The Timothy Enge Show opens, naturally enough, with a shot of Timothy Enge. He’s seated in the midst of what appears to be a large, well-appointed den lined with rows of framed journalistic awards. In his lap is a brown clipboard, the source, as regular viewers are well aware, of his incisive, frequently embarrassing, oftentimes humorous, always interesting questions. From what can be seen of it when Timothy Enge tilts it provocatively toward the camera, the writing on its top sheet is crowded exceptionally close together There’ll be no idle banter tonight.

Timothy Enge begins his show. “This Sunday, ladies and gentlemen, the streets of San Francisco will resound to the primordial clash of giants in a contest which promises to be the most exciting football game of the season, perhaps the most exciting football game of any season.” He speaks with the intrepid self-reliance of a man well aware that of all Americans watching television at this very moment, better than 85 per cent have chosen to watch him. “On the one hand, we have the San Francisco Prospectors. Tied for first place in their conference, they have to win to stay on top. On the other hand, the New England Minutemen. Number one in their conference, unbeaten in forty eight games, only one victory shy of a new league record. The Prospectors and the Minutemen. They’re playing their thirteenth game of the year this Sunday, and it’s going to be unlucky for somebody. But who? Let’s see if we can get a hint.” He swivels his chair to one side.

“On my right, I have T.K. Mann, quarterback of the San Francisco Prospectors, a well respected and experienced professional who certainly needs no introduction.” T.K. nods in the direction of the camera. Actually, at this moment, he’s nowhere near Timothy Enge. Enge is in his New York studio, T.K. at his San Francisco apartment. T.K. has no idea where Harv Matision, who is also on the show, is emanating from, most likely somewhere in Boston. Camera trickery projects them hologramically into each other’s presence, pulling the affair off so successfully that T.K. would swear Enge and Matision are actually sitting only a few feet away from him in his own living room. They’re all three given representational access to each other to facilitate correct bodily and facial reactions. Home viewers see the three seated in Timothy Enge’s den.

Enge swivels left. “On my left, the one they call electrifying, the one they call stupendous, the one they call the most promising football player of all time. I give you the one they call Harv Matision.”

Matision, slouched in his chair, flips his hand disdainfully out at the viewers, middle finger extended. “Eat shit,” he says, hauling out one of the profane openings that is as much his trademark as is his chilling insolence.