The Best Damn Job Period

From 1988 to 1994 I worked on the number one television show in America. Won a Golden Globe, a Peabody and a Humanitas award. That was fun. After that I was in three hit movies in a row, and by 1996 I was working all the time and making $4 million to $5 million a picture. That was pretty fun, too. Today I'm a co-host of a basic-cable sports talk show. Who the hell did I piss off? The paying public, actually, but it's not so bad.

The Best Damn Sports Show Period is the most fun job that I've had in a long time. And it's a good thing, because I needed it. In the spring of 2001 I spent my days sitting at home at my desk, smoking cigars and playing solitaire. One day, my new roommate, Shelby, on her way to work, suggested that perhaps I try to find a job. "It might be good for you," she said. "To have a place to go. Something to do."

Needless to say, I was offended. Even though I had worked only about six months in the past three years, I was an "actor," and I explained that careers moved in cycles and the phone would start ringing off the hook again one day soon. Besides, I had True Lies II coming up.

"Haven't you had True Lies II coming up for the past five years?"

Good point, Shelby, but I wasn't going to admit it.

"You'd better do something, Tom, because I don't want to live like this." Wow, if she's this crabby now, wait until she finds out I'm broke. When Shelby arrived home 12 hours later, I was still sitting at my desk smoking away. I explained to her that I had a job. I was writing some scripts and an outline for a book, "and besides, I have True Lies II coming up."

"Right, Tom, you've said that. In fact, you've said that every day to everyone since the day I met you. But you need a job to go to now, something that would require you to shower and put on clean clothes, so that your maid can maybe clean your ashtrays and fumigate your office."

That was harsh, but I forgave Shelby because she had never lived with a star before, so she obviously did not understand show business.

The closest Shelby ever came to the biz was the time she was an extra on a Mac Davis Christmas special. Oh, and she has a friend who works at E. It's her friend's job to walk down the red carpet at awards shows and tell all the foreign actors (American ones, too) that Joan Rivers is not just some crazy broad but, in fact, a well-respected comedian—in hopes that they will stop and chat with her and her daughter so she can mispronounce their names and ask them unfortunate questions about their clothing as the cameras roll.

The next day I was on a golf course, which is odd because I don't even play golf, and my friend Lisa Jackson asked me if I'd be interested in doing a sports-and-comedy-type talk show her friend was producing. I told her I doubted it, because something like that could destroy my acting career. Besides, I had True Lies II coming up. But I said I'd give the producer a call. Sometime. I called Shelby at work just to check in. I hated calling her at work because she always seemed so preoccupied with work and all. I mentioned the show. I wanted to reassure her that I was actively seeking employment.

"So did you call him?" she asked.

"Who?"

"The producer."

"Do you think I should?"

"Yes, Tom."

"What should I say?"

"Say anything except 'I have True Lies II coming up.' Phone's ringing. I gotta go." Click. Damn, that was rude.

So I immediately ... smoked a cigar, then finally I dialed up show boss George Greenberg. As his phone rang, it occurred to me that if this was such a good job, why hadn't my agents called me about it? But I talked to George, a nice enough guy, and he explained the show as best he could: "It's a collision of sports and entertainment with comedy. A little like Politically Incorrect. A little like Saturday Night Live and a little like SportsCenter. There's nothing like it on TV now."

"No shit, George."

"Tom, why don't I make a call to your agent (that call would cost me $500,000) and your manager (another $500,000) and we'll get a crew together to try one out."

"George, I don't know if I can do that. I mean, I've never done anything remotely like this, plus I've got True Lie—Where do you want me?"

When I got back home, Shelby was pleased. The taping would be the next weekend and she wanted to go with me.

"Thanks for the support, honey."

"I'm just going to make sure you get there on time, Tom."

•

The taping took place at a small studio on Little Santa Monica. I arrived early, well groomed and wearing exactly what Shelby had picked out for me. So, yes, I looked like a big fat preppy gay guy. We were greeted by Jeremiah Bosgang, another producer and probably the most excited person I'd ever met. Shelby suggested that I get excited, too.

So we get into our chairs. It's me and a few ex-jocks, including pro football Hall of Famer Deacon Jones, and .300 lifetime hitter and former Philadelphia Phillie John Kruk. If you saw John Kruk walking down the street and had to guess his occupation, professional athlete would be several hundred choices down the list, long after gar-bageman, mall cop and Burger King assistant manager. But Kruk was a hell of a baseball player and I'd seen him be pretty funny on David Letterman, so things were looking up.

The shoot went well. The interplay was pretty loose and kind of fun. Especially with Kruk. I watched a couple of their preshot comedy pieces, and they weren't bad, either.

As Shelby and I walked to the car, the excitable boy producer ran up. "That was fucking great, man."

"Really?"

"Perfect. I really wanted you to do this show, but everybody else was nervous. They thought you'd be a jerk or something."

"Why would anybody think that?" I asked.

"Actually, I told them that because of a nasty incident when I was working on the Dame Edna show. You and Roseanne—"

"Hold on," I said. "You can't blame me for Tom and Roseanne. Plain old Tom is much easier to get along with and a lot less expensive."

"Obviously. Listen, don't quote me on this [oops!], but you've got the job. We'll let you know officially in a couple of weeks."

"Thanks, Jeremiah, but the sooner the better. See, I've got True——"

"Tom."

"Yes, Shelby."

I had taken a poll and everybody agreed (even people who weren't getting 10 percent) that doing this show would not hurt my "acting career." In fact, my contract would allow me to do two films a year, plus, of course, I have an out for True Lies II. I'm starting to think I have a better shot at doing Titanic II. Anyway, they phoned me at the end of two weeks and asked me for an extension because they hadn't made a decision. I figured they were just waiting on Carrot Top and Pauly Shore to pass, but I said fine. Then I got "the call." I was in. Shelby was happy with me for a change. It was a good night.

Sports have always been a big part of my life. Not because I was a great athlete, although I did enjoy the competition, being part of a team and the free jerseys (mostly the free jerseys). Sports have always helped me get through the tough patches in life, but more often sports have provided a nice diversion from the boredom. When I was a kid, in the spring, summer and fall, one of the few things I could count on was legendary broadcaster Jack Buck's silky voice booming St. Louis Cardinals baseball games through my AM radio. It was comforting and it took me from my personal little hell to baseball fields in cities I could only dream of visiting. Places where my heroes (Gibson, Banks, Rose) worked and played.

Then there were the Iowa football games with my grandpa Tom on autumn afternoons. Iowa sucked and the games were terrible, but they were great experiences. When I was young, I coached YWCA girls' softball, and I can still feel the pride I had the first time I put on my orange Union Bank Blackfoot T-shirt and the utter joy when we won the junior league championship. After that I helped coach the senior league Athletics to the title. I am probably the only coach in YWCA history who celebrated victories by getting drunk with his 14-and 15-year-old players. Thank God I was only 16, or it might have been kind of creepy.

Sports are the great equalizer of men. Even the Taliban had a soccer team. Of course, they executed the losers. Barbaric, yes, but be honest: I'm sure that's crossed the minds of many a Red Sox fan. Sports bond us all. Isn't that why they started the Olympics? I see people on the street and at airports and hotels who I figure I could not possibly have anything in common with, and they'll say, "How about those Hawkeyes?" or "Cubs are looking good this year," and it's like we were lifelong friends, shooting the shit in the shower after a big game. Or at least at the urinal. Actually, let's say it's like we're at the sink, washing our hands. With most of our clothes on ... maybe each missing a shoe, but that's it.

Anybody who says men hide their emotions has never been to a Super Bowl or World Series. And we cry. We wept like babies when Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive-game streak and took a lap around Camden Yards and when Mark McGwire broke Roger Maris' home run record and his son ran out and hugged him and Big Mac picked up his boy and held him and then went and bumped chests with Sammy Sosa. Jesus, that was awesome! And what about Kirk Gibson's hobbling out to the plate and hitting that homer in the 1988 World Series, Nolan Ryan's seventh no-hitter at the age of 44 or Michael Jordan, last game of the Finals, five seconds left.

We started work on the show in July 2001. The week before that, I was back in my hometown, Ottumwa, Iowa, at Indian Hills Community College (class of 1981) teaching the Tom Arnold Actors Workshop. Yes, you read that right. The Tom Arnold Actors Workshop. Not a big deal in LA, but in southeast Iowa and some parts of northeast Missouri I am Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise. Each year I give all 35 students a signed copy of a different great actor's autobiography. Last year it was Shaquille O'Neal. Guess whose they'll have next year? At least I won't have to suck up so much to get those books signed.

While I was back in Iowa, I read some bad news in the Ottumwa Courier. Keith Sullivan, an old buddy of mine from the Hormel meatpacking plant, had fallen off his tractor while he was mowing a field, and darn it if he didn't get his arms cut off. Sully, being a man among men, managed to gather up his limbs and start walking toward town. When a motorist in a van pulled over to offer some assistance, Sully's main concern was making sure that they did down a towel so that he didn't stain the shag carpeting with what little remained of his blood. Long story short, they flew him to the good hospital up in Iowa City, stitched his arms on and he was back home dreaming of hitting the tractor again so he could finish mowing his pasture. Of course, this being Iowa, 47 of his neighbors had already done that and everything else he needed done.

I wanted to help my old buddy from Hog Kill, too, so I grabbed a camera crew and headed for the country. This was the first work I did for The Best Damn Sports Show Period and it really set the tone. I brought Sully a six-pack of tallboys, a straw and a couple of extra arms I pulled off a mannequin at Super Wal-Mart (complete with a farmer's tan I'd painted on). The interview went beautifully and I think the combination of seeing his now famous friend and taking several powerful pain pills really lifted Sully's spirits. Mine, too, because it was pretty damn funny!

Our show's host is newcomer Chris Rose, who is a genius with the Tele-prompter; plus, our open discussions are always more interesting if one guy is an uptight, conservative, goody-two-shoes mama's boy. He reminds me of my gay brother, Chris. Except Gay Chris doesn't put highlights in his hair. I like Chris Rose and we mix it up on the show once in a while, but he's got to work on his comebacks. "Thank you, Mr. Roseanne Barr" is so 1992.

Next we have John "Spider" Salley. Four-time NBA champion Salley is great for the show because he knows everybody and a little bit about a lot of things. Like me, he needs to sharpen his interviewing skills, as he tends to ask a question, then answer it himself, then ask another question in the same long, long sentence. It can be confusing, but we're on for two hours a day, so we got a lot of time to fill.

Then there's D'Marco Farr, who was fresh from retiring from the 2000 world champion St. Louis Rams. We tried out a lot of good people, but I liked D'Marco's youthful innocence. Every show needs a guy who's ignorant enough to think professional athletes should play the game for the joy of it and not the money. Plus, I get to make fun of his big giant man-ass.

Michael Irvin is the only former superstar on the show. A perennial all-pro receiver and a three-time world champion Dallas Cowboy, Michael has also been arrested almost as many times as I have. Thankfully, he found God, and miraculously, he's still a lot of fun to be around.

John Kruk, a fat, uneducated hillbilly from West Virginia, could be my identical twin (except I'm from Iowa). Last fall, Kruk (the ringer on our Entertainment League softball team) and I had a bet on the show: who would be the first to lose 25 pounds. The winner would then be considered only "grossly overweight." The loser had to walk down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills in his underwear. I had to win this bet. The horror of me, shirtless, walking among the rich and powerful was too much to bear. I'd had that recurring nightmare as a kid, and that was before I had a tractor-size spare tire and tattoo removal scars. Kruk and I weighed in every Friday, and we'd each lost 16 pounds after the first two weeks.

Then I saw a look in Kruk's eyes that disturbed me. It wasn't the look of strain I usually see on the show as he's trying to think of adjectives, adverbs, verbs and nouns to replace his favorite words—fuck, fuckin', fucker—so we don't have to reshoot his segments. This was the look of steely determination of an iron man with an iron gut who wanted to get this competition over with so he could dive face first into the buffet at the Outback Steak-house. I was scared and I did my best to drop the last nine pounds. Kruk did better. He didn't eat anything—nothing, nada—for the last five days. He was worthless on the show, just sat (concluded on page 178)Best Damn Jos(continued from page 130) there, eyes bloodshot, God knows what he was on, idling like a top-fuel Funny Car waiting for the light to turn green.

Needless to say, he won. He lost 26 pounds in three weeks; me, only 19. Now I had to face the music, because real men honor their bets no matter how humiliating they are for them or their fiancées. Of course this would all be captured on film. Now I really felt sorry for Sully. But at least he never had his dignity amputated.

September 11 pushed the walk back a few weeks. I figured that America had suffered enough. This also gave me the time I needed to gain all the weight back and then some. Actually, I probably looked better. There's nothing uglier than a half-inflated Michelin. After thinking about Demi Moore naked (I do that sometimes, she is so hot) in a body-painted suit on the cover of Vanity Fair, I came up with the idea of having slenderizing black vertical stripes painted down my torso.

The big day came and Shelby, her mom and sister Melissa showed up for support. They wanted to be there. "To see history," Shelby said, "like when the Hindenburg exploded." Kruk, microphone in hand, waddled alongside me, mocking and drawing attention to my plight. It was a warm day, so my stripes melted and instead of a sleek basketball referee, I looked like your typical shirtless, dirty, crazy guy. If I'd been back in Iowa, I would have blended right in.

The first reviews for The Best Damn Sports Show Period were simple and to the point. They simply substituted worst for best. My favorite was the one from that grouchy old fart Howard Rosenberg of the Los Angeles Times. He said if they catch Osama bin Laden and really want to torture him, they'll make him watch our show over and over. Awesome.

Our network, Fox Sports Net, was thought up by two guys sitting in a pub. One of those guys, David Hill (president of Fox Sports), is an Australian. David noticed that America is the only country in the world that has huge fan support for college athletics. So he got Rupert Murdoch to buy up a bunch of regional television stations, each one supporting both the college and pro sports teams in their area. FSN is in about 100 million homes, and The Best Damn Sports Show Period is the glue that holds this mighty network together. That's the way I see it, anyway.

I love working for a guy who thinks up his best ideas in a pub. I've worked for other network presidents before, and this is the first time I've ever heard of one going to a pub or thinking up best ideas. David Hill is one of those old-school, honest, if-he-thinks-you-suck-he'll-tell-you kind of bosses. That is why I try to avoid him at all costs. Believe me, the man let John Madden go; he ain't afraid to pull the trigger on me.

I love doing the show because it gives me an open forum for my humor (dick, gay and fat jokes). I also have the opportunity to spend a little time with the greatest athletes in pro sports. The biggest surprise for me is the guys the media have labeled as troubled. Guys like Michael Irvin, Ray Lewis and Bobby Knight are actually intelligent, well-spoken, decent, if misunderstood, men. Men who played the game or coached the game the way we want it to be played or coached—to win.

I hear a lot of people complaining about salaries in sports, but trust me, after you've seen a bunch of 30-to 35-year-old guys (with families to support) who can barely walk, facing a lifetime of surgery because of hits taken playing a game that we all loved watching, you understand just some of the sacrifices these modern-day warriors have made.

So I am going to enjoy this job for as long as they'll have me (until contract time; then I'll have to play tough, of course). As "the voice of the fan," I don't have to be an expert on sports (thank God), but I gotta pay attention. And I have to get better at putting faces with names. At last year's Super Bowl, I, like everybody else outside of the city of Boston, thought the St. Louis Rams would crush the New England Patriots. I had to go down on the field after the game and interview the winners. So I memorized the Rams' lineup. About halfway through the fourth quarter, it dawned on me that perhaps it was time to grab a program and familiarize myself with the Patriots, since they were the ones doing the ass kicking.

Remember, though, there are 52 guys on the squad and they wear helmets and everything, so I panicked. Our producer told me not to worry, he knew the names, and he'd whisper them to me as the players passed by. I felt like Bob Hope ("That's President Truman, Bob"). This was important, my first time as a "real journalist," covering the biggest sporting event in the world. I could not screw up.

So when our producer whispered "Otis Smith," I whipped around and stuck my microphone in the face of the first big black guy I saw and yelled, "Otis, how does it feel?" (Great question, huh?)

He stopped, then looked at me and screamed, "I'm not Otis, damn it, I'm Bobby Hamilton, and I was just on your friggin' show last week, dumb-ass!" Bobby shoved me out of the way and the throng of real reporters gave me looks of both disgust and pity; then they nearly trampled me trying to catch a sound bite from Tom Brady or David Patten (see, I do know a couple).

One reporter remained. He stuck out his hand, finally a little support from a fellow broadcaster. "Don't worry about it, Tom."

"Thanks, man," I said.

"By the way, when are you gonna make True Lies II?"

I love working for a guy who thinks up his best ideas in a pub.