Tax Time Offers Plenty Of Questions, Sweating

I am on the phone, sweat forming profusely on my brow, preparing to talk to the most powerful organization in the world.

The Mafia? Wimps, all of them. Joh Gotti? Get real.

The staff of 60 Minutes? Not even close. They might put you on the spot, but you know they can splice you right out of the segment.

The military leaders who directed Desert Storm? C'mon. Give me a break. Even military might can't compare.

No, this is one powerful group. They make strong men wince. Women shake. Accountants busy.

They are ... the IRS.

Ye,s they are the original Bad Boys. Long before the Detroit Pistons began elbowing their way to back-to-back NBA crowns, they were there, imposing on hundreds of thousands of people, many innocent, with the single-scariest word in the English language:

Audit.

This isn't about an audit. But it is about fear. Who do you fear more - Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson, or the voice that says, in an ever-so-pleasing, yet terrifying, tone, "Hello, Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you?"

How can you help? Hmmm. Maybe by TAXING THE RICH INSTEAD OF THE MIDDLE CLASS!!!

Sorry. Lost my cool.

I am checking on other technical questions, the ones which all of us, at one time or another, must deal with.

For example:

"If the Pentagon thinks a paper clip costs $750, can I send you one in lieu of a check and get a partial refund?"

"If I form my own religion (such as, The Church of the Almighty Paul, Inc.), do i have to pay taxes?"

"Can a goldfish named Boris be considered a deduction? How about a car named Christine?"

"Are monies lost in failed S&Ls considered a business expense, or a stupidity expense?"

The line is busy. I'm not the only one with fears. I'll try again. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingies. Three ringy-dingies.

Connection.

I am sweating and the IRS person hasn't even started to speak. Not that a delay is imminent. I ...

Oh. It's a recorded message. The next available IRS representative will be with me shortly.

Like it really matter.

I'm going over my notes. It's always a good thing to have notes with you when talking to the IRS. Even if the ink I use smears when sweat dribbles from my forehead onto the page.

A live assistant comes on the line. "Hi, this is Monique. How may I help you?"

(Haven't we been down this path before? Hmmm.) Listen, Monique, I got a problem, and I'm hoping you can answer it for me.

"Sure, what is it?"

Well ... uh ...

(I begin to look over my notes, squinting to read words which are now, literally, in a pool of water.

... OK. Here we go. Let's say that I can't pay all of my taxes that I still owe by April 15? What will happen?

(I picture her lips turning into an evil, diabolical smirk. The smile. The villainous laugh. The fangs sticking out of the corners of her mouth. Boy, eating late-night pizzas with sesame seed crusts whole watching Arsenio Hall can cause nightmares like this.)

She is quick to respond, and my fears come true. "Well, first you'll be slapped with a five percent penalty on the existing balance, which will continue to increase over a six-month period until it reaches 200 percent. And there's also an 11 percent interest charge which starts April 16 at 12:01 a.m., and is incurred on a daily basis. In other words, YOU BETTER PAY US NOW, MISTER, WHILE YOU STILL HAVE THE SHIRT ON YOUR BACK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"Hope I answered your question. Have a nice day."

Click. Dial tone.

I pull out my calculator (boy, hope the sweat pool hasn't fried the circuits). I begin to calculate. My $100 still owed on April 15 would turn into $547,982.33 by May 1.

Looks like I'll have to send a whole box of paper clips instead.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Baseball Fans, Arise! Spring Is Finally Here!

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Undoubtedly, a sale was going on at some appliance store.

My body's alarm clock s out of whack, the result of jumping an hour ahead this week.

It must be spring.

That means my beloved Detroit Tigers are tearing up the turf at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. And my friend Oly's lovable Cubbies are blasting horsehide onto Waveland Avenue.

(In case you're wondering, Oly is the biggest chicago Cubs fan in the world. He eats, sleeps and breathes Cubs. He says he wants to be cremated and sprinkled along the first-base foul line after he dies. In another life, he might have been Hack Wilson or Grover Cleveland Alexander. Or even Ernie Banks, although since Mr. Cub is still living, that might be a bit difficult.)

It's been a long winter. Too much snow. Too many stupid million-dollar contracts. A war. Too many other distractions. As Tom petty sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."

No more. The calendar said spring began March 20. I know otherwise. Spring began April 8, when the first pitch was thrown and thousands of baseball-hungry fans screamed with delight.

Home plate has been dusted off. The tarp neatly rolled up in foul territory. The aroma of lukewarm hot dogs, even warmer beer, and mustard-slopped jumbo pretzels filled the nostrils of people luckier than me, who were able to catch the Tigers home opener in person.

Baseball.

It's box scores and errors, doubles up the gap and "standing by the side of the road and watching that one go by."

Baseball is Hammerin' Hank, The Babe, Stan the Man, Stormin' Norman, Daffy and Dizzy. It's Oil Can and The Ryan Express, Bam Bam and The Bash Brothers.

It's Ryno, The Hawk, and "Tram to Lou for Two."

It's bleacher seats and beach balls, tortilla wars in Anaheim, blowing up disco 45s in old Comiskey Park, the Green Monster and The Big Red Machine.

Baseball

Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football. Bo also knows hip injuries. Now, Bo knows Chicago (the White Sox, not the Cubs). Hmmm.

The "other" Bo - Schembechler - also knows baseball and football. One wonders which Bo knows more at times, though. Detroiters are still perplexingly perplexed with Bo's baseball knowledge; after all, in baseball, there's a tendency to do a lot of throwing of the ball.

Baseball is a field of dreams (sounds like a pretty good title for a movie, don't you think?), a vast wonderland of grass vs. turf, designated hitter vs. pitcher in the nine hole, good vs. The New York Yankees.

(As Tigers and Cubs fans, Oly and I tend to do a lot of dreaming. More often than not, mine takes place at work, which draws the wrath of my managing editor. There's the dream that the two teams will meet - finally - in the World Series, like they did in 1945, and like they should have done in 1984. There's the dream that Pittsburgh Pirate Barry Bonds will sit out the season, too upset because his contract is "only" $500 million [poor baby, where's my violin?]. There's the dream that I can become the next Ernie Harwell, even without changing my name. And there's the fantasy that Sports Illustrated swimsuit goddess Kathy Ireland will walk into the Herald's editorial department and say, "Gosh, baseball-loving columnists/reporters really turn me on!")

Like I said, a lot of dreaming.

There's plenty of other sports going on right now. The playoffs are approaching in basketball. They're already here for professional hockey. Tennis, golf and bowling are saturated on the television.

And, of course, the new World League of American Football, with its fancy helmet-cams and insipid team monikers (if Bart Simpson were quarterbacking the Birmingham Fire, what would he be? A spark? A match? Smokey the Bear?), it's all glitz and no substance.

Yawn.

But I have baseball now. Forever young, baseball is still the purest game in town. Foul lines stretch to infinite dimensions; in theory, a baseball game can last forever, since no set time limit controls its fate.

It's springtime. The Boys of Summer are back in action. And, by the way, as I am writing this, the Tigers are undefeated.

Save Oly and me a few seats in the front row.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.