Whoop Dreams

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, April 27 1997; Page F01
The Washington Post 

It's never too early to plan your summer vacation, and I've got mine.

I'm going to Michael Jordan's Senior Flight School. It's a three-day basketball camp for
people over 35 in Las Vegas in August.

I picked it over a few other intriguing adult camps.

Big Boris Yeltsin's White Lightning Siberian Lost Weekend. The brochure promises: Wodka
and Women . . . Go shot for shot with the Bo-Man. Get hammered and sickled on the vast
Russian steppes -- then tumble down the steppes into a refreshing, naturally heated
Chernobyl hot tub!

Jack Kevorkian's Go Gently Into That Good Night Getaway. Relax with Dr. Jack for three
cool days and one long night. Get laid back, then get laid down . . . We can arrange for a
convenient checkout time.

Marshall Applewhite's See You in September or Thereabouts Interplanetary Holiday
Journey. Find your life shrouded in confusion? Get ready for the New Age with computer
training . . . Come celibate with us! Dance to the hypnotic music of Bo and Peep and Do and
Ti, with special guests Hale Bopp and the Comets. One free pair of Nikes for each camper.
(Unfortunately, this camp recently "shed its container.")

So I'm going to Michael Jordan's camp. Which actually does exist.

My only problem is it costs $15,000.

"Check only -- No credit cards," the brochure says.

My friend Gino says it's worth it. He says that having the opportunity to play basketball with
Michael Jordan "is like having a catch with Babe Ruth."

"I doubt it," I said. "I imagine I'd be waiting a long time for the Babe to throw the ball back to
me."

Anyway, I'm going to raise the $15,000 even if I have to borrow it from Bob Dole.

And I'm going to fly to Vegas and take part in this camp with 71 other campers who have
this kind of money: mainly geezing Baby Boomer orthodontists, plastic surgeons, tax
accountants, divorce lawyers and proctologists between 5 feet 8 and 5-11, most of whom
will have back hair and be named "Bernie."

I have the Friday, Aug. 29, camp schedule in front of me. It starts with one full hour for
breakfast, which is good, because for $15,000 I want enough time for a second cup of
coffee and a cigar -- hey, it's Vegas. Then we go take pictures with Michael, which is real
good, because for $15,000 I want some proof that Michael Jordan and I were actually
together at the camp.

(I'll get three pictures with Michael. One shot will be taken "at the Welcoming Cocktail
Party." One will be "with team and coach." And one will be taken "with camp uniform on."
I'm looking forward to the picture at the cocktail party, because I can wear normal clothing.
But I am not looking forward to pictures with my "camp uniform" on. At my age I would
rather be caught in a Turkish steam bath with Sammy "The Bull" Gravano than be
photographed in gym shorts and a T-shirt so I look like that dork Richard Simmons.)

Next on the schedule is a "Lecture by Michael Jordan." I'm hoping he plays against type, and
he shares his thoughts on "Sane Nuclear Policy in the Post-Communist Global Village."
Exhausted by mental gymnastics, we move to a calisthenics session, in which a bunch of fat
middle-aged guys who look alarmingly like Newman on "Seinfeld" shoot some threes, then
plop down on the court to talk about what they want for lunch.

There's a free-throw session after that, to determine the camp champion, who, presumably,
gets some fabulous prize -- like an hour with a Vegas showgirl. Then, we spend 30 minutes
at basketball practice. But only 30 minutes, because nobody wants to overdo the athletic
aspect of camp. After that, we eat lunch, because, after all, we haven't eaten in, what, three
hours? And for $15,000 it better not be a bologna sandwich and a carton of milk. Then we
hear a couple of lectures from famous coaches and NBA referees, assuming you can drag
these guys away from the slot machines.

I know you worry that at my age I could drop dead guarding Michael Jordan under a hot
Las Vegas sun. Well, don't. Michael doesn't actually play. But a spokesman for Michael
says, "He'll be out on the court with the campers." So if I do drop dead guarding one of the
Bernies, at least Michael will be nearby. And if I need a doctor, perhaps Dr. Julius Erving
will be on call.

And if I live, look at what I'll get:

A one-hour "professionally done" camp video and a bag filled with "souvenir items from
Michael Jordan's corporate partners." (I can really use a pair of Hanes underpants, and a
Filet o' Fish sandwich from McDonald's. They can keep that new Michael Jordan cologne
that smells like bug bomb, though.)

But the biggest perk of all is that as a camper I "can bring a guest who will be able to
observe camps and attend the Welcoming Cocktail Party and our Closing Ceremony
Brunch." This is an almost unparalleled opportunity to show off. It's like being able to bring
King Hussein to a bar mitzvah. (As my "guest" I'm thinking of bringing a 1,500 pound sow
from a 4-H show, just to shake things up.)

Obviously, the only reason to attend Michael Jordan Basketball Camp is to come back with
stories to tell about "me and Mike." Those are the magic words. You get to say to anybody
and everybody, "So Michael Jordan and I

were standing at the foul line, and Mike turns to me and he says . . ."

You get that and three nights in Vegas for $15,000.

A night in the Lincoln Bedroom is $150,000.

I'm going with Mike.

@CAPTION: My summer pal.

© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company

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