John Tournour - The Handoff: A Memoir of Two Guys, Sports, and Friendship

Saturday, September 1, 2012
11:13 a.m.
Nearly Four Years Later

IN THE RENTED SUV I drive the four-lane freeway to the city of Duarte, hugging the right lane, taking my time, taking it all in again, the endless fast-food franchises, the boxy rain-stained office buildings, the sprawling car dealerships, the sinister collision centers with funnels of steam rising from their chain-link-enclosed blacktops. I pull off at an exit and turn onto a narrow street lined with stucco shacks packed in tight, a satellite dish on every roof making me feel as if Ive infiltrated some kind of metallic, alien Cyclops colony.

I stop at a red light. As I wait for the light to change, my stomach clenches. It hits me now through a stab of memory, a jagged ripping of my heart. This drive. All those drives. The jittery nerves that dug into me that first time as Andrew, swallowing his own fear, Im sure, covered it up by railing about something or other coming through the radio, a voice we knew, gravelly, loud, spewing an outlandish sports opinion, or melodic, soothing, crooning the play-by-play of some game.

Hes calming me down, I thought that first time. Putting me at ease. Supposed to be the other way around. Hes the one with cancer.

Itll be all right, he said, reading my mood like a teleprompter.

Oh, yeah, I said, drumming the steering wheel with a finger, my eyes looking off, avoiding his, my stomach tightening.

It will be. Were gonna beat this thing, JT. Gonna kick its ass.

He meant it. With all his heart. He imagined these drives to chemotherapy as pregame warm-ups or battle prep. We were linemen banging each others shoulder pads before kickoff or, more aptly, boxers ducking into the ring for a championship bout. We were warriors preparing to charge, fight, kill, maim, disembowel, eviscerate this motherfucking cancer.

Winning is my only option, he said continually, his mantra, repeated to everyone who knew about his diagnosis.

And yet on many drives, especially toward the end, primed for my role as Robin to his Batman, hit man to his mob boss, general to his commander in chief, I would sense Andrews energy sag. I would feel less a warrior than a driver, a chauffeur, his wingman at the wheel who had his back but had no power, none at all. I wanted to be a superhero. I wanted to save him, or at least be his enforcer. I wouldve done anything to carry out the hit on his motherfucking cancer. But the gun sounded ending the fourth quarter, the bell rang stopping the bout, the battle ran out of steam, and the warriors retreated, and all I could do was watch and comfort him. And drive him.

Ultimately, I did do more. I learned from him. When the battleground shifted and the tide turned and we both knew without saying anything that hed lost, he changed the focus. If this were a football game, he reversed strategy from the long bomb, a Hail Mary, to a handoff. Andrew had much to hand off to me in too short a time, a lifetimes worth of wisdoma lifetime of livingin little more than a year. In order to take it all in, to absorb all he held in his heart, these lessons he was determined to pass on to me, I had to change, to make myself over, and quickly. I had to perform a one-eighty, a complete turnaround, a total revolution. I was working well above my pay grade. I felt as if I had to undo my DNA. I had to transform myself from a self-absorbed nonstop talker to a quiet and keen listener, from a Hall of Fame narcissist to a world-class giver, from a wall-crashing lunatic to a calm and cool observer. We both knew I was a work in progresswell, we all arebut having once been Andrews project on the radio, raw but willing, I had now become his project in life as well as his primary chemotherapy partner and designated spokesperson to his close community of friends and coworkers. He chose me because he knew he could count on me. He knew I would show up every day, upbeat and positive, and that I could read his moods, get him to laugh when he appeared ready to slide too far downhill, inform him of anything he needed to know in the radio world he ruled, where I, too, worked. And he knew I would shut up when he required quiet to reflect, to remember, or just to be. In other words, I knew him, and cherished him, and Andrew knew that and relied on that. He trusted me with his life. And his death.

He knew I was eager to learn, not by asking questions but simply by observing. He saw in me reflections of himself, not the least of which thrummed a consuming need to connect, at all times, professionally and personally, to listeners on the air and loved ones in our lives. We both got ultimate fulfillment by matching people up and putting them together and then watching them click. Andrew did it for me constantly, joyfully, connecting me to Tomm Looney, my cohost of nine years on the radio, to the Oakland Raiders, today going on sixteen years, and to the woman who saved me, my wife of fourteen years, on that magical and fateful night in which we sat ringside literally at the feet of the Rolling Stones, doused liberally by showers of Mick Jaggers spit. I called Andrew the King Kong of Connectors. He wore the title like a championship belt. At the end, wordlessly and happily, he passed on that honor to me, confident I was worthy to carry on connecting in his name, the first of many handoffs.

We dont have much time, he said on one drive when we were running late, his voice cracking. I thought he was referring to his appointment, but when I caught the sparkle in his eyes, which he slowly closed before tilting his head back against the seat, I knew he meant something else, something more.

This September morning the red light changes and I turn left and watch the small stucco houses disappear on the right side to be replaced by a wide swath of green, a park, a lush botanical garden, or well-tended college campus. In a few seconds, I turn right into the middle of this green, the entrance to City of Hope, world-famous cancer facility. Flowers bloom everywhere, full-branched trees provide shade and cover. The setting for this renowned medical center is not stark or sterile and only hints at a hospital being there. The grounds feel inviting and comfortable and safe.

As I drive toward the main building, I pull into the familiar turnaround past a cluster of wheelchairs crushed together in what looks like a cross between a bicycle rack and bumper car holding pen. On good days I would stop at the curb, and Andrew, the man once nicknamed Gorilla, would maneuver his 300-pound frame out of the SUV and take a seat on a park bench. Hed wave while I pulled away and found a spot in the nearby parking lot. Id catch him in the rearview mirror, his head rising to catch the sun, his resemblance to the late John Candy striking. On other days, the not-so-good days, I would stop at the curb, hop out of the SUV, run over to his side, help him out, settle him into a wheelchair, and lock it down. Id ease over to the parking lot, checking him all the way in the rearview mirror. On those days, he would stare blankly forward or lower his head and gaze onto the pavement, shoulders slumped, and he wouldnt wave.

This day, this Saturday four years after, the parking lot is eerily empty. I choose a space in the first row, near the wishing tree, a young, newly planted sapling. Dozens of strips of construction paper, all different colors, hang off the trees thin branches like leaves. Each strip contains a wish for a patient in City of Hope and was written by a loved one, or sometimes by a staff member. I dont remember the wishing tree. I dont think it existed four years ago. If it had, Andrews loved ones would have filled a forest of wishing trees.