Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [36]
On a cold December afternoon, as the Redskins were making a push for the playoffs and the thrill of post-season possibilities lifted us poor success-starved fans into a state of high anxiety, O’Reilly had a change of heart. How he had come around to accept me as a person, he never did say, but he reached into his pocket, withdrew his flask, took a swig, and tapped me on the elbow with the back of his hand. Without saying a word, he handed me his flask of Irish whiskey.
Everyone in the row behind us, including his daughter and son-in-law, who had been watching us with concern for years, rejoiced.
For me, it was a personal triumph. From then on, I had a pal with whom to discuss the events on the field. Girlfriends complained that he and I wouldn’t shut up the entire game.
We had a lot to talk about.
Older than me by thirty years, O’Reilly had listened to the exploits of Sammy Baugh on the radio. He followed Otto Graham, Sid Luckman, Cliff Battles, and Curly Lambeau. Together we watched as Fran Tarkenton, playing for the Giants, was sacked inside his five-yard line, right in front of us. Peevish as ever, he stood up and bounced the ball off the back of big defensive end Jimmy Jones’s head. Diron Talbert, Manny Sistrunk, and Ron McDole, three members of the famed Over the Hill Gang, turned and pounced on him. Tarkenton was small, even for a quarterback. It wasn’t pretty.
From that corner of the stadium, I saw Y. A. Tittle, Terry Bradshaw, Don Meredith, Johnny Unitas, Earl Morrall, Joe Montana, Billy Kilmer, Frank Ryan, Norman Snead, John Brodie, Phil Simms, Dan Marino, Randall Cunningham, Roman Gabriel, Brett Favre, Bart Starr, Ron Jaworski, and Joe Theismann.
Roger Staubach had perfect aim, perfect speed, perfect poise, perfect bloody everything. We hated him for being a Cowboy, and for being so damned perfect.
Sonny Jurgensen would get down on one knee in the huddle and pluck at the grass as he instructed his men, making up the play on the spot. As the play clock wound down, our hearts would leap into our throats. Is he going to Charley Taylor? Jerry Smith? Bobby Mitchell? You have to be damn good to make the Hall of Fame from a losing team. Those who saw Sonny play will never forget his marvelously unpredictable play-calling, the perfect spirals, his timing, the soft touch, accuracy, and his courage as he stood in and took a beating to deliver the ball. His limited play at the end of his career, his feud with Coach Allen, and his eventual retirement were sad events for us. And for the rest of our football lives, we would compare every quarterback thereafter to him. None of them measured up, not even close.
I remember that the air in the stadium smelled sweet with a mixture of hot chocolate, pipes, cigars, hot dogs, and beer, the perfect aromas for a football stadium. The team had a rowdy marching band dressed like Indian chiefs, and an equally rowdy group of barrel-chested male choral singers who wore burgundy blazers. Both inhabited one corner of the stadium and played their marches and sang their songs while swaying back and forth like a battalion of drunken Muppets. We listened through a tinny public address system and drowned them out as we sang along. Autumn twilight would dim the field and big lights atop the stadium would come on in stages, reflecting off the burgundy helmets, the sights and smells and sounds creating a sensual ambiance that lingers through time. The fall color NFL uniforms of dark mustard gold and burgundy, the other teams in white with hints of green or blue or silver, made the chill in the air warm with promise, and, as the clock ticked down and the sun faded and the temperature began to drop, so did the excitement heighten as season after season swelled, ebbed, crested, then slipped away. There were no TV screens in the stadium, and so every play was memorized by those in attendance. We would have to wait for the brief repeated highlights