A memorable pizza with a bit of Lemon on the side

Millions around the world were saddened by the recent passing of Meadowlark Lemon, the basketball “crown prince” of the Harlem Globetrotters — the only man on the planet to be inducted to both the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame and the International Clown Hall of Fame.

But though most will harbor nostalgic memories of him for his brilliant no-look passes, or his rubber-band free throws, or his half-court hook shots, I will mourn for the realization that he and I will never share a pizza again.

Well, to be clear, we didn’t actually share a pizza. He ate one all by himself, and I shared one with my date. But we sat right next to each other.

Well, not right next to each other. We were in different booths. But his booth was right across the aisle from me and my date, and we did spend some time in conversation.

Well, it wasn’t really much of a conversation, to be honest. But we did talk to each other.

Well…I should probably start at the beginning.

In early 1967 I was a freshman student at Western Illinois University in Macomb, Illinois. One Saturday night, when I finally got a girl to agree to go out with me, I scraped together enough money for a pizza and we walked the mile or so to Pagliai’s on the square in town.

We were just diving into our pizza when the door opened and in walked some of the tallest, most athletic human beings I had ever seen. It was winter, and they were all dressed from shoulder to floor in black leather coats whose cost would rival at least a semester’s tuition, room and board.

The tallest of them plunked into the booth right next to me, scooted over, then made room for a lean, wiry man with a playful child’s face.

I must have been staring, because he glanced over and nodded a greeting. His infectious smile never left his face.

I smiled back, and then — with the kind of suaveness that has always graced me whenever I bump into celebrities — I mumbled, “What are you?”

“I’m a Globetrotter,” he said. “What are you?”

“Um…embarrassed,” I said. Because to be honest, I was just now making the connection that this was the night that the Harlem Globetrotters were scheduled to come to campus to befuddle their perpetual patsies, the Washington Generals. I would have loved to see them play, but the ticket price was way beyond my social calendar budget. So I had put the game out of mind and concentrated on searching for a girl with low standards when it came to boys she was willing to date.

And now — go figure — even though I didn’t have the cost of admission that would let me through a door to go see the Globetrotters, here they were coming through a door to see me!

And the magnificent imp sitting right next to me was the great Meadowlark Lemon!

But by now I was struck dumb by my stupidity. I can only imagine what he thought of being asked “What are you?” as if he were something other than human.

It wasn’t “WHO are you?”

It was “WHAT?”

(If anyone out there has ever said anything more idiotic when meeting a celebrity, I’d like to hear about it just to know I have some company in the dimwits’ club. I once met James Brown as he stood eating a hot dog in an airport, and I said to him, “Hey, you’re James Brown!” He nodded and said, “I know.” So that’s the second most stupid thing anybody has ever said to a celebrity. You’d have to go a long way to end up higher on the Idiot’s List of Stupid Things To Say. Someday remind me to tell you about my conversation with Jesse Owens.)

I left Meadowlark alone then and went back to munching on the pizza with my date. We took our time, partly to enjoy our time together, but mostly to bathe for a while in the presence of greatness.

Once we were finished, my date and I got up to leave just as their order arrived — a large pizza for Meadowlark and one for each of the other Globetrotters.

But then it occurred to me that it was still early evening. “Wait,” I said to Meadowlark, “did you guys play at the college already?”

He shook his head. “No. We play later.”

I glanced at my watch. Game time couldn’t be more than an hour or so away, and here they were, just tucking into a feast of heavy Italian food at Pag’s, the grease emporium of the Midwest. It was the kind of pre-competition meal that only the Globetrotters could get away with.

“Well…” I said, as some synapse in my brain searched for a way to bump my earlier stupid comment off the top spot of stupid comments, “…good luck against the Washington Generals.”

Meadowlark grinned and said, “Thanks. We’ll need it.”

Without a hint of irony.

Which is why he’s in the International Clown Hall of Fame, and I’m just a clown with dimwit tales to tell.

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