Jim McMahon, dressed up like a billboard, ambles gingerly down a restricted corridor of the Bears` hotel headquarters, then bangs on the door of his room. Kurt Becker appears.
”Don`t you have a key?” asks the injured lineman. ”What`s going on?”
McMahon leads a contingent of five into the darkened suite, then raises his arms to the ceiling, triumphantly.
”It`s acupuncture time!!” chirps this quarterback, this piece of work, this free spirit whose tale of a wounded tail has become the cause celebre of Super Bowl XX. And with that exclamation, McMahon sheds his adidas, his blue running tights, his purple bikini underwear, his multicolored sweatshirt, his baseball hat, his sunglasses. All he wears now, stretching out on the bed with chest down, is a sheepish grin.
”Aha,” says Hiroshi Shiriashi, reaching for his bag of needles. ”Now we start.”
This is Wednesday, shortly before noon, about an hour after the now-famous acupuncturist from Tokyo had flown in from Chicago. McMahon`s gluteus maximus, battered during the Bears` NFC Championship victory over the Los Angeles Rams two Sundays ago, is still a sore subject to the victim, not to mention the team`s management. Clearly, this is a medical emergency.
”Please, quiet,” says Shiriashi, a pleasant man of few words. He motions toward the television set, which is broadcasting a soap opera for the edification of Becker, who is occupying the other bed, looking rather perplexed by it all.
”You gonna stick more pins into my roommate?” says Becker, shutting off the TV. ”Tell you what, doctor. There`s a $36,000 winners` share for beating New England Sunday. You stick all the pins in him you want, long as he`s ready.”
McMahon, on horizontal hold with feet resting atop the pillows, laughs. His head protrudes from the other end of the mattress, so he can spit his Skoal drippings into a glass. He does not look like an athlete concerned about missing the biggest game of his life.
”I told them in the press conference this morning there`s no way I won`t play Sunday,” McMahon says. ”I don`t know if they believe me. They also asked me what my behind looks like. I said I didn`t know. It`s behind me. What does it look like, Hiroshi?”
Shiriashi is busy preparing an alcohol rub for McMahon`s affected area, the left buttocks, which is a mosaic of bruises and ominous hues. Anybody who doubts that McMahon is in severe pain, anybody who surmises that he had concocted this story just to capture attention, or miss practice, needs only to take one glance at this bereaved soul, lying there in his birthday suit, staring at the wallpaper ahead.
”You guys didn`t go out last night?” asks Steve Zucker, McMahon`s representative from Chicago.
”Nope,” Becker says. ”We barricaded the door at 6 o`clock. That`s 6 p.m., not 6 a.m. Lots of sleep.”
”Needed it,” McMahon says. ”Had a good time Monday night. Went to tape that Bob Hope show. He`s a legend. We talked about his golf game and my golf game. Like to play in his tournament some day. Then I left with Tony Eason
(Patriots` quarterback) and got something to eat. Then ran into Jay Hilgenberg. I really like Bob Hope. Like him so much, we went back and knocked on his door about 2 a.m. Hilgy wanted to get at the leftover sandwiches. Woke Bob up. I don`t know if he appreciated that.”
Shiriashi is probing McMahon`s posterior now with his acupuncture needle, a filament-thin apparatus designed not to maim but to relieve pressure at specific points in the body. The doctor makes two or three dozen different light pierces, all the while closing his eyes, as if to meditate.
”He`s a master at what he does,” whispers Bill Anderson of the Illinois State Acupuncture Association. That organization was aroused when Bears`
president Michael McCaskey, upon learning that Shiriashi visited McMahon Monday without official sanction, vetoed any further treatments. Or so it was interpreted.
”McCaskey`s saying now that it`s okay, that he`ll pay the bills for Hiroshi?” McMahon says. ”You know why McCaskey did that. I told him, `Do you want me to play or not?` That`s why he changed his mind all of a sudden. It`s his team, yeah, but it`s my rear end. I don`t know why everybody`s got their noses out of joint. This isn`t a knock at (trainer) Freddie Caito, or anybody else. Hiroshi here. He`s a specialist.”
After about 20 minutes with his pins, Shiriashi briefly massages the problem, then instructs McMahon to run a hot shower on it.
”Another treatment tonight,” Shiriashi says. ”Then two tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he can run at practice, see how it feels.”
Suddenly, from the bathroom, a booming voice.
”Hey, doc, how long do I have to stay under this thing?” McMahon yells. ”I`m melting in here.”
McMahon emerges shortly, red as a beet. Now he starts prancing about the room, making like he`s dropping back, pivoting, throwing a pass, bending over the center for the snap.
”All the beautiful women in the world,” Becker grouses, ”and I got to watch this.”
”Feels better,” McMahon says. ”I tried to run a little yesterday, but I only lasted about 10 yards. If I try to go again today, it`ll probably tighten up. But it`s improved over what it was. It improves every day. See, I can bend my left leg a lot higher up than I could before.”
McMahon returns to the bed for another short session. Someone mentions that Gary Fencik suggested he wear a headband Sunday for United Way. How, Fencik wondered, could the NFL fine him for advertising its official charity? ”No, I think I might wear a headband saying `ACUPUNCTURE,”` suggests McMahon. ”I`ll have to write small, though. That`s a pretty big word, isn`t it? Maybe I`ll wear a label on my butt, too. `Made in Japan.` ”
Shiriashi, ever the craftsman, oblivious to all this tomfoolery, resumes his project on McMahon`s contusion. There`s a knock on the door.
”Is it working?” asks Walter Payton, upon entering.
”Of course,” McMahon says. ”Needles don`t even hurt, either. McCaskey doesn`t have to worry about controlling the club. And I don`t care about who pays for the doctor. Main thing is, he`s here. Mike Ditka was all for it. So was Jerry Vainisi. I don`t know why McCaskey got all uptight. Heck, we got so many people running around here worried about my butt, they`re gonna be so nervous, they`ll need a few needles before this thing is over.
”They asked me today at that press thing, am I strange? No, I said, I`m normal. I just don`t worry about what other people think. Too many people are hung up on other peoples` opinions. I`d like to just win the Super Bowl, then vanish for a while. Play golf. That`s another reason why I gotta get this butt fixed.”
”Mac,” says Becker. ”We better catch that last bus.”
Shiriashi completes his task, and McMahon rises, takes a fresh dab of Skoal, puts on his purple bikini underwear, his blue running tights, his multi-colored sweatshirt, his hat, his sunglasses, his adidas.
”Thanks, doc,” McMahon says. ”Can you come to practice to take a look at me there? I`m sure management will be happy to see you.”
Not so fast. Predictions, please.
”Go Bears,” says Shiriashi.
McMahon heads down the hall, singing ”Needles and Pins,” feinting here and there, as though he`s getting ready for Sunday. His roommate follows.
”Man`s got the most famous rear end in the world right now, and I`ve got to live with him,” Becker says, shaking his head. ”Crazy. Only the Bears. This could only happen on the Bears.”
