“Turnover, Turnover, Turnover!”

Dearest Rachel –

While you weren’t generally interested in watching sportsball games with me (a fact that ultimately led me to give up watching such contests regularly, as I discovered that it was no fun to do so without being able to comment about the game to someone equally knowledgeable about the on field activities; which is why I still enjoyed the Thanksgiving games I would watch with Dad and my brother-in-law Bill), you understood the drama inherent in championship games, in particular. You stayed up with me to watch the Cubs win their first World Series in over a hundred years (and encouraged me to call up Dad – despite it being after midnight – to let him know the result when it was finally settled, and even was the one to suggest planting a “W” flag on my grandmother’s grave, knowing from stories the family would tell that she was a superfan in the day.

Likewise, you recognized the impact on the cultural zeitgeist of events such as the Super Bowl. While you never got to see our local team win that (although they did play it once during our marriage – and lost), it was you who made a point of taping each of those games, albeit more for the commercials than the game itself, since for the longest time, it was known for being such a television holiday that ad campaigns considered it a ‘make-or-break’ moment to pull out all the stops, given the number of eyes on the screen at such a moment. It’s rather ironic that, these days, those ads are as likely as not to be released on YouTube prior to the game (and kept up there in perpetuity), so that they can be watched at any time, rendering your recording efforts not only moot, but of lower quality than what can be found online. Still, I can’t bring myself to get rid of your hard work – and you know I’m not going to record over them.

The point being, while sports were never anything that piqued your interest, especially as a spectator, you could comprehend their significance to a man’s life, and would understand a dream of being in the Big Game of any sport as a dream that any man might have, if only of the daydream variety. So if I were to tell you that I found myself playing in the Super Bowl in an actual dream, I’m sure you would be eager to hear about it, as we would lay there in bed together. Indeed, the first thing I imagine you would ask would be along the lines of “Did you win?” at what point you’d likely give me a kiss on the cheek when I answered in the affirmative. You might even add another kiss or two were I to tell you that I was instrumental in several scoring plays.

However, there are a few caveats to all this.

For one, I was playing for the Green Bay Packers – the sworn enemy of our local Bears, not that it really matters this particular season, as both teams are downright awful. In fact, their awfulness might explain my presence there; a team wouldn’t hire an old guy like me unless they were pretty desperate. As for me, while I might find myself appalled to be playing for what all my life I would have considered to be ‘the enemy,’ I would have had to accept that, if you’re going to play in the big leagues, you can’t be too picky about where and for whom you play, unless you’re just that good that you can write your own ticket – John Elway, the original “slow white Bronco” before O.J. Simpson was anything more than a Hall of Fame football player in his own right, outright refused to be drafted by the Baltimore Colts, and instead made a name for himself in Denver, but his story was an exception that proved the rule – and that situation certainly didn’t apply to me.

Moreover, I was pretty sure that, given the circumstances, I was part of the third- or fourth-string defenders, as by the time I had a chance to contribute to the Pack’s tally against the Chargers (yep, it was golden yellow versus powder blue out there on the field), it was late in the game and the score was such that another touchdown or two really didn’t matter all that much. In fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s generally considered rather gauche in the professional leagues to run up the score on an opponent, as it’s just not done like it is from time to time in college ball. I don’t know if it’s an unwritten rule, or that at the professional level, teams have a certain amount of parity that college lacks, but it doesn’t usually happen there.

But for whatever reason, despite being brought in to give the marquee players a breather (as well as, supposedly, to go easier on the Chargers), San Diego’s – I’m pretty sure they moved to L.A. before you left, but we’d both still think of them as the San Diego Chargers – offensive line was such that I and several of my fellow linebackers had no particular difficulty getting past them to take out either the quarterback or, if he’d handed off the ball already, the running back. And, much like at the Olympia Diner, one major key in football is that “you gotta have turnover, turnover, turnover!” If you get the other team to cough up the ball (and, equally important, if you can pick it up yourself), that will almost guarantee victory, as long as your offense doesn’t lose the ball in turn.

And I recall knocking the ball out of someone’s hands, allowing one of my teammates to perform a “scoop-and-score,” while at another point last night had me as the one picking up the ball and running it in for a touchdown. I’m not sure which came first, but by the time both events had transpired, the score was something along the lines of 82-14, or something equally ridiculous. So yeah, I made a couple contributions to the game, but at that point in it, it really didn’t matter much. Everyone but the most partisan Green Bay fans would have probably long since switched off the game (which, to be fair, would have included a significant portion of our church’s membership, including much of the pastoral staff).

Then again, this was a dream; I was its only real viewer, as well as a participant. Still, you might have appreciated it for the interesting story that it was. Hope you found it at least somewhat amusing, honey.

Until later, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.