Posted by Julie on January 23, 2000 at 11:57
I know this has already been reported, but here is the exact excerpt, word for word, by Laura herself. I pick it up with Laura describing an opportunity to work as an analyst for ESPN........
We spent my 40th birthday on the road to Michigan, Bobby driving while I did my best to keep the shakes to a minimum. When we arrived, Larry Cirillo, the ESPN producer who was in charge of the Oldsmobile Classic, escorted me to the tower where I would be working, and we walked through the procedures for the week. I did my best to put on a bright and happy face. There was a job on the line, and I had to do whatever it took to hold myself together for the week.
Things went remarkably well for the first couple days. I got to know all the cameramen, producers and technicians, and I meandered around the course, reacquainting myself with the layout. I took notes, talked to players and did my best to prepare myself for two days of live telecast. As far as I could tell, no one knew I was petrified, drinking before and during our rehearsals. On Friday, one day before the live telecast began, the delicate balance I had found between postpartum drugs and alcohol was suddenly upset.
We were in what television producers call, ironically enough, a dry run, a real time rehearsal. Larry even inserted commercial breaks. By then I had overloaded my system. The shakes had been so bad before I entered the booth that I drank a few extra bottles to wash down my medication. The shaking stopped, but I became disoriented. I fumbled with the IFB, the "interruptible feedback" earpiece that broadcasters use to stay in contact with the producers, and when it came my time to speak, the words would not come out properly. "The gutf is a difcutcuss for hitting specialty the green," I mumbled. Over my IFB I heard the producer say "What?"
He quickly went to someone else, but within a couple of minutes, I heard one of the announcers say, "Laura, what do you think about that?"
Jolted out of a stupor by hearing my name, I said, "Right, that's. It...good shuts."
What the hell had I just said? I didn't understand myself, so I knew there was no way anyone else had a clue. There was a palpable pause. Within a couple of seconds the rhythm of the telecast resumed, and I tried to regroup for another try. The least I could do was complete one coherent sentence.
When Larry gave the signal to come back to me, my brain and my mouth weren't in sync. I wanted to say, "She's got 144 yards to the flag," but what came out sounded like, "Sheesitsbut hon fur yurd...flig."
That was it. Twenty minutes into the rehearsal Larry pulled the plug, and I was asked to leave the booth. Mortified and disoriented, I stood on wobbly legs and tried to manuever my way down the narrow metal stairs. About a third of the way down, my bladder began screaming for me to hurry, while my inner ear was telling me to take it slow. I didn't look at the ground for fear of getting vertigo, but I knew that I had to get to a rest room as quickly as possible. I stumbled down the last four stairs, holding on to the thin handrail. I had been assigned to the 15th green, fully a quarter mile from the nearest rest room. My legs carried me toward the clubhouse but not quickly enough. As I stumbled through some high grass on the right side of the 16th fairway, my bladder released.
With my pants stained front and back, I slumped down and sat in the grass until a passing LPGA tour official offered me his jacket and a ride back to the clubhouse. I accepted the jacket, then looked down and saw my future in television drowning in a puddle of urine.
I wish I had been there to watch her accident and comfort her in her wet pants :)
Julie
Email: juliebaby7@aol.com