Monday Night Football

I still watch, but I don’t really care anymore.  Honestly, the only reason I follow NFL football at all is to see how my fantasy team is doing.  I’ve already won this week so, who cares. 

I remember Monday Night Football as the ultimate exclamation point on the long weekend that was always so rudely interrupted by work on Monday.  Mondays were only tolerable then because I knew I had MNF to look forward to – young, single, drunken guys being social without drama.  This was after California and before marriage #1 failed.  That perfect window in my life when I was just old enough to still be barely cool enough to qualify but not quite old enough to know any better (or have any reason why I should).  At that point, Hooterville was mine for the taking. And I did partake.  (I had a red convertible LeBaron – duh, winning!)

Seriously, I remember hanging out with my boys, Little Gene, Ja Man, Jay, AM.  That was the core, but there was always a full house.  We usually watched at Gene’s duplex off Jefferson. (Earlier in our life our good friend Stanford Green lost his life on that street.) We would alternate who was in charge of supper.  If it was my turn I cooked chili. When the rotation brought the crew to my shoe box apartment on Washington Street, AM always made his feelings on the quality of my television well known.  (Incessantly! - I still have that TV bro: watching that tiny sucker right now actually.) Little Gene always cooked “Dorito Chicken”.  Ja Man grilled deer meat in some form.  Griff never cooked a damn thing because he wouldn’t show up until the third quarter and Ant ordered pizza (rip-off).

There was always a wager of some sort, but the best was the side bets.  “I got a George that says Deion Sanders scores on the opening kickoff.” “I got five that’s yours if Ricky ‘Running’ Waters doesn’t score before halftime.”  “I got a dollar bill guaranteeing Dan Dierdorf says something stupid before the end of the first quarter.” (Nobody ever took that bet.)

Pure.

Simple. 

Stupid. 

Perfect.

Watching Monday Night Football tonight and thinking about those days I couldn’t tell you where a single one of those cats are and what they are doing with their lives.  That’s sad.  Little Gene was like a brother to me for all of the time I did in that town.  That dude was in my wedding.  I was in at least one of his.  We saw Ozzy.  We saw Metallica. We discovered Tora Tora, Rock City Angels and always disagreed on how important the KISS solo albums were. We saw the “Prince of Darkness” himself, Alice ‘Freaking’ Cooper! (And every other band that mattered.)  Little Gene is the guy that made me realize what a freakish talent Cliff Burton was.  We quit football at the same time, for the same reason. (Coach Allen didn’t like long-hairs.)  We went to hell and back again in that blue Cutlass Supreme of his.  I could not tell you where he is tonight. 

That sucks. It’s regrettable that I haven’t done my part to stay connected to my past.

But hey, he hasn’t either. 

I do miss those days.  I miss that time before I got so caught up in my own life and my own ambition that I could barely even see my own life.  It’s not like this is some great epiphany I’m having – I just don’t think about it much.  I miss those guys; that reckless abandon, that ‘today matters’ feeling, that whole time in my life.

Pure.

Simple.

Stupid.

Perfect.

I raise a glass to each of you tonight, my friends. And for what it’s worth, I’ve got (5) bones that says Tony Romo finds a way to lose this game.