I was sitting in my favorite DeKalb watering hole (I was in a watering hole because I hate bars), the other day when my friend Willie McGruff walked in. Yes, McGruff is related to the crime dog but refuses to discuss it, something about a pending paternity suit involving Roseanne Barr.

“Willie, how are you?” I asked. “Glad to see you. I can use you as a writing gimmick for my column.”

“OK, how far will the Bulls go in the playoffs?” asked my Bart Simpson look-alike buddy. “Unfortunately they are still pretty much a one-man team, and it depends on how far he can take them,” I responded in fluent Serbo-Croation, McGruff’s native language. “Of course I’m talking about Will Perdue. But seriously pal, Perdue is the only NBA player I’ve ever seen who looks like he’s wearing a diving suit and carrying an accordian while he’s playing.”

“Okay,” McGruff said, his facial tatoos glistening with sweat, “explain the fallout from the baseball lockout to me.”

“Ah,” I said, “That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that when someone explains it to me first. All I know is that I miss Barry Foote and his bullet throws to second base, unfortunately the runner would usually be on third by the time he would fish the ball out of his glove.”

“Well,” McGruff said, lighting up a $2 cuban cigar, “now you can explain to me your picture on this column.” (WARNING: Regular Northern Star readers should be advised that this is the part of the column where the writer makes fun of his/her picture.)

“Easy,” I said, as I also lit up a sweet $2 cigar that smelled of the tropics and reminded me of a weekend spent with a girl named Tracy, or was it Tricia? But I digress. “The pictures that go with the columns are the way that the Star photographers get back at the rest of us for making them take pictures of the Holmes Student Center, Huskie Stadium, John LaTourette and other large inanimate objects.

“If we can get serious for a moment,” McGruff said, “what about the Hank Gathers situation.”

“I think one of the most tragic parts of that situation,” I said, “is the fact that Gathers didn’t have illegal drugs in his system was a major story. That, unfortunately, is the way a lot of college athletics seems to be headed, which brings up Jim Valvano.”

“You mean the North Carolina State coach who refuses to resign his position without getting tons of money, even though his players and program have been charged with breaking several dozen laws and eight of the ten commandments?” McGruff asked.

“Yes, thanks for explaining it Willie,” I said. “I can’t blame Valvano for trying to make the best of a bad situation, at least he’s not hypocritical: as far as I know he’s never claimed to have any ethics. I would just warn him that if he does get the megabucks he’s aimimg for, he should keep his hand on his wallet when he’s around his team.”

“Well, thanks,” McGruff said. “I think it’s time for me to crawl back into the depths of your mind. You don’t have a strong flashlight do you? I know there’s plenty of room in there and I don’t want to get lost.”

“Real funny pal,” I said. “Just look for the closest swirling eddy of despair, but don’t accidently go into a Chicago Cubs’ mind or you’ll wind up with choking sensations whenever the playoffs come around.

“Say hello to Slats Grobnick and Elvis, and while you’re in there, could you look around for a crescent wrench that I misplaced last week.”

“Sure, but who’s Elvis?” McGruff asked. I could only shake my head, how soon we forget legends, something I’m sure that Barry Foote could tell you.