TB FIN

Feel free to show up at Orchard Park at 10:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving but know this: There will be no Turkey Bowl game this year. Repeat: No Turkey Bowl this year. Or next year, for that matter. The beloved Turkey Bowl has ceased operations.

Yes, I’ll get into details. But you also need to understand, dear reader, that for the past two weeks I have been under the influence of Tramadol, an opioid used for moderate to severe pain. This entry is brought to you by Tramadol.

The days of rolling out of bed and heading down to Orchard to get clarity on what happened last night while continuing to party on Thanksgiving morning are long gone. So are the days of packing the kids in the car and driving down to New Jersey to keep this vaunted tradition alive.

Two weeks ago, I had my right knee replaced. They say the first two weeks after a knee replacement suck, and that’s precisely where I am right now, acting as the mayor of suckville. I know what you’re thinking: it will be worth it because I’ll feel so much better, and you know this because you’ve had a knee replacement, or you know someone who’s had one. And I appreciate those sentiments. But currently, the highlight of my day is going for a five-minute, crutch-assisted walk outside. I have an elaborate set of precise-but-painful exercises to do three times a day, and when I’m not doing those, I’m lying on the couch with my knee elevated and covered with a spaced-aged cuff that circulates hyper-chilled water over my leg. But my knee still has that new-knee smell.

How did I end up here and what does this have to do with the Turkey Bowl?

Last year, I took a break from the Turkey Bowl. I handed the reins to Doug MacDonald and explained that I wouldn’t be driving to New Jersey; I’d be spending the day in western Massachusetts instead. And that’s what I did. I got up early on Thanksgiving morning, ran a 5-mile Turkey Trot, and then came home and started cooking the meal. It was awesome. A few weeks earlier, I’d run a half marathon. I was working with a running coach. I was thinking about training for one last marathon. I was feeling good, I was feeling in shape.

And then after the holidays, I went to my Fantasy Football League’s Banquet, which was held at the local country club. (We so fancy ‘round here.)

As part of the festivities, we played golf. Simulated golf. In the golf simulator. And while playing, I dislocated and broke my patella. I 100% do not recommend. I wasn’t even swinging a club when it happened. I was just…walking. And if you’re wondering how much walking you do while playing simulated golf, it’s a lot less than you’d think. I 100% do not recommend that anyone do this while playing golf, simulated or otherwise.

Tramadol comes with a lot of warnings. Don’t drive while taking. Don’t combine with alcohol. It should have a warning about how if you’re going to do any long form writing projects while on Tramadol, you’re strongly advised to hire an editor.

After the injury, I went to see my friendly orthopedist, Jonathan. He said it was time for me to think about a knee replacement and arranged for me to see the knee replacement specialist. The specialist told me that no one, medically speaking, needs a knee replacement. Instead, he said, it’s all about my quality of life. But I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t say that I didn’t need a knee replacement. And here I am.

Here are some things I have to give up now : Running. Not setting off the metal detector at the airport. Tramadol, at some point. And the Turkey Bowl.

It’s time. Alice from Alice’s Restaurant just passed away, after all. I’d rather end it while I can walk (limp) away.

Here are some not-at-all-made-up stats about the Turkey Bow that show its impact on our lives.  

• Number of years the TB existed: 40
• Total number of Most Dominant Force winners: 36
• Total Number of participates: 160
• Total number of family dinner impacted by the game: 486
• Total number of Taylor Ham sandwiches eaten by players during the game: 383
• Total number of ambulance visits to the field: 1
• Total number of views of a Youtube video after searching “how to put a shoulder joint back into place”: 3

 

Yes, I’m said that the Turkey Bowl is over. But I’m thankful for the amazing group of friends and families who’ve not only played year after year but who’ve juggled their own families’ commitments around the Turkey Bowl.

I’m thankful for the Orchard Park neighbors who’ve created their own tradition. I like to think that we inspired them.

I’m thankful for Gefken’s Flowers and their generous donation of land that made it possible for that small park to hold two football games at the same time while at the same time I wonder how many bidi clove cigarettes are buried under there.

I’m grateful for Texas Weiner and their outstanding, under-the-radar Taylor ham sandwiches.

I’m grateful for everyone who’s ever played or shown up for one of our games.

I’m thankful for anyone who’s talked about the Turkey Bowl at their Thanksgiving Dinner. The game will live on in the stories we share about it.

A number of years ago, Mr. Hogenauer stopped by the game. He asked each of us to introduce ourselves to him, because he’d forgotten many of our names. We obliged, of course, and as each of us introduced ourselves, Mr. Hogenauer’s eyes lit up with remembrance and wonder that we were still getting together every year to play.

Yes, that’s not going to happen anymore. But times change, and so do people. And it’s time for this tradition to change, too. Everyone is now free to go on their own missionary year for the Turkey Bowl and see what develops.

Speaking of developing, I like this time of year because all of these post-game photos from previous years pop up on Facebook. Like this one from yesteryear.

 

Because I’ve got a lot of time on my hands and because I’m on painkillers, I decided to see what AI could do in creating a post-game picture. I asked it to make a picture of 13 people posing for a picture after playing a touch football game. They are outside, many of them are wearing football jerseys and five are holding bottles of beer. Here’s what it came up with:

 

 

They look pretty happy, right? It’s not until you look more closely that the true horror of this picture reveals itself. The light pole thing next to the shirtless guy. The guy with the bottle finger. The bloody mouth on that one guy. How everyone looks so borg-like.

If you look more closely at the real picture, you’ll see that heart and souls and positivity of everyone in the picture. The Turkey Bowl never tried to be more than it was, a group of friends getting together to celebrate friends getting together. We have heart and soul that AI will ever have, even if this particular tradition is over.

The days of rolling out of bed and heading down to Orchard to get clarity on what happened last night while continuing to party on Thanksgiving morning are long gone. So are the days of packing the kids in the car and driving down to New Jersey to keep this vaunted tradition alive.

There’s no plaque. No monument to commemorate what we were all a part of. While it would be cool if we just put a rock there one day, I’m okay with there not being anything left behind, other than the people in the upper field game who will wonder for a few years what happened to us, and then if we’re lucky we’ll just be background to some of their football stories.

I’ll miss the walk down the path into Orchard. I aways hope that there’s someone there before me, because of that one year when there was a game on the lower field, too. I always feel like an interloper and I worry that someone has snaked our field.

I’ll miss that moment in the huddle when I realize that I’m another year older and the game has just started and the opponents are taking it very seriously. Oh, and no one has any idea what play to run. And it’s only our third play. Every year I would tell myself that I should spend some time coming up with some plays. That never happened.  

Finally,  I’ll say it loudly and clearly: the “kids” are the better team now.

Peace to everyone and be sure to share a Turkey Bowl story at your dinner table.

 

Turkey Bowl 39

 

When the sun rises on Thanksgiving this year, I won’t be in a car driving down Route 91 South in Massachusetts heading for the Tappan Zee bridge. I won’t be boring Sam and Owen with a rendition of the South Mountain Elementary School Song before we do a quick tour of the old West End neighborhood in South Orange and then park in front of a house that costs about a million dollars (20 DeHart sold in August for over $1 million). I won’t be hoping that I remembered the cones that that someone brought a football and that whoever won the MVP last year remembered to bring the trophy. And I won’t be anxious as I walk into Orchard Park that our field will be occupied by actual neighborhood residents I will have to negotiate with to play our game.

 This year, I’m cooking Thanksgiving Dinner for the first time in my life. It’s time. 

For the past 50 years or so, South Orange and Maplewood have been the epicenter of Thanksgiving for me. I haven’t lived in either of those towns for over 20 years. Luckily, I have a brother in Chatham and a brother in South Orange, so I still have strong ties to the area that go beyond Leslie at Bunny’s still recognizing me, even if she doesn’t know my first name. Some years, one of my brothers will invite me and whichever of my kids joins me for the Turkey Bowl to Thanksgiving when I’m in town. Sometimes, but not always.

 The Turkey Bowl started when a group of guys from Columbia High School met at Memorial Park in Maplewood to play some football. The game was tackle. That’s because we were tougher then, in 1983, when you could buy leaded gas, you didn’t have to wear seatbelts if you didn’t want to, and the drinking age was 19. Oh, and you could smoke anywhere, including in restaurants and on planes. The next year, the game moved to Orchard Park, where it’s been played ever since. (Anyone remember when Amir showed up at Orchard a couple of years ago after looking for us in Memorial and he asked us how long we’ve been playing at Orchard?)

 The Turkey Bowl is an important tradition for me. I couldn’t even begin to explain all of the joy it’s given me. I can remember playing with the Basadile back in the day, and Glosh and Gefken and Dom, of course. I still remember vividly finding what is now the Most Dominant Force award while out riding my bike and then explaining to the local jeweler how I wanted it engraved. I’m still not completely over the year I stayed in Massachusetts because Owen was supposed to be born, but he wasn’t born until two weeks later. And who could forget the Wednesday night pre-game bashes at the Zoo Pub or O’Reilly’s, neither of which exists anymore?

 But I have a confession to make: Last year, when there was no game, I did a Turkey Trot 5k in Easthampton, where I live. It was a revelation. I woke up feeling great because I wasn’t up partying all night. I enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee in my easy chair, and then I walked to the starting line of the race. I saw Andrew, Lulu, and Jasper Kesin there. I ran the race, and then walked back home and enjoyed a pain-free and relaxing Thanksgiving. It was not a traditional Thanksgiving for me, but it felt right.

 Here’s what my Thanksgiving is usually like.   

 It begins early in the week, when I clean out my car and try to locate the Turkey Bowl cones, a football, and a pin to blow up the football. Over the years, my success rate for cones has been around 85%, but for footballs and pins, it’s much, much lower. Once I’ve either located those things or given up, I have to make sure my outfit is ready, and I also have to pack additional clothing for whatever I’m going to do after the Turkey Bowl.

 Sam and Owen sleep at my place on Wednesday night so that we’re ready to go in the morning. Departure time is 7:00 a.m. sharp, which is obviously not an ideal time for my kids who are now 20 and 24. Once we get in the car and hit the road, they pretty much immediately fall asleep while I search for Alice’s Restaurant on the radio at the top of every hour. Yes, I listen to the radio while I drive. I haven’t been able to shake that habit from when I would drive the Gefken’s delivery van, that first white minivan that Mr. G bought without a radio in it. Chris and I used to drive it with a portable transistor radio in the passenger seat. It might not have actually been a transistor radio, but I’m calling it that because it matches the absurdity of the situation. When I manage to find Alice’s Restaurant, I listen to it and chuckle at certain parts. I want Sam and Owen to appreciate the song, but honestly, it’s been twenty years at this point, and I don’t think that appreciation is going to happen.

 The ride down 91 to 84 to 684 across the Tappan Zee is pretty boring. I know there are other ways to go, but it’s tradition. Plus, I know where all the rest stops are on this route. I’ll stop almost every year at the Bedford rest stop on 684. Some years I’ll stop at the rest stop at the top of the Parkway.

 The mood perks up once we enter New Jersey, because we’re getting closer. Owen recently rewatched the Sopranos, so we’ll talk about landmarks from the show. Once we get off 280, we’ll tour the old neighborhood. I’ll point out Dom’s old house, John Nulty’s old house, and my old house. Then it’s off to Orchard Park.

 I have to admit, the walk into the park is nerve-wracking, because I never know who’s going to be there and whether the lower field will be empty or if I’ll have to fight for what’s ours. The best years are the ones where I get there after others have arrived and the Taylor Ham-egg-and-cheese sandwiches are congealing nicely in their deli paper. That’s when I’ll see Doug warming up with one or more of his kids, dropping passes until he gets the drop just the way he likes it. Nulty will be there, under the shelter, sipping something from a flask and saving his energy. Brian will be there looking svelte from his latest triathlon. Lars is often fashionably late, but he usually brings a crew with him, so no harm.

 No surprise, that’s the best part of the Turkey Bowl: reconnecting with old friends.

 Then the game starts. Here’s another confession: for the past 20 years or so, the game has terrified me. I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want other people to get hurt. I was too close to Bill Small when he broke his leg that one year. And I remember telling him a few years later that his leg soreness was probably nothing, only to find out later it was a torn Achilles, which pains me to even type.

The fear. I’m letting go of the fear I always experience at the Turkey Bowl. And there’s a lot of it. I live in fear of getting hurt. I live in fear of the police showing up while we’re drinking in the park. I live in fear that that other game will challenge us to a game. For a long time, I feared the year that the kids would beat the adults. I used to fear that Mike Nulty would finally put a complete game together, but I realized years ago that he’s more Tommy Devito than Tommy Brady.

 You may have heard that I had a heart attack in January. I’m doing great, thanks, and this decision has nothing to do with my heart. It’s more about my need to make new traditions for myself after a year of big changes. In January, I had a heart attack. In March, Sam moved back to Massachusetts from Oklahoma. In August we sold the house we bought when we first moved to Northampton. In September, I broke up with Kate. It’s been a year of challenges. I want to remember the year, as the year I made new traditions for myself. Unfortunately, the new tradition won’t involve Taylor Ham Egg and Cheese sandwiches. Man, I miss Taylor Ham.

 Plenty of people have gone on to live highly successful lives after retiring from the Turkey Bowl. Bill Small. Andrew Kesin. Rich Bayer. John Dimpel. Amir. Multiple Zusis. And I hope that they think fondly of  the game as I know all of the current players do. And I still consider myself as current player.

 What happens now? Well, by the power vested in me by me, I’m transferring the commissioner mantle to Doug McDonald. I am also naming myself Commissioner Emeritus, which means I can still make decisions if I want to, and I can come back to play anytime I want. Of course, anyone can come back and play anytime they want to. And I’m retaining the Newsletter authorship. You can’t get rid of me that easily.

I will make it back to Orchard one day. Just not this Thursday at 10:30 a.m. when the 39^th Turkey Bowl kicks off.

Have a great Thanksgiving, everyone! Enjoy the game or whatever you’re doing. Be well. I love you all.

Shelf, Commissioner Emeritus

Turkey Bowl 39: Hiatus Edition

You are hereby officially notified that you can sleep in on Thanksgiving. The Turkey Bowl is taking a hiatus in 2022.

You’re probably asking why. Read on. I don’t know if I have a great answer but yes, please read on. 

The first issue we face is one of numbers. Turkey-Bowl stalwart Brian O’Neill is in Ireland this Thanksgiving. He usually brings with him a passel of nephews. Actually, seeing the size of these nephews and their football skill (Go, St. Peter’s!), perhaps it’s best that I don’t have to face them this year.   

Equally stalwarty participant Doug MacDonald has suffered a leg injury that required surgery. He offered to referee, which is the Turkey Bowl equivalent of being a ghost baserunner. 

With Judy Faherty’s (this may be the first time I’ve mentioned an original’s mother by name in the newsletter, by the way) move to Massachusetts, Andrew Kesin no longer makes the annual trip to Orchard Park. 

Sam Shelffo has moved to Oklahoma and won’t be in New Jersey for Thanksgiving. 

I have no doubt that Lars would be there with his usual coterie of Vikings. 

But you can see where I’m going with this: we just didn’t have enough players. And we also don’t have a regular Taylor Ham supplier, with Kesin in Massachusetts. 

The second issue is acknowledging the elephant in the Orchard Park pines: I’m just feeling so freaking old these days. Just the thought of trying to make a cut to “tackle” one of the youngsters—who’s probably in his twenties or maybe even pushing 30—has me grabbing for the acetaminophen. The 500mg kind. 

Yes, I’m still running. I’m running a Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving, as a matter of fact. But I’ve realized I can only run in straight lines or very gentle curves. A sudden change in direction would have me in traction. Yes, I realize that everyone I’ve played against for the past decade knows this limitation in my game.  

 Which brings me to the third issue. We’re stuck at 38 Turkey Bowls. At the risk of boring everyone with maths, as the Brits might say, the first game happened in 1983. That means that the 2022 edition would be the 40^th, but we missed 2020 because of the pandemic. This year would have been the 39^th game, but now I’ve gone and ruined that. 

But that’s not the issue I’m referring to. 

A couple of days ago, I was discussing the Turkey Bowl with a Northampton friend who’s long admired this storied tradition. I told him that I don’t think it’s going to happen this year. He said that maybe the moment has passed for the Turkey Bowl. 

I’ll be honest, I’ve never thought about how the Turkey Bowl ends. Maybe that’s because I haven’t wanted to think that it might not last forever. But so much has changed since 1983. No one lives in South Orange or Maplewood anymore. I feel jealous when I see the substitutes the game on the upper field has every year, and how they all just walk to a house that borders the park for their dinner. 

Don’t get me wrong: I love the Turkey Bowl. Everyone who’s every participated in it has a place at my Thanksgiving dinner table. I’m not willing to call this is the end. 

This year, we’re simply taking a hiatus. Enjoy a pain-free dinner, everyone, and please post your favorite Turkey Bowl memory either here or to Facebook. 

I’ll go first: the way the Jameson chases the Taylor Ham just right.

Turkey Bowl 38

 

I know y’all been training!

 Anyone have any idea who the reigning MVP is? The answer will be at the end of this newsletter.

 Of course, we don’t do the Turkey Bowl for the glory (says that guy who’s never won MVP). We participate in the Turkey Bowl either because we have a deep belief in our ability to run, throw, and catch; or because we love the competition; or because we have to; or because after 38 years, we can’t think of anything else to do on Thanksgiving morning.

 That would be in a normal year. I know that 2021 is supposed to be all about returning to normal, but this Turkey Bowl doesn’t feel entirely normal. For one thing, there will be no Kesins playing this year. For those who aren’t aware, Judy Kesin has moved to western Massachusetts, so Andrew and Fam will be celebrating the holiday without a three-plus-hour drive. Yes, his absence severely hurts the adults’ chances this year. I called Draft Kings to get odds, and they laughed at me and hung up. However, I’m hopeful that a year off will help us.

 For another thing, this means that the responsibility for Taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches has been transferred to Doug MacDonald. Kesin has always been flashy on the field, but I’ve always appreciated the behind-the-scenes jobs he did for the Big Game: THEC, primary or back-up football, wee dram supply, and organizing the annual photo. I’m going to miss seeing his huge duffle bag sitting on the picnic table.

 For another another thing, there are just unknowns. As I’m typing this, I’m soothing my sore arm from my booster shot with a cheeky white wine. Two years ago, we didn’t think a lot about booster shots or viruses or masks or anti-vaxxers. We also didn’t think about how blessed we are to be able to get together every year and play and have fun. I’ve been thinking about the parallel game that happens at Orchard. I wonder if they played last year? I hope that they did. I’m also asking that only people who are fully vaccinated play this year in our game. We all want to be safe and keep our friends and families safe.

 In case anyone has forgotten, the game kicks off at 10:30 at Orchard Park in Maplewood, NJ. My thinking is that we’ll continue the recent tradition of kids vs. adults, but I have images of lopsided scores dancing through my head, so I’m reserving the right to mix things up at halftime. I’m hoping that Lars will be bringing some participants this year, but I also hope that he’s talked to them about how it’s great to show off one’s talent, but the true spirit of Thanksgiving lies in not showing up the opponents too badly. The same applies to Brian O’Neill’s nephews, who get bigger and stronger every year and who are now playing big-time football.

 I’ve written 38 Turkey Bowl newsletters. This is the first time I’ve asked for mercy.

 There will be hugs. There will be sore muscles. There will be smack talk. There will be smiles. Join us, even if you don’t want to play. One thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it’s just so great to see people we love these days.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 Request: Bring a ball if you have one. It would be embarrassing if we didn’t have one.

 Answer: The reigning MVP is Owen Shelffo, who had his knee drained on Monday by the orthopedist. I wasn’t there, but from what I understand it was kind of like the “Cut-me, Mick,” scene from Rocky.

 

 

Turkey Bowl 38:COVID Edition

 Turkey Bowl 38 is officially cancelled.

This really bums me out.

One of the many things I enjoy about the Turkey Bowl is that it’s a moment when the troubles of the world seem so far away. Orchard Park has always been an oasis, a bucolic piece of land in the middle of a busy town in the busiest state in the country where the problems of the world fall away and we can focus on the three C’s: CAMARADERIE, Taylor Ham egg and CHEESE, and CONSTANT prayer that no one gets hurt.

Wait, that’s not right. But I think you get the gist.

Here’s how I closed last year’s newsletter:

"I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be on Thanksgiving morning at 10:30 a.m., than at Orchard Park, sharing a cold beer and a warm Taylor Ham sandwich with people I love."

Oasis though it may be, Orchard Park can’t protect us from the virus, so we won’t be able to get together and laugh and catch up and share some Jersey delicacies, a beer or two, and maybe a wee dram. Over the years we’ve played in rain, snow, and extreme cold. I never imagined that we’d have to call off a game because of outside forces. During some of the dark years, when we scrambled to find enough people to play, I did imagine that the game might fade away from a lack of interest, but I never pictured THIS. We can’t share hugs and handshakes and disputed two-hand touches. We can’t share laughter and good-natured mockery. But we can—many of us—believe that the “adults” would have definitely won this year.

 Just another turd on the shit sundae that is 2020. Kate and I had to postpone our wedding, and now this. 

A few years ago, as some of you might remember, we had a distinguished visitor to the Turkey Bowl: Mr. Hogenauer, former Columbia High School teacher and resident of Maplewood for over 50 years. He died earlier this year from COVID. A former colleague of mine died from the same thing. This shit is real, people.  Wash your hands. Wear a mask. Stay safe.

It blows my mind that there are people out there who’ve let their worship of the Orange Mad Man and his crew of racist, plundering, lying opportunists suck out what little reason they may have had in their pea brains and now believe that it’s all a hoax. It depresses me even more that some of them grew up very close to Orchard Park and went to Columbia.

No, they didn’t play in the Turkey Bowl. Thank God.

No, Orchard Park isn’t the refuge that I thought it was.

This year we’ll have to take comfort in the memories we all carry of past glory. Tell these stories at your probably-smaller-than-usual Thanksgiving Dinners. Smile broadly. Embellish sparingly. Disparage lovingly. Laugh loudly. Be thankful.

Before that dinner, I invite everyone to a Zoom (shudder) kickoff at 10:30 a.m. (the traditional start time) on Thanksgiving morning. We can still lovingly insult each other and talk about how well we all would have played. It will be weird to see everyone and not walk away with some physical soreness. I guess the emotional soreness will have to do.

 Email me at ashelffo@gmail.com for the Zoom info.

 Gobble gobble and all that stuff.

 (Beware: I’ve already started training for next year.)

 

 

Turkey Bowl 37

Editor's note: Lars did, indeed, return the MDF Bowl. Just not to me. 

Let’s begin with the elephant in the room: Lars will not be playing in the Turkey Bowl this year. While not having Lars to lock down that all-important 3-yard circle five yards or so past the line of scrimmage, on the downhill side of the field, will be a difficult-enough challenge to overcome, the real problem is that he won’t be bringing with him the passel of nephews who’ve been the lifeblood of the Turkey Bowl for the past few years.

More egregious is that, as of this writing, he has not arranged to return to the Most Dominant Force Bowl, so that it can be awarded to this year’s outstanding player. That’s just poor form. However, without Lars’ kith and kin, the MDF race is wide open. Can Michael Nulty step up to the challenge with his Trubisky-esque ‘stache? Can Owen bounce back in his return from injury? Can Kesin just show a little athleticism for once?

The BIG NEWS is that the Commissioner got engaged in the off season!  Kate Myers’ spirited-and-successful debut at last year’s Turkey Bowl (who can forget this wily rugby vet’s willingness last year to lay her body out on the cold, hard Orchard Park turf!) sealed the deal. The nuptials will take place over the summer in the Finger Lakes. Stop by if you’re around. Dodger will be in the wedding party. If you haven’t met Dodger yet, you’re missing out on one of the cutest dogs around. Just ask Kate to see a picture. She might have one or two on her phone.

Speaking of cute dogs, the Nulty family just adopted Bea, a deaf, 12-year-old shih-tzu.

Look at this picture. If you can identify everyone in the picture, I’ll buy you a beer at Nulty’s Thanksgiving Party. I was able to identify everyone except for one person. I also have no idea who the photographer was. Kesin, perhaps, since he’s not in the picture? I would also love an explanation for why I’m wearing that hat. Best guess is this picture is from circa 1994, back in the tackle days. Everything in this picture reeks of optimism. Why else would Nulty be wearing that outfit?

Most of the people in this picture haven’t played in the Turkey Bowl in years, some more than twenty years. I used to get irritated when I’d run into past players, like at a high school reunion, and the subject of the Turkey Bowl would come up and they’d say, “Oh, are you still doing that thing?” As if the Turkey Bowl can be reduced to a thing. But now I look at pictures like this and I think about how great it is that we’ve had so many people experience this great tradition over the years. I imagine that at least one of these people, one of the ones whose names have been lost to history, will be sitting at Thanksgiving this year and feel a twinge of nostalgia, or a transitory pang of middle-aged pain, and remember fondly for a moment or two their experience in the Turkey Bowl.

This year I’m not sure how the parents v children breakdown will manifest itself. I’m pretty sure that the adults have gotten slower over the last twelve months. I’m also pretty sure the children haven’t. The kids are on a two-year winning streak, and while two is clearly in the fluke range, if they win this year and make it three, I’m going to have to seriously consider some rule changes to curtail their rampant cheating and loophole exploitation to restore a competitive balance.

I got a panicked DM from Grampa Doug MacDonald this morning explaining that Brian’s nephew is now 6-feet tall, wearing a size-13 shoe, and is this the year we’re going to abandon the kids v parents model. Good question. However, because I don’t know who’s going to be playing this year, I can’t answer it right now. Like most good TB-related things, it will have to be a game-time decision. However, I’m leaning towards keeping the rivalry going for at least one more year, then we can call it “adults” vs kids and draw the line appropriately.

While we’re looking at pictures, here’s one of the extremely photogenic 2018 Crew:

This year will be the 37^th edition of the Turkey Bowl. There have been some lean years, where only six or eight people would show up to play a half-hearted game mostly just so that we could say the tradition continued for another year. There are 22 people in this picture, more than that picture from 25-or-so years ago. That feels good.

I’m thankful for the place this game has in my life and for everyone who plays, has played, has thought about playing, might one day play, watches, or just worries about those playing or watching. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be on Thanksgiving morning at 10:30 a.m., than at Orchard Park, sharing a cold beer and a warm Taylor Ham sandwich with people I love.

See you on Thursday!

Turkey Bowl 36

“Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.”

-Some Dead Guy

Owen had knee surgery on Friday, so the past MVP will be unavailable for the Big Game.

Seeing Owen go in for knee surgery, I couldn’t help but think about my own knee surgeries almost 40 years ago. Thankfully, surgical techniques have improved, so his prognosis is much better than mine is. But we all knew that.

While Owen was in “Pod B”, which is where the day surgery patients go, post-surgery, he was tended to by a nurse who explained to us that pain is more difficult for younger people because as we get older, we realize that pain is just a part of life, and therefore we’re better able to deal with it.

He also told us about how his father when he was a kid had seen Babe Ruth play at Fenway, and that after the Babe was traded to New York, he’d still visit Southie to see his “girlfriends.”

But back to the nurse’s explanation of pain. What a depressing thought that is!

It totally reminded me of the Turkey Bowl, however.

Perhaps I should talk to a therapist about this, but I associate the Turkey Bowl with pain. If you’ve read any of these newsletters over the years, you know this to be true. Two years ago, I believe, I began with a musing on cane shopping.

And that makes me worry that I’ve turned these missives into the complaints of a middle-aged white man. And I worry that when the disgustingly athletic youth who’ve malevolently infested our game read this they will have every preconceived notion about old people confirmed. But then I remember that I am posting this on a blog and linking to it through Facebook, so they’re probably not seeing it at all. And I also remember this: This is your future. This is my present. I have the power of the pen, so suck it.

“Cause myself just told myself, ‘You the motherf*****’ man, you don’t need no help.’”

          -Some Rapper

Bravado aside, this could be a year of total humiliation for the grown-ups. Let’s face it: we’re older and slower. Last year the game was relatively close, and it came down to the final play. However, unless we play a 20-minute game with no forward passes allowed, our days are numbered. I’m amazed every year when Kesin yells at me for how poorly I’ve laid out the field at how small it seems when the game starts and how big it feels when I blow a coverage in the second half. And that’s what adulthood is like when it comes to athletics: we’re all just finding ways to cope with our limitations. Just a few years ago, the notion of losing to the children was laughable. Then it became a possibility, but really just a 16-seed-beating-a-1-seed possibility. Then it happened. Now it’ll be hard to derail that freight train.

I used to be able to count on winning on Thanksgiving Day. Now it seems like the only thing I can count on is that whatever Mr. Gefken posts on Facebook is a total lie.

Monday I had the pleasure of going to the dentist to get two fillings. I was in the chair, in a prone position, on my back, looking up at the hygienist on the left and the dentist on the right. The hygienist, mid-procedure, says to the dentist, “So, my mother wanted me to ask…what kind of wine should she have for Thanksgiving?”

“Hmm,” the dentist said. “That’s a tough question. What type of wine does your mother like?”

“Oh, she’ll really just drink anything,” the hygienist replied. “I mean, anything. She doesn’t care.”

I’m all for workplace chatter, but this seemed a bit odd. I should mention that my dentist does own a local winery, so the question isn’t as out of left field as it might seem, but couldn’t the hygienist have waited to ask her question? Then again, I was interested in the answer, so I kind of appreciated it.

His answer: A light red, like a cab franc, or a dry or semi-dry Riesling. There you go: the first-ever Turkey Bowl newsletter wine tip.

Why mention all of this? Well, as he finished drilling and filling my teeth, he explained to me that one of my teeth was in bad shape. If it acts up again, he said, the best move would be to just extract it.

I’ve reached the age where I discuss getting teeth pulled with my dentist. And earlier this year I had my first colonoscopy. I had it in the morning, and I ran a 5k race in the afternoon. True story.

Speaking of Life Events, Ian MacDonald’s girlfriend had a baby a few weeks ago, Raelyn, so that means that this year we’ll have our first grandfather participating in Doug MacDonald. Finally, we can say that he plays like a grandfather because he is one. Ian’s living out in Pullman, WA, now, so it’s unknown if he’ll be in Jersey on Thursday. (Update: Ian will not be in attendance.)

I saw Ian and Doug out in Seattle in August after Pearl Jam played SafeCo field. We connected randomly—I only knew Doug was going because he posted it on Facebook. We met at a bar after the show. When I got there Doug was talking to a guy who’d grown up in Westfield. Small world.

I was at the Pearl Jam show with my girlfriend, Kate. Kate’s playing in the Turkey Bowl this year. She’s feisty. You have been warned.

Next up on the Life Events list: by kickoff, O’Reilly’s will have closed. John Nulty pointed out that this is the second iteration of O’Reilly’s that we’ve seen close. The Turkey Bowl has outlasted O’Reilly’s.

The big news in Massachusetts as I write this is that the first legal sales of recreational marijuana have started, with a store in Northampton. There was a line around the block to get in this morning, the first sales day. One of the biggest local proponents of recreational cannabis (apparently some people consider “marijuana” to be a racist term) taught Owen’s health class last year.

Thursday will be the 36^th edition of the Turkey Bowl. The first one happened in Memorial Park in 1983. The next year we shifted over to Orchard Park. I love the Turkey Bowl. It is, without a doubt, one of the highlights of my year. And these newsletters, which I’m pretty sure I’ve written every year since 1985 or so, comprise my most consistent record of lifetime achievement.

Sam Shelffo is 19. Jasper Kesin is in his second year of college. Lulu Kesin is figuring out where she’s going to college next year. Jack Nulty just turned 22. Michael Nulty is growing a mustache for Movember. Kelly Nulty is a top high school swimmer. There will be a whole host of O’Neills at the field, and Lars will keep bringing in disgustingly athletic family members and hangers-on.

The more things change, the better the Turkey Bowl gets.

At the end of October, we all saw the horrific stories about yet another mass shooting, this time in Pittsburgh at a synagogue. Michael Nulty goes to the University of Pittsburgh, and coincidentally John and Kathleen were visiting Michael when the shooting happened. John was near the synagogue and saw the police cars rushing to the scene. When I learned that he was that close, I asked him if he was okay. He texted his reply, “Just another day in America.”

There’s a lot of truth in that, just as there’s truth in what the nurse said, that as we get older, we get used to pain. And that sucks.

But I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how the Turkey Bowl is another day in America, too. It’s a joyful celebration of friendship, friendly competition, family, and love. It’s been going on for 35 years, and if it has to go on for another 35 years to give us the hope we need to combat the horrors we’re seeing seemingly every day, then count me in for every one of them.

“If you think I’ma quit before I die, dream on.”

-Some Rapper

I look forward to seeing everyone at 10:30 on Thursday at Orchard Park. Dress warmly!

Peace.