had time to do a swan dive on the wayrndown.rnTo me, as a kid, being shot from arncannon seemed the most exciting thingrnin the wodd. That puff of smoke; thatrnperfect arc; that final, graceful turn. Yournbounce off the net, land on your feet,rnthrow your arms into the air, and therncrowd goes wild. But did you ever seernone of us doing it? Of course not,rnthough we would have gone twice as far.rnThink about it. What kind of jobs do wernget? A good friend of mine, a Mexican,rnwas used as a stand-in for one of therngorillas in a Tarzan movie. Talk aboutrndegrading. How do you think thernMunchkins felt? Or those of us whornplayed in that stupid Shelley Whatsherface’srnSnow White and The You KnowrnWhat? All I can say is at least those werernjobs.rnMaybe that’s where I got the idea.rnFrom seeing those big guys flyingrnthrough the air, shot out of cannons,rnpadded, helmets on. It was me, you see,rnwho thought it up. It might have gonernno further than MacNab’s. But I saw itrnall in my mind. Thousands of us beingrnthrown through the air by the big guys,rntossed from one to another, nestled inrnthose manly arms. We’d be screaming,rnhysterical from the excitement, especiallyrnthe girls—wrapped up in our bunting,rnlike cats or monkeys or coons. We wererncuddly. We were free!rnAll over now. “It is hereby proclaimedrnthat dwarf-throwing and dwarf-bowlingrnare from this time forth prohibited inrnpublic establishments where alcohol isrnserved. By order of the Governor.” Allrnthe governors signed on. In three years itrnhad spread to every state but Hawaii.rnSure, we could have gone to Jamaicarnwhere there’s a tradition of it going backrnto Queen Victoria. But would that havernbeen fair? They’ve got their own peoplernto care for.rnThe saddest part of the whole thing isrnthat a lot of us formed strong bonds withrnour handlers. (That’s what we called thernbig guys.) I’m talking about friendship.rnNot romance, for heaven’s sake. It wasrnmore a pride, a loyalty, thing. We hadrnthese tournaments, you see, with playoffsrnand buy-outs and trading, evenrncards. The guys who were into that gotrnsalaries you wouldn’t believe. Umpires,rntoo. This was toward the end. We keptrnthis whole “series” part of it hush-hush.rnWe knew we couldn’t mainstream that.rnPeople just weren’t ready for it. But beforernthey even found out about it, thernbleeding heart from Rochester had donernhis dirty deed. He wasn’t gettingrnthrough with his letters-to-the-editor.rnNo one picked up on what was going on.rnMaybe no one believed him. Maybe nornone cared. So he had to do something.rnWhat he did was get hold of Mrs. TimothyrnFlannegan and poison her mind.rnThe girl was Sally Bisko. Beautiful.rnShort, blond hair. Honey-colored.rnWeighed 42,43 pounds. She and Flanneganrnwere so close she was like anotherrnarm to him. (I didn’t say there was no romance.)rnThey were a team. Fred Astairernand Ginger Rogers. Every time he threwrnher or rolled her down the alley on herrnboard toward those pins, it made yournwant to cry, it was such a beautiful act.rnHe did it with such tenderness, with sornmuch love. He was a huge guy, Flanneganrn—tremendous shoulders. He andrnSally won every tournament they en-rnLIBERAL ARTSrnDON’T PUT OFF TILL TOMORROWrnTHOSE RIGHTS YOU CAN ENJOY TODAYrnProcrastination is now a disability, if we can believe Marshall Dickler, attorneyrnfor a Northwestern University professor charged with theft. According to thernChicago Tribune last January, art history instructor Olan Rand “never got around”rnto letting the federal government know his mother had died. He was thus able torncollect $33,000 in Social Security payments deposited electronically in their jointrnaccount between 1981 and 1986.rnDickler calls this “extreme procrastination behavior,” which he claims is arnmanifestation of depression. “Professor Rand is an individual with a disability,”rnDickler wrote in a complaint filed last December with the Equal EmploymentrnOpportunity Commission. The lawyer is trying to get the former professor his jobrnback: although Rand has pleaded guilty to theft. Northwestern dismissed him lastrnyear for “a pattern of dishonest behavior.”rntered. If there was room enough to swingrnher, he could throw her 32 feet. If theyrnwere playing targets, he’d never miss.rnTwo years and not a single accident, notrnone dropped catch in the relays. In thernbowling, which not everyone did, veryrnfew games that left any spares.rnThey did a lot of touring, being justrnabout the best; but they weren’t foolingrnaround. It was a strictly platonic affair.rnSally was a Quaker with very highrnmorals; Flannegan, as well as being arngood Gatholic, was a devoted familyrnman. What’s more, his wife knew allrnabout them and what they felt for eachrnother. Yet one day she flew to Minneapolis,rnwhere they were playing for twornweeks, and burst into their hotel room.rnThere was Sally, curled up in the chairrnwhere she always slept, with Timrnstretched out under the bed sheets, snoring.rnBut she pulled the pistol out of herrnpurse and shot them dead anyway. Shernlater said she didn’t know why she hadrndone it. The two of them never evenrnwoke up.rnIt was one of those crazy things. Crazyrnfor them and ruinous for the rest of us,rnbecause of course then everything camernout—the tournaments, the gambling,rnthe hanky-panky with some of the customers.rnThe papers had a field day outrnof it, naturally. And the governor, ofrncourse, had to act. It was that bleedingrnheart in Rochester. She told me herself.rnHe never got through with his letters.rnSo he got hold of Mrs. Timothy Flanneganrnand made her do his dirty work forrnhim. He must have had some slickrntongue, that’s all I can say.rnMaybe it would have happened anyway.rnProbably it was too good a thing tornlast. A little over three years. The GoldenrnDays, we call them. And most of usrnare still pretty well off, because we savedrnour money. We’re not out on the streets.rnNobody’s jumping from office buildings,rneither. Not that we’re happy about it.rnDon’t get me wrong. We had such highrnhopes. Someday, we always said, we’d gornpublic, come out of the closet. Think ofrnit! To be in Friendly’s. Or under thernGolden Arches! The whole countryrnwould recognize the sport for what itrnwas and we’d be like baseball players.rnBut it didn’t turn out that way. We gotrnshut down, and now we’re out of work.rnIs that fair? I ask you. Is this America, orrnwhat?rnCUnton W. Trowbridge writes fromrnSedgwick, Maine.rn48/CHRONICLESrnrnrn