in high school. But the most amazin’ thing that ya notices first is how beautiful young women flocks around his table like flies buzzin’ on molasses. ‘Course, he’s always buyin’ everbody beer.

Bűb, on the other hand, is a tall, slender dude in his mid-sixties, white haired and kinda jumpy and excitable. Seems ta worry a good bit ‘bout this and that, like should he look for a job or not. And he’s a tad impulsive, such as when he’ll suddenly leap up and run over to a table of strange gals and engage tryin’ ta converse. They’s reactions vary, but usually they’s either amused, insulted, or terrified. He don’t drink beer since a few years back he got that DUI. Don’t eat neither mainly cause he’s a shade on the cheap side. I don’t drink just on health principles regardin’ my gray matter and I always eats at home ta keep my Mollie from feelin’ neglected. ‘Course, I ain’t about ta order no burger costin’ over three dollars!

Anyhow, the other night I’d pushed open the door ta Sulley’s to find the dang place near empty and the bartender informs me, with the expression of a mortician, that the KU game is on another cable channel what they don’t get. I was moanin’ and groanin’ when who walks up but Bűb. He sizes up the dilemma and suggests we might scoot over to the other neighborhood sports bar, The Peanut, what does get the game. Only problem is they’s really high-priced and the manager expects ya to purchase if you’re gonna watch. They even throwed Bűb out onct when he refused to eat. Nevertheless, Bűb has a plan. The Peanut has an outdoor smoking patio with a screen sos we could watch from his car. That struck me as an elegant solution.

Well, we high-tailed it over and got a good parking space in front, but the gall dang outdoor screen wasn’t on. We could see one screen, though, through the plate glass front windows, so Bűb turns on his car radio to get the play-by-play, figuring we could watch that way. There was a brick column in front of Bűb, sos he had ta lean near on my shoulder to see, givin’ passersby the impression of LGBT newly weds, I reckon. But the worst part was the TV and the radio wasn’t in sync sos all the commentary was delayed.

“This ain’t workin’ out like I’d hoped,” Bűb says.

“Nope. It sure ain’t. But I got me an idea. Let’s go in and see if Buddha is there watchin’. He’ll be eatin’ and drinkin’ and we can set an’ watch with him!”

“You’re a genius, Elmer,” Bűb says. And in we go.

The Peanut is a huge establishment with a bar neigh on a half block long and screens all over. We traipses up and down among the crowd and looked here and there, but no Buddha. Finally we settled at an empty table in a corner. But it weren’t long before a waitress comes over and asks what we’re ordering. Now Bűb decided to play it cool and says, “We was hopin’ to meet Buddha here tonight, sos maybe we’ll just wait awhile to order.”

The waitress stared doe-eyed at us a minute, then blurts out, “You’ve got a long wait. Buddha’s dead.”

“Huh?” I says.

“Buddha’s dead,” she repeats.

“Buddha’s dead!” me and Bűb both exclaims together. “But I just seen him in here two weeks ago fer a game,” I says. “Can’t be.”

“He died a week ago. In the hospital. Heart attack, they say.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” I says. “I’m flabbergasted. Buddha’s dead.”

“Would you two like some water?” the waitress asks. “You look like you could use some.”

“Make mine with lemon,” I says, and off she goes.

“Can’t believe it,” Bűb says. “He told me awhile back he’d just had his prostate radiated.”

“Wonder if they burned him or buried him,” I conjectured. And so many other questions come ta my mind. Did he die with his tennies on? Will the gals at Sulley’s all wear black? Who’s gonna buy the beer? Did anyone tell Bill Self [KU coach]?

After the waitress brought the water, she left me and Bűb alone ta grieve, sos we didn’t have ta buy nothing. And ta tell the truth, I didn’t even remember the score after the game was done, I was so shell-shocked.

The next day when I tolt another friend ‘bout Buddha’s demise, he laughed and says, “Yeah, that happened well over two thousand years ago. Did you just hear about it?” Smart ass. Some people caint seem ta grasp the seriousness of life and what’s most important. To me the takeaway here is ya never should take nothing for granted. Always expect the unexpected. A fella never knows between games what’ll turn up. And be honest if ya ain’t gonna order nothing, otherwise ya can be made out a fool.