COLUMN: What's in a name?

Joel Chasnoff's "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96 Joel Chasnoff's "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96In the movies, there's never aJoel Chasnoff's "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96In the movies, there's never adoctor around when youJoel Chasnoff's "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96In the movies, there's never adoctor around when youneed one. Not so in real life. Joel Chasnoff's "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96In the movies, there's never adoctor around when youneed one. Not so in real life. My brother is no kitten of a guy. He got the gene for bigness in our family. At six feet tall and 160 pounds, he outsizes most of his friends, as well as most of their mothers. And my brother Gabe has been there to protect me for as long as I can remember. I've depended upon Gabe my entire life -- or most of it, I should say. I was seven when Gabe was born, so it was a few years before I could really count on him to stand up for me on a regular basis. But ever since he's known how to read, Gabe has been there for his littler brother. Both Gabe and I played basketball in high school. He's currently the captain of the varsity team; I kicked ass in HORSE at the playground around the corner from our house. On one particular Sunday morning this past winter break, we headed to the Young Men's Christian Association (despite the fact that I'm old and Jewish) to play a game of one-on-one. I dug out a pair of dusty, white Converse sneakers from underneath my bed; he laced up the Nike high-tops that match his high school team's colors. He insisted that we use his ball, as the one I retrieved from my closet was made by Voit, a company that specializes in synthetic rubber sporting equipment for 7-12 year olds. He definitely had the upper hand when it came to equipment and apparel. But as for sheer skill on the court? well, that would only be determined on the hardwood floors of our local Y. On entering the building, I saw a good friend of my parents at the water fountain. "Dr. Glick," I called. He glanced over at the two of us and headed over for a handshake. "How are you doing, Dr. Glick?" I asked. "You remember Gabe, right?" "Of course, of course? you're taller than your brother there, aren't you, Gabe?" (Yes he is, Dr. Glick, and you certainly have quite a flair for the obvious.) "Hi," said Gabe, a boy of few words and even fewer prepositions. "We're heading in to play some basketball," I told Dr. Glick. "But I'll find you before we take off." Gabe and I headed into the locker room to achieve the state of athletic manliness that can only be achieved in gymnasiums and public showers: we put on our jockstraps and prepared ourselves for battle. Nothing could stop us now. "Who's Dr. Glick?" Gabe asked. "He's a friend of Dad's," I replied. "I think they might have gone to med school together. You ready, Sport?" "Let's go, " he said, and he sprinted off to the gym to shoot around. I didn't want to run just yet; I had to warm up first. Our game of one-on-one wasn't five minutes long when I was laying on my back, withering on the floor. I dove for a loose ball and in doing so, contorted my body in a manner that should only be attempted by the likes of Bart Connor. I tried to get up, but even the slightest movement brought on a terrible shooting pain and a wave of overwhelming nausea. I hate throwing up in public, so I thought about butterflies and The Wizard of Oz until the nausea passed. But the pain was unbearable. "Gabe," I said. "I can't get up! My legs are killing me!" And I continued to ramble on and curse and utter words that are not appropriate for a piece of shit column like this. "What do you want me to do?" Gabe asked. "Should I call 9-1-1?" "No!" I said. "Don't do that. It's not that bad. Just, ahh? go get Dr. Glick. He'll be able to help me." So Gabe took off in search of Dr. Glick, while I lay there just inside of the three-point line. How lucky, I thought, that Dr. Glick happens to be here today. It must be fate. Someone must be watching over me. Either that, or he has membership at the Y, although I was fairly sure he was neither young or Christian. You never can be sure. He could be a lot younger than he looked. "Joel!" Gabe startled me a few minutes later. "I got him! I found Dr. Glick!" "Oh, Dr. Glick! I'm so glad you were still here! Look, you gotta help me, Doc? it's killing me to move!" "So? how do you want me to help?" he asked. "Well," I replied, "I don't know. Just? check me out. Make sure everything's okay. You're a doctor, right?" "Well, yeah," he said. "I have a Ph.D. in Near Eastern Sociology." "You mean? you're not a doctor, doctor? You didn't go to med school with my dad?" "Oh, no," Dr. Glick said. "I was part of the six-year program at Columbia. I met your dad at an Elie Wiesel speech in upstate New York." Oh. Oh. That must have been when I passed out. Because the next thing I remember was a fat white woman named Zelda sticking an 8-inch-long needle into my right buttock as the emergency room supervisor, accompanied by Gabe and the Phony Doctor Glick, looked on.