A few years ago, when I was bitching to someone that
Thanksgiving was quickly approaching and I hadn’t yet written the
newsletter—sorry, that’s Newsletter, with a capital ‘N’—that someone said to
me, “you know, you don’t have to
write it if it’s causing you so much stress.”
I know that person was just trying to be kind. But clearly,
they didn’t get it. Which is part of the reason why I’m not friends with them
anymore. For real.
But I’m not going to lie, because the Turkey Bowl has always
been about essential truths and Orchard Park is one of the few places left in
the world where no one lies, or else the wolf and the pig will terrorize your
dreams. I’m not going to lie about the fact that the Turkey Bowl does cause me
stress, in a variety of ways. For instance, right now I’m stressing not just
about the fact that this Newsletter is late or that the Jersey Turkey Bowl Blog
has disappeared, but about the fact that I have no idea where the cones I use
to mark the field are. I moved over the summer and I can distinctly remember
where the cones USED to be, but I have no idea where they are now. And the
clock is ticking.
And I think this is the stress talking, too, because lately I
find myself thinking a lot about Lou “The Toe” Groza, who either had one of the
world’s greatest nicknames of one of the worst. I can’t decide. He was a kicker
for the Browns in the 40s, 50s, and 60s who made everyone realize how important
kicking field goals could be. In an era when teams hit fewer than 50% of their
field goals, he made almost 70% of his, not infrequently from more than 50
yards away. Oh, and he also played offensive tackle. He retired when he was 44.
(When I was at Drew University, there was a guy working out
there hoping to get a tryout as a kicker with an NFL team. He’d be in the
fieldhouse and I’d be in the workout room and every time he kicked it, there
would be an earth-shattering ka-boom. I think about that guy from time to time
and how he never made it. How freaking loud would the kicks have been from
someone who did make it?)
And I find myself thinking a lot lately about George Blanda,
who I first learned about back in the days when I half-heartedly collected football
cards. I committed to memory the facts from his card: that he scored 2,002 points in the NFL and
that he played in four decades, the 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. He retired when he
was 48.
Another George Blanda fun fact: he was the first-ever player
taken in a fantasy football draft, way back in 1962. That I learned today, not
back when I was collecting football cards.
And I find myself thinking lately about Gordie Howe, who
played professional hockey into his fifties but then I remember that I really
don’t like to spend a lot of time thinking about hockey.
So the subtext here, in case you haven’t figured it out, is
that I’m turning 50 in a few weeks. John Nulty turned 50 last week. Doug turned
50 like 10 years ago. In other words, we’re all getting old. When we started
this tradition, the Cold War was still raging, the Soviet Union was a thing,
and Bunny’s had a payphone on the wall which in a few years a number of people
would use to get ahold of me, since mobile phones back then really weren’t that
mobile. Sonny’s bagels were less than a quarter back then! We could get two
slices and a soda at Roman Gourmet for, like, two dollars!
Do you hear how old I’m sounding right now?
So I have to ask the kids: why haven’t you beaten us yet?
I’ve heard some rumors that Mike Nulty is going to take a pass this year,
because he says the game isn’t really that competitive. Honestly, I think if he
didn’t play, it would probably be a case of addition by subtraction, but saying
the game isn’t competitive when you’ve NEVER WON would be like the winless
Cleveland Browns (a second Browns reference?) forfeiting the remainder of the
season because they didn’t want to embarrass any of their opponents.
Owen says that this is the youngsters’ year. He says they
have the sweet combination of growth spurts and chemistry on their side.
Rumor has it that Lulu Kesin is going to be watching from
the sidelines this year.
There may be other Turkey-Bowl-related rumors out there, but
I cut myself off from Facebook and other social media a couple of weeks before
the election because I couldn’t take it anymore, so I’m out of the loop.
Meanwhile, I haven’t thrown a football since last year. And
I’m cowering at the idea that soon I’m going to be entering my sixth decade on
this earth. (I’ll wait while you youngsters use your fingers to figure that one
out.) I have this weird clicking in my
knee that my doctors say they can’t do anything about. And I’ve been battling a
bad back for months. And don’t even get me started on my prostate.
But the point is, long ago the Turkey Bowl became more than
just a football game. Now it’s a ritual. I consider it to be a successful year
when I can make it to the field on Thanksgiving morning and check in with my
fellow truth seekers. I savor the annual pilgrimage we all make to Maplewood, where
we have the traditional meal of Taylor Ham, egg, and cheese sanctified by beer
and whiskey, and then engage in ceremonial combat.
Last year I didn’t play in the Turkey Bowl. I showed up in
street clothes to avoid even being tempted to play, because I was recovering
from having run the Philadelphia Marathon and my right knee was the size of a
cantaloupe. I’d forgotten that I didn’t play, but recently Sam reminded me. He
called me out on it, too, in an inspired bit of shit-talking, along the lines
of marathon, shmarathon: you wimped out,
Dad.
George Blanda would have played. The Toe would have kicked
my ass and then played.
So I’m playing this year. 10:30 a.m., Orchard Park. I’ll be
there, with cones. Come one, come all, old and young, winners and winners in
waiting.
They say exercise is a good way to combat stress. We’ll see.
Happy Thanksgiving.
