When it comes to handshakes, I am strictly from the "wet fish school." My handshake would not threaten a 5-year-old kindergarten scholar. As I catch the eye of my fellow greeter, I forget about the intensity of the forthcoming squeeze. This usually results in my wincing from pain and blowing on my poor fingers. I always forget about the manual gymnastics, when I make eye contact.

One time I nearly had my hand broken by a celebrity. It was 1969, the seventh game of the great Knick-Laker series. I was sitting in the exact last row of Madison Square Garden. John Havliceck was going to the broadcast booth to converse with Marv Albert. John, the great hustle-machine from Boston, was probably the victim of quite a few "would-be Jocks" who tried to rip his hand off. I don't blame him for taking the offensive.

As I reached out to John, I made eye contact, and - believe me - it doesn't hurt any less when being bruised by a Hall of Famer.

This leads me to a wedding I went to about a month ago. I was beautifully tuxedoed (Is that a word?), and greeting a whole host of people. I tried to remember the cardinal rule of weddings: "Kiss the guys, and shake hands with the women," or is the other way around?

My wife introduced me to this very good looking blond gentleman. He was about six foot, three inches tall, my age, with thinning hair and blue eyes.

My wife's introduction did not conform to her usual gracious style. Being married to the same woman for 31 years gives a guy subtle insights into the slightest deviations from the usual.

As we clasped hands, before I could say "John Havliceck," this guy had mauled five of my favorite digits and done irreparable damage to my right hand metacarpals.

The rest of the evening was spent exchanging inane chatter with the other three couples at our table. We all complained about our children, and how they were spoiled beyong redemption, but were all doing wonderful things that would change the course of world history.

This destructive blond guy was looking cross-eyed at my wife and fish-eyed at me. Being under the influence of the grape, I proceeded to take some outrageous stands and make wild observations. I was not totally out of control, but awfully close to it. I was obnoxious, but actually it felt good, as it was my wife's side of the family, not mine.

We made our goodbyes, but it seemed this blonde guy and my wife were taking an awful long time with their farewells. A lot of sincerity was emanating from those "baby blues" in the direction of my beautiful wife.

However, since I was occupying another nearby planet for most of this wedding, a lot of what happened was beyond my comprehension.

In the taxi, on the way to the airport, my wife detonated a nuclear explosion. In the most off-handed of manners, she asked, "Do you remember that blond fellow at our table?" (I licked my damaged right paw to prove I did remember him.)

"Well, I used to date him."

"In fact, about 32 years ago he asked me to marry him. We were quite an item."

My eyes glazed over, and I looked away from my sore hand and I stared incredulously at my spouse.

"Why the heck didn't you tell me during the wedding?" said I, casting good taste to the winds.

"I wasn't sure how you would act," said my wife of 31 years.

As I sat in the back of the cab, with my black bowtie askew, my white ruffled shirt in my pants for about 180 degrees, and legally drunk, I, too, wondered how I would have acted if my wife had told me about "Mr. Blue Eyes" during the wedding.

Maybe I would have squeezed back, even harder.

Naah.