Alive at the Hive

BY ALDENTE FETTUCINI

 

Hello friends and let me extend a laurel and hearty "Howdy-Do" from the tropical heat of Charlotte, home of the Fettucini Brothers. We're Alfredo and Aldente, but you can call us Al (we've been called much worse).

 

At the recent marriage of my partner, Alfredo, The Kahuna and I chatted over a nosh and a toddy on the porch as the festivities swirled around us. The Kahuna cordially asked me to recite another Performer's Life tale for "pastaterity."

 

I screwed a few neurons down tighter and rewound my memory tape until it stopped at one of the magic moments of our career - our NBA debut. So step inside my mind for a moment, but please excuse the mess and watch your head on the ceiling. . .

 

...It was the second year of The Fettucinis, and the whole city was pee-pee pants happy with the new Charlotte Hornets. Our assignment was to entertain a rabid throbbing mass of 24,000 beer swilling misplaced racing fans for seven whole minutes. That may not seem like a long time, but when you're postponing the only sanctioned tinkle break in the whole game, seven minutes at midcourt can seem like an eternity!

 

We're a comedy juggling act (isn't everybody?) with an emphasis on verbal comedy. That's sketchy enough for the time being. So how were we to do verbal comedy in the acoustic equivalent of the Grand Canyon? We knew we couldn't, so we decided to do seven minutes of stuff to music. We were nervous, very nervous. Not about embarrassing ourselves in front of 24,000 people, but because we had never done tricks to music before. With a verbal show there's no pressure to stop on a dime, but if you get off beat with a musical routine you can just kiss it goodbye! There was only one thing to do. Rehearse!

 

Nowadays we have a cool space for workouts and prop storage. But in the old days we had to walk through 50 feet of snow uphill buck naked with our props on our backs, like pack mules, all the way to the Rec Center.

 

The Rec Center was after-school day care central, and we rehearsed in the appropriately named "Club Room," dodging scout troops and ceramics classes. It was a Herculean effort to create something in that place, but in two weeks we had about 6-1/2 minutes. We ran over and over it. We ran through 6-1/2 minutes for days! We knew it forwards and backwards. We could talk through it. We could even mime it. We thought we were ready.

 

Of course, there weren't 24,000 people in the club room, although at times it smelled like it!

 

On the Big Day we got to the coliseum early to go over our entrance and exit, sound and lights... y'know, technocrap. Those in charge (the ones with the check) also wanted to go over our routine to make sure we weren't going to swing clubs in a bath of chicken blood or anything. We assured them that ours was straight bubble gum juggling, we didn't do the chicken blood anymore. We proved it in a pleasingly smooth practice.

 

It was cool wandering around in the tunnel seeing how tall basketball guys are, except for Mugsy Bogues. We got to see the dressing rooms, the press area and the fine buffet (pronounced BOO-Fay in the South). It kept our minds off of our nerves.

 

Then we got our props together to bring out in our Radio Flyer Town and Country wagon with removable sides-the Cadillac of wagons. We loaded the wagon and changed into our show clothes so they would be good and sweaty by the time we actually performed. We paced and sweated and occasionally checked on the game to make sure that the Hornets were winning. We wanted happy fans. The Hornets could honk the bobo in the second half as far as we cared, as long as they were leading at halftime!

 

The moment of truth was upon us and we put on our game faces. They looked drastically different from the faces of the men leaving the court, who were wearing jingle bell jester hats and panting heavily. We were poised at the edge of the tunnel, twitching and sweating more than Joe Buttafuocco at a girl scout jamboree.

 

The announcer began our introduction and Alfredo led, riding a unicycle as I pulled the majestic Radio Flyer proudly behind us. I was so terrified at this point that I don't actually remember much of what happened. But like Rodney King said, "Thank God for videotape!"

 

As I saw it unfold on my TV from the safety of a musty fouton afterwards, I learned that I had pulled the wagon to mid-court as Alfredo got off his unicycle and grabbed seven rings to pass. We started in time with the music - a minor miracle - and nailed our seven ring color change. Then with three large beach balls we did different patterns and ended with head to head passes with one ball. Now for the clubs. We did some fancy every-other passes with six, then passed them back to back. We ended passing seven clubs with doubles and that was it, baby! Weeks of practice and worry were over in a brief 6-1/2 minutes.

 

We took one last look at the crowd from center court. It's called a court because that's where you're judged, like the Gladiators in the ancient coliseums. We were feeling pretty good at the end, thinking that even good or Cesar would've given us the thumbs-up, if not the finger! All things considered, it's much better to be thrown to the Hornets than the lions.

 

We flew off the floor, floated through the tunnel and landed in the dressing room. We were limp and soaking, helpless as deer caught in headlights and as giddy as little boys playing with themselves. We changed into dry clothes without taking a shower, eager to leave the premises before the Hornets fell behind and some drunk fan decided to blame it on the jugglers and come looking for us. Leaving the coliseum parking lot we thanked what we now know to be a benevolent Diety, driving down Billy Graham Parkway no less...

 

. . . The scene was racing through my mind there on the porch. Awaking from my reverie, I heard the Kahuna say, "So what about it, do you have a tale to tell? And excuse me, but you seem to have spilled toddy all over your tuxedo. "

 

I looked over at Alfredo basking in the glow of new matrimony and replied, "Yes, indeed, we do have a tale to tell!"

 

And this is only the beginning. Keep your arms in the vehicle, my friends, because the ride could get bumpy!

 

Aldente Fettucini travels the world juggling with his brother Alfredo. He divides his time between performing and being in a state of deep existential angst.