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Excerpt from "I Flirt with Bobby Orr"

-Your knees are like Popeye's biceps after spinach.

-I can't get slacks that fit.

-I've never been in a Cadillac. Does this one have a name?


-That's a pretty word for a car. A pretty idea.

-I had a Corvette years ago. I love them, they're beautiful, but I have trouble with my legs, so getting in and out... getting in and out of the Escalade is much easier. I wouldn't call it a car.

-"He has an Austin's motor in a Cadillac's chassis."

-Who does?

- They said that about Jean Béliveau. Six foot three with a Tin Woodsman's too-small heart. Drive, Bobby. Should I call you Bob? Now, do they still call you Bobby?

-Some do. The fans, the fans' kids, the bogus websites. To them, I'm always 22 and flying through the air. Call me what you want. Not on the floor; there's a trash can in your armrest.

-I hope I don't make you nervous. Just drive. I suppose you're a defensive driver. Get it? Defensive? Your hands are trembling like a compass. What's that steering wheel made of?

-Leather and wood. It's already starting to change with my hands. See there? Like a putter, or a hand-me-down axe. You should know I'm scared skinny of talking like this. I'm no shucks as a talker. Don't do that. I'll turn up the defog, but please don't use your hand. The grease.

-I've lived in apartments smaller than this car. First time away from home—1974—off to the university across the water, I rented a little bachelor joint down 82 stairs to the rocky beach on Shoal Bay in Victoria. That's 82 down and 82 back up.

-That's 81 more than I could handle.

-Even then? Even the year you scored more points than Esposito? Than everyone?

-Especially then.

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