Well, it’s almost that time again. I’d almost forgotten about football season, to be honest, until the Mayor pulled up in his car the other day while I was tending my herb garden, honked his horn and shouted, “Watson! Let’s take a trip down memory lane!”
The Mayor’s trips down memory lane are legendary in this part of town, and this one was no exception. My herbs had to wait another day. Having made a brief visit to a certain, er, gentleman’s club downtown to pick up some lady friends of his, we installed ourselves in his plush private theater and he brought out a stack of DVDs to play on his six-foot television screen, with surround sound. And once more the magic began.
We watched grainy shots of the original King of The Pass, Benny Friedman, the quarterback who blazed an unmatched touchdown trail with his pinpoint ability to spray effective balls around the field, followed by Bears fave Mike Ditka, who picked up passes like they were slow-moving balloons and drove the ball home to glory innumerable times.
But the highlight of the trip (not including the dancing) was the star-spangled athleticism of America’s Team – the Cowboys. From the immortal endeavors of Tex Scramm, who was responsible for the formation of the famous Cowboys Cheerleaders (funnily enough, one of the gals used to be one!), to the superlative quarterback Troy Aikman, the man whose arm of steel earned him six Pro-Bowl selections, and whose “search for the perfect woman” rendered him one of sport’s most eligible bachelors, we reveled and relished and generally fell about in paroxysms of joy at the magic of pro-football. Running back Emmit Smith, the league's all-time rushing yardage leader, made an inevitable appearance, and the Mayor became quite uncontrollable as he roared and cheered at the screen, as one of the ladies was bopped violently on his lap. To be fair, she appeared to be quite used to such treatment, and was herself whooping with some considerable enthusiasm.
Presently, the Mayor was forced to call a halt to proceedings, as he had a charity function to attend, so he dropped the gals and I back at the gentleman's club, and disappeared, to cut a rope with scissors, or smash a bottle of bubbly against the side of a ship, or something. Fortunately it was Happy Hour, and we managed a good few Sex on the Beaches, Strawberry Daiquiris, and Slippery Nipples, before he reappeared, looking very wholesome and good as a result of his contribution to the furtherance of mankind. He had a big, fresh wad of cash, too, so we moved on to an all-night club. Happy days...
I still look back with fondness to my time at Harvard Medical School, when we’d trek down to Foxboro in an old Chevy, to watch quarterback Steve Grogan demolish the opposition, and set up his own Pats records for passes and touchdowns. Football season is a magical time, and I can feel my bones tingling with anticipation right now as I write these words. The stadium, the atmosphere, tailgate parties, the glamor and glitz of the big game when the cheerleaders and the athletes come loping out coolly in their snazzy uniforms and shining helmets, the whole kit and caboodle simply has me hooked! I’ll be heading to Foxboro myself very soon, and doubtless you’ll be heading to your own local theater of dreams. God bless you all, for football is about more than winning, it is about living. Cheers.
