There are times when a man has to rise up and be counted. To make a stand for what he believes in. Such was the case for me one crisp autumn afternoon in the not so distant past at a place known, ironically enough, as Giants Stadium. It was late in the third quarter and the Jets were clinging to a slim lead over the Colts, however, the Colts had momentum on their side. The Jet quarterback had just been sacked on successive plays and I sensed it was only a matter of time. The acrid stench of defeat was hanging thick in the air. It was a familiar smell. By the way, you may wonder why I generically used the term, “the Jet quarterback”, rather than being specific as to his name. You see, the truth is, the name is unimportant because this story could be taking place anytime over the last 20 years (18 to be more specific since I already mentioned the Meadowlands) from the Ken O’Brien period which followed the fall of the Todd dynasty, through the Browning Nagle experiment and right up to the present day Testaverde era. The point is, the Jet ship was taking on water and sinking fast. Sinking like I had sat back and watched it sink so many times before in that God forsaken swamp land. Well this was a day when I wasn’t going sit back helplessly and watch yet another one slip away.
With the ball spotted at the Jet 28 yard line, I had a revelation and realized it was time for me to be counted. I took one last swig of my beer and then gently handed it to the guy sitting next to me. In a soft loving voice I said to him, “Take good care of her for me, will you?” You probably think that sounds crazy, right? Let me tell you, it was about the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do, but there are times when a man needs to put his own well being aside and look to the greater good. So, determined and drunk, I hopped over the retaining wall and darted onto the field of play. I reached the line of scrimmage before the Jets even broke the huddle and with the effortless grace of a drunken fat guy I scooped up the ball. Thankfully, “Mad Dog” Mike Curtis had long since retired and the Colt defenders on the field basically ignored me. The same cannot be said for stadium security. (By the way, I hope folks get that Mike Curtis reference. He was the crazy Colt linebacker who nearly decapitated some drunken fan who, in the early 1970’s, ran onto the field and grabbed the football from the line of scrimmage.)
Anyway, after picking up the ball, I looked for daylight up the middle, however, several security personnel had come up to fill the running lanes. They were converging on me fast. I managed to stiff arm my way out of one attempted arm tackle and gracefully spun out of another. Then, just before being engulfed, I made a quick cut and bounced it to the outside. Amazingly, considering I’ve always thought of myself as more of a plodding North/South type runner, I was able to turn the corner and began making my way up the right sideline. I knew that I couldn’t outrun security all the way to the end zone, not with my 8.6 forty yard dash speed anyhow. But then it happened. As I slowly made my way past the Jets bench, I spotted one Mo Lewis standing by the water cooler. Now I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but I happened to be wearing his replica jersey at the time. (I’m aware that this Mo Lewis reference dates the story to within the last 10 seasons, but that’s something I’m willing to accept.) Anyhow, as I passed by Mo, the two of us briefly made eye contact. In what can only be described as one of those magical moments, I gave him a wink as if to say, “This one’s for you Buddy.” Just then, in that split second suspended in time, I noticed a sparkle come to his eye and a faint smile unmistakably appear on his face. It was not unlike the look of a proud father as he watches his son get his first little league hit.
Suddenly, a feeling came over me. You could call it a sense of absolute resolve brought on by Mo’s fatherly-like glance. I just couldn’t let that man down. Simply put, I was not going to be denied. Running down the sideline I felt myself kick it into another gear, a gear I never realized I possessed. Oh yes, if you could have clocked me in the forty down the sideline that day, I’m quite sure you would have gotten a time in the low 7 point something range. For all intents and purposes I was flying. As I glanced back to my left I could see that this sudden burst of drunken speed had surprised the security personnel in their pursuit. Most of them had taken bad angles and were not going to catch me. In fact, as I raced inside the Colt 25 I saw that there was just one man to beat. But alas, that one man was a darn quick one. I wasn’t going to make it. I guess it was at about the five yard line when he made contact with me. I struggled mightily to keep my balance and tip toe into the end zone, however, the momentum of his blow was carrying me hopelessly out of bounds. I was left with no alternative but to leave my feet, which is always an iffy proposition for an intoxicated man. Then, when all seemed lost, I did something you would never think a heavy set drunk fella could ever do.
As I lunged into the air, my body angling out of bounds, I displayed uncanny drunken ball handling skills and with a single fluid motion switched the ball from my right arm to my left, meanwhile extending that left arm away from my body and toward the pylon. It was not until I felt the soft sweet touch of that pylon against the football, still extended out in my left hand, that I realized I had reached the promised land. My body fell well outside the lines, but by God, the ball had crossed the plain. As I picked myself up off the turf, I was overcome with an urge to break into a Laverneaus Coles style head bobbing chicken dance to celebrate the score, but then I remembered those wise words, “Act like you’ve been there before.” I don’t know who it was that said that, but it’s a pretty cool quote nonetheless. So I avoided the peacock like display and casually flipped the ball to the official who had followed the play down the field. Then I went to do that thing where you point up to the sky, I guess to thank the Lord and whatnot, but before my arm was fully raised I was swarmed under by a sea of yellow jacketed security personnel.
In the end, the play was waived off and the ball was unceremoniously returned to the original line of scrimmage. In my opinion, this ruling on the field was nothing more than a senseless slap in a drunken man’s face and, of course, it was extremely disheartening to me. I remember thinking at the time, “So this is the thanks I get.” They didn’t even give me the dignity of reviewing the play, that is, despite the fact that I had actually managed to squirm free from security long enough to throw out the red flag. That’s right, I always carry one with me for just these sort of circumstances. (By the way, to prevent the further shortening of the possible time frame for this story, please ignore this reference to the only fairly recently instituted phenomenon of instant replay. Oh yes, and my mentioning of Laverneaus Coles should also be stricken from the record.) Anyway, despite all that and the long night I had to spend in the slammer “sobering up”, I felt lucky overall. I mean, it was such a small price to pay for one shining moment of gridiron glory. I had proven once and for all that a single drunken fan with the guts to stand up and be counted, really can make a difference. It’s like they always say, you can take away a drunken guy’s apparent touchdown, but you can never steal away his spirit. That is not to be confused with his spirits, which naturally, will be confiscated at the gate unless he’s able hide the bottle real well. Down the pant leg and tucked into the sock is always a good spot, by the way.
