Pro Football and Me
September 12, , 2002
Here now are some of my favorite remembrances of Pro Football.
Hey, I think I just found a quarter! (The Early Years)
My brother Greg and I got an early start into strategic planning long before either of us entered the real world. We practiced the art of espionage long before we were old enough to enlist. With one of us acting as lookout, the other would raid our older brothers' beds every chance we got for any loose change that may have dropped to the floor as they slept or fell from their pants as they lay slung over a chair. It was a beautiful exercise and very enriching on most occasions.
And what would we do with our newfound wealth? Well, depending on the time of year, we would either buy Wiffle balls, Tastykakes or sports cards.
You name the sport, we had the cards. But clearly the most-cherished, most-prized were the Football cards.
Do the names Rick Volk, Randy Vataha, Tommy Nobis, Howard Twilley or John Didion mean anything to you? They certainly do to me.
These are just some of the names that my eyes scanned as I opened yet another pack of Topps Football cards, circa early-mid 1970's.
Rick Volk, Colts. Got him. Randy Vataha, Patriots. Need him. And on it went. For each and every pack I opened, I would go through the same laundry-list of "got him and need him's."
Course you had to have two separate piles. One for the "got him's" and one for the "need him's." The reason for that is quite elementary. You used the "got him" pile or "doubles" to acquire those still outstanding from the "need him" pile.
And just how did you acquire those on the much-desired needed list? By playing "Flip" of course. Duh!
What is Flip you ask? Well it is a tradition dating back hundreds of thousands of years. I think it started when young Joshua needed a Moses card and had some extra Peters and Pauls to throw around. So he got the other young Romans together and asked them to meet them at a wall. No, not the Wailing Wall.
You see Flip, or whatever name you may know it by, is played against a wall. Each player starts by throwing a card, from his double pile of course � against the wall. If one of your cards lands on another or others, you get those cards! If you re-acquire doubles, you simply use them again to garner your need its.
Flip can also get a little testy at times. In fact, lifelong friendships have been severed over some slight-of-hand tactics that are utilized by unscrupulous people.
And open lines of communication are not always a good thing.
For example. Your best friend (or so you thought) knows full well that you need a Speedy Duncan card to complete your full compliment of Washington Redskins. And you know that he has doubles of the aforementioned Mr. Duncan, but won't trade one to you!
At the next Flip session, you catch your best friend trying to sneak one of his Speedy Duncan doubles into the mix.
"Do you believe that? He'd rather use his doubles in Flip than trade one to me" you think to yourself.
What recourse do you have? Why you simply take out one of your six Bob Kuechenberg cards �the same Bob Kuechenberg that your friend needs as much as you need one of his Duncans (but that's completely different) � and try your best land on Speedy!
Flip was played during the daylight hours. Cause when nightfall hit, there was homework to be done and�
Sunday nights. Raiders. Chargers. Enberg. Olsen. Does it get any better than that? Well the fact was, you knew when that 4:00 game was over, it was pretty much the night. And worst of all, it was back to school the next day. Ugh!
But still, those West Coast games were great. And if they went into Overtime, whoo-hoo!!!
Yet another fond early memory of mine is playing football in the back drive. I lived in a row house in Northeast Philly and the back drive connected the 400 blocks of Van Kirk and Alcott Streets.
Just about every day in the fall/winter, we would play football (hockey snuck in there sometimes too but that�s for another time).
Now we wouldn�t play tackle. Just two-hand touch. We're talking concrete here. Stone. Concussions. Skinned knees. Pain. You get the idea.
We would all wear our favorite jerseys. Mine? Number 88. Minnesota Vikings. Alan Page. Was I a big fan of the Vikes? Nah, not really. I just liked the colors.
I swear to you every time I feel the first chill of the fall, I am instantly taken back to those games in the back drive.
Wonder where I can get a double-XL Vikings jersey #88?
Walk Like a Man (The Kid Grows Up, sort of)
As I got older, I developed a true appreciation for the sport. From the absolute refuse-to-lose attitude of Joe Montana and John Elway to the pure athleticism of Walter Payton and Jerry Rice, watching Pro Football took on a whole new meaning.
I watched as so many Super Bowls came and went and the best thing I could say about the competitive nature of the game was, I went undefeated in the Bud Bowl.
As I hit my twenties to right up to about the time I had my first child (35), the "Live-And-Die" lifestyle took over. If my Birds won, the week was great. The air was sweeter. Food tasted better. Didn't mind going to work cause I could a) share in the Birds W with the rest of the Iggles fans and b) rub it in the faces of those who dared to oppose my team. Particularly sweet was when we beat the Dallas Cowboys. Life is good.
If they lost, I died right along with them and my week was not so peachy. Suddenly the drive to work took forever. My fuse grew ever shorter. If someone had the audacity to cut me off, I wanted blood! It is quite ridiculous and idiotic to have one's happiness contingent on whether or not a football team wins or loses, but� that is exactly the mentality of the majority of sports fans in general � but it is even more commonplace amongst Pro Football fans.
For some reason however, this way of thinking is more prevalent in Pro Football than any other sport. I can't imagine Los Angeles Clippers fans come to work after a loss the same way say, Pittsburgh Steelers fans do. The Clippers losing game #53 in yet another seemingly endless season just doesn't evoke the same fire and passion than a crucial loss by the Steelers in week 13.
But I digress.
Nowadays my Sundays are spent watching my beloved Eagles with a very good friend of mine, Mark Quinlan. Occasionally we will both lapse and fall off the wagon. The Eagles need one yard for a 1st down. They go for it on 4th Down and don�t make it. And all hell breaks loose.
"McNabb stinks. I'd trade him right now straight up for Steve Buerlein." "How the hell could they not get one freakin' yard!!??" "Thrash couldn't catch a cold!"
Jeezus, I just realized I sound just like my father! (may he rest in peace)
True story: Sitting in his favorite chair, he is watching a Phillies game and they were leading something like 17-4, in the 8th inning. I believe they were playing the New York Mets at the Vet.
Did I mention the score was 17-4?!
I sat down after just having come home from work. I say "Dad, how they doin?" I got the Joe Olenski default, standard answer of "they stink." Now keep in mind this is before the advent of the scoreboards appearing on-screen in the upper corner. So I had no way of knowing the score until Harry or Whitey told me.
The inning ends and I see the score. "Dad, they're up 17-4 with one inning to go. What'ya mean they stink?"
"Well you haven't been watching the whole game, they should be up 30." He says it so deadpan. "And Schmidt, he stinks. I'd trade him tomorrow."
"Why Dad, what did he do?"
"Ah, he's a bum."
"Oh, thanks for clearing that up Dad."
I wonder if there's any kind of retroactive therapy I could get to aid me during those times when I am somehow transformed into my father.
Calling Dr. Bombay, come in Dr. Bombay�