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 39th 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
