I. Love. Harold Lederman.
I love the fairness of his judging. I love how he wants the focus to be on the fight and not the talking heads in the circus surrounding the fight. I love how he’s the disembodied voice on HBO boxing broadcasts. I love how he prefaces each round’s score with a quick “Okay Jim” in that fantastic fast-talking Bronx accent that only seems exist among people of a certain age. I love that he daylighted as a pharmacist at Duane Reade. I have always wanted that man to fill a prescription for me.
Even more than I want to see Pacquiao and Mayweather, even more than I want to see Klitschko unify the belts, I want to step up to the pharmacy desk, be handed my paper bag o’ meds and have Harold Lederman proceed to tell me how to use my Epipen. I’d be slack-jawed. Shaking with giddiness and glee, I’d try to suppress the urge to ask him if he’d ever seen Larry Merchant pass a flask to Jim Lampley during one of Max Kellerman’s pontifications. Or if he’d ever seen the late Emmanuel Steward roll his eyes or shake his head during any of those awkward silences that used to hang in the air after Kellerman would speak. Lederman’s pharmacy days are over, but the fantasy still exists in my head.
I can only imagine what it would be like to have my prescription filled and handed over by the Man himself:
“Okay Kristin, I gotta tell ya, what you gotta do is flip the yellow cap at the top of the tube and remove the Pen…Then you gotta hold the pen in firmly in place for a full ten count… Call 911 and if you’re still experiencing symptoms of anaphylaxis, open the second pen and repeat the previous instructions for the second and final round. JIM! I mean, KRIS! Any questions?”