The Bench (Christmas Story 2013)

Behold a small Midwestern town on the way to nowhere.  The name of the town isn’t important.  There’s a set of train tracks on its edge that no railroad uses.  There’s one empty highway which also serves as the Main Street.  If you were to fly over our town in an airplane, you wouldn’t bother to look down.  None of this really matters because this story is not about a town.

            There’s a population of hard-working people in this town who all work together to keep the town going.  Everyone’s occupation serves more as than just the capacity of employment.  For instance, if my refrigerator stops working, the appliance store manager will come directly to house that evening so that my food does not spoil.  This he does, of course, without charge.  That’s just how our town works, each citizen serving each other. 

            Behold a small general store in this small town.  A narrow shop on the main drag, it has old west taste and charm as if it were from the old cow town days.  There’s a timeworn, squeaky wooden floor with an old soda fountain machine behind a bar back by the pharmacy.  There used to be wagon wheels, lassos, and ropes decorating the walls with pictorial representations of cattle drives, but they have been removed in favor of flat screen TVs with videos of good looking men and women showing off the latest fashions.  There’s also a rumor that the soda machine will soon be removed for more floor space.  For the purpose of this story, the store’s history does matter.

I’m seventy-eight years old and I got canned this morning from the only job I’ve ever had.  You see, I never really learned a trade that would make me marketable, or even needed.  My job throughout the years has been menial, but important, and I’ve learned enough over the ages to consider myself wise, despite what happened this morning, but I’ll get to that later.  

As for the aforementioned mercantile, I started working there as a small boy after school for Mr. Harbeson way back in 1945 when I was ten.  My first job was to sweep floors and climb ladders to the top shelf to take down merchandise for the customers.  It was a nice way to make a nickel, and the boss was a wonderful man, full of what you might call The Christmas Spirit.  What I mean is that he paid less attention to his bottom line than he did to the pulse of his customers.  Just like the refrigerator repair man, or the telephone repair man, or the leading local expert on plumbing, Mr. Harbeson felt his job was to lend a helping hand to the communtiy.  When customers couldn’t afford necessities, he let them charge it and pay it off as they could.  In helping keep his books, I knew that some families would never pay him back, and he was okay with that. 

Mr. Harbeson was a mentor to me.  On warm days when the store’s traffic was light, he would call me back to that soda machine and fill two mugs with root beer.  We would then take the mugs out to the front of the store where he had built a park bench with his own two hands.  There we would sit with the sun on our faces and talk about anything of interest, including baseball, and later, girls.

            When I graduated high school, Mr. Harbeson offered me fulltime employment, and seeing as the war was well over and America was booming, it seemed like the smart thing to do.  My duties were much the same until in 1965 when Mr. Harbeson suddenly died and left the store to his son, my younger by ten years. 

I was immediately given the unofficial title of manager which came with it the perks of being the wisest person there, with no more salary benefits.  Since I knew all the ins and outs of the store, I was able to teach Mr. Harbeson’s son how to run the shop, as well as sharing with him his father’s philanthropic wisdom.  It wasn’t easy for him, so young, and having to drop out of college to learn his father’s business, but my help so endeared me to my mentor’s son that I was always consulted in the business affairs of the shop, as well as acting as an uncle to his only kid.  That is up until last year when he too passed away.

This brings me to the shop’s present owner, a boy fresh out of college who insists that I call him Mr. Harbeson even though I’m his elder by some fifty plus years and helped to raise him.  I suppose that didn’t go over very well with an old curmudgeon like me.  You see, when he took over, I ceased to know anything of any importance.  All that the store had stood for has been replaced with fancy new ideas about cataloging and inventory, marketing and promoting, and if you can’t work a computer, you have no knowledge or place in this shop.  This is why he saw to it that I should come in and pick up my final paycheck today, the morning of Christmas Eve.

But sad as this story seems, it isn’t actually about me.  It’s about what I saw outside of the store this morning.

Late December in the Midwest brings with it harsh north winds and snow that comes in from the side.  The temperature hovers around the freezing mark in the afternoon and plummets well below at night.  This morning was not any different.  The unforgiving snow pelted my old face.  Though I had my overcoat, I was frozen to the bone.  I also admit that I was in a sour mood, knowing that a lifetime of dedication would be settled in a matter of minutes, ingloriously.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I trudged through the snowdrifts on the unshoveled sidewalk.  Before I got to the front door, I saw something.  On Mr. Harbeson’s handmade bench at the door sat a young mother, clad in thin wraps, her baby tightly wrapped up and huddled next to her mother’s breast.  In a small town where everybody knew everyone, my old eyes did not recognize her. 

As I approached, forgetting my own troubles, she looked up pleadingly at me, snowflakes burning her eyes.  They burned my eyes as well.  Embarrassed, self-consumed, and slightly ashamed, I turned my gaze from her shivering figure and entered the store to face the music, wondering why she wasn’t indoors.

Though I had walked through that door a million times in my lifetime, everything seemed different.  The lighting, the tone, the mood, even the floor which was freshly waxed.  In fact, that bench outside that Mr. Harbeson and I sat on to talk about life, and which the mother was now sitting on in the blinding snow was the only thing that seemed original.

I walked through the store, back to the office to pick up my paycheck, the third owner sitting at his big, fancy oak desk and donning a suit and tie, his shiny, black wingtips poking out from under the massive pile of wood.  He was consumed with one of two laptops on his desk and didn’t even acknowledge my presence.  Apparently sensing my presence, he reached into the left-hand desk drawer and pulled out an envelope with my name on it.  Never taking his eyes off his computer, he held up the envelope for me to take.  When I did, he said, “Nice knowing you, old timer.”

Old age can bring with it an acidic tongue, especially when dealing with arrogant youth.  Though I had spent the evening before memorizing a monologue that would put him in his place, I held my tongue.  I just couldn’t get the image out of my head of a young woman with her baby, stuck in the blowing snow.  It was a thought that I had to do something about.

Before I left the store for the last time, I stopped at the glass door and peered out at the bleak scene, half-wondering if the woman and her baby were still there.  Sure enough, there she sat on that same bench, an inch of snow collecting on her shivering form. 

As my heart broke, I was interrupted at that very moment by a large family who had just checked out.  In a town where everybody knew everyone, this family was the poorest.  Every time the church had taken up an offering for the poor, this family of seven kids were always the ones on the other end of the collection.  It was a family of share crop farmers that Mr. Harbeson, my second boss, had helped out many times.  His father, my original boss, had helped out their parents.  I also knew that the new owner had called their debt a few months ago, asking me to deliver the news, and they were forced to come up with the money within thirty days.  Miraculously they had.

As they filed past me, I saw that each child held a sack of groceries in his or her hand.  The mother held a box of diapers.  Having worked there forever, it was more than I had ever seen them buy. 

The door opened and a rush of cold air punched me in the face until the door closed.  The young mother rose from her seat on the bench, snow cascading off her frail form.  What conversation took place between her and the family I can only guess at.  I suppose that doesn’t matter, because the family presented the groceries to the young woman and they ushered her away from the storefront. 

I stepped out into the cold air and watched them trudge through the snow towards the family’s house a few blocks away.

And here I have lamely related to you a moment in time that no one will remember as important, a moment that occurs in any given town on any given day, Christmas Eve or not.  Whether charity is given or purse strings are closed, it exists.  It always will.  So as I stood in the cold with my severance check in my clutch, I sat down on that old trusty bench.  I thought about the wisdom Mr. Harbeson had shared with me.  The charity he had given had been passed forward by the most unlikely of people, and from my vantage point with my old eyes, I was able to behold his spirit once more.  After that, the snow didn’t sting so much.

It's a Wonderful Life, What Happens after the Credits Roll

The angel Clarence helps George Bailey see the error of his thoughts and George decides his life is worth living.   He runs home to a wife and family who all hug him while the town collectively gives him the $8,000 deficit and more.  Everyone sings Auld Lang Syne and the credits roll. This is the classical Hollywood ending, but have you ever wondered what happened right afterwards?

GEORGE: "Uh, so that's a lot of cash," (then aside to his wife,) "So, we have a packed house, huh?"

MARY: (aside to George) "Yeah, I tried to get the money from them at their houses, but they insisted on coming over here. Just keep smiling."

GEORGE: "Uh, so it's been a long day.  (stammers) I'm kind of tired.  Thanks for coming over everybody."

CROWD: (silenced unbelief)

MARY: (aside to George) "Well, that was blunt."

GEORGE: (aside to Mary) "If we were cordial, they would just stick around all night.  Look at Martini.  He's bringing out the wine."

MARY: (aside to George) "Because I told him to."  (then to the stunned crowd) "Well, Merry Christmas."

MA BAILEY's MAID: "Give me my money back!"

UNCLE BILLY: (with bottle of wine in hand) "C'mon everybody.  Let's all go spit in Potter's eye."

George Bailey's Breakdown: an Empathizer's Perspective

Every year at Christmas I watch It's a Wonderful Life.  When I get to the part where George has his meltdown in front of his family after his uncle loses $8,000, I feel for the poor sap from the perspective of someone who also feels way too much pressure from too many places far too often.  George has a world of pressure on his shoulders, and the breakdown was long overdue.  Let's look at it more closely.

First, George wanted to see the world.  Night after night he would end up at the public library, reading about all the cool places he could visit, but God would have other plans for him to stick around Bedford Falls, the reasons to be illuminated in the next paragraph.

Second, George wanted his profession to be extraordinary.  His father Peter Baily was a saint for helping the town's citizens realize their dreams to become home owners instead of paying rent to Mr. Potter, the richest citizen in town and a man who has no soul.  When Peter dies, George's dreams of seeing the world and going to college go with it.  He does have the choice to leave, but if he did, the board of directors would close down the Bailey Building and Loan.  George has to save the day at the expense of his dreams.

Third, he made very little money.  On top of this, he is pressured to take a job for more money with Potter, in exchange for bulldozing the Building and Loan.  So in essence, he has to choose between his personal wealth and the health of the community, remembering his father's goals.  Potter may be referred to as the most important man in town because he is the richest, but I contend that since the whole town relies on George Bailey, this title should be conferred to him.  It begs the question: could I choose between the health of my family and the health of a town?  Nice parallel to the decision God had to make with Jesus by the way.

Fourth, he hates his house.  The night of his wedding day, after he gave out all his money to keep the town's citizens afloat until the bank reopens, he is called by his wife to come home.  He soon finds that she has selected the Old Granville House, the very house he says earlier on in that a ghost wouldn't want to live.  He will spend his time and money fixing up the "old drafty house." 

Fifth, his friends are all "successful."  Sam Wainright makes a fortune in plastics and his wife wears furs and they have a nice car, take vacations to exotic places, etc...essentially the life George could have had.  Sam even kids George about missing his opportunity.  That has to burn.

Finally, when Uncle Billy loses the $8,000 dollars on Christmas Eve, George finally implodes.  He goes home to his drafty, old house to a litter of kids, one of whom is sick.  Considering all my prior points, it's no surprise he bawls out his daughter's teacher, yells at his other kids, kicks stuff, gets rejected by Potter for a loan, is told the police are going to arrest him, ends up at the bar drunk, gets punched in the face by his daughter's teacher's husband, drives his car into a tree, grabs his life insurance policy, and heads for a bridge to jump. 

What does surprises me is that nobody saw it coming.

World Series Blunder

I waited for nearly twelve hours, a good night's sleep, before I weighed in on the debacle that was last night's World Series Game 3.  I still use such strong words because I feel the same way this morning as I did last night.  It's not emotion that's getting the best of me.  No, I pride myself on keeping a cool head most of the time.  Admittedly, I was incised.  Still am.  When the play occurred though, I was was shocked and said very little, and my patient wife might have confused my reaction with some sort of levelheadedness.

To make any sense of this for anyone who didn't watch/hasn't seen the replay/hasn't been on Twitter/has been in a cave the last twenty-four hours, here's what happened.  Tied at four apiece in the bottom of the ninth inning, the Cardinals have runners at second and third base with one out.  With the Boston infield drawn in, the batter, John Jay, grounds to second baseman Dustin Pedroia.  Pedroia fields the grounder and throws a laser home to catcher Jarrod Saltalamachia who easily tags out the base runner Yadier Molina.  The play worked to perfection for the Red Sox.  That is until the sports universe stepped onto its third rail.

Saltalamachia sees a play at third and unwisely wings what looks like a tailing two-seam fastball towards third baseman Will Middlebrooks.  Even if the throw had been on target, it would have been late.  The throw wasn't on target.  Middlebrooks dives for the ball towards the second base side of the bag and misses completely.  The ball hits the Cardinal baserunner, Allen Craig, in the arm and trickles into the outfield.  The baserunner then tries to get up out of his slide and run home, but Middlebrooks was laying in his path, having just dove for the ball.  The baserunner then trips over Middlebrooks, stumbles, then staggers home.  In that time, the left fielder grabs the ball, throws home to Saltalamachia, who tags out the baserunner easily.


The only problem is that the home umpire called him safe.  Or rather, he deferred the call to the third base umpire.

When the baserunner tripped on Middlebrooks, the third base umpire called an obstruction, which automatically awards the baserunner a free base.  Problem was that the St. Louis crowd was so loud at that very moment that nobody heard the call.

Crazy?  Absolutely.  Fair?  Hardly.

Yes, by the letter of the law, this was obstruction.  The third base umpire was more than justified to call this an obstruction.  The problem exists in the wording of the rule.  The wording suggests that as soon as the fielder no longer is part of the play, he must be out of the way.

First, there was absolutely no way Middlebrooks could have gotten out of the way.  More to the point, Middlebrooks wasn't even in the baseline!  Since he had dove towards second base to try to catch Saltalamachia's errant throw, the closest part of his body to the baseline was his shoes, and they were a good foot inside the baseline.

His shoes weren't what the baserunner tripped on.  Allen Craig tried to leap over Middlebrook's...middle.  A good three feet inside the baseline.  He simply couldn't get his foot over Middlebrook's butt.  Why was the baserunner trying to run so far inside the baseline?  If the baserunner runs to the pitcher's mound and crashes into the pitcher, would this be called an obstruction?  Obviously not.  Then the umpire would call him out for being out of the baseline.  So then where does the baseline end and the rest of the field begin?
There seems to be a lot of room given to the average baserunner when he rounds third and goes home.  His natural momentum causes him to round the base well outside the baseline.  There is no clear line here, and the baserunner was flirting with that line.  Now I don't for a second believe that Craig tried to go out of his way to trip on Middlebrooks.  I'm simply saying that Middlebrooks wasn't on the white line that is the baseline.  He was well inside the baseline.  That just happens to also be where Craig was at that very moment.

To make my second point, I must talk about balls and strikes.   All night long we saw an inconsistent strike zone.  A pitch at the beginning of the at bat would be called a strike, then with a 1-2 count, the same pitch, crossing the batter in the exact same spot as the first one would be called a ball.  FOX kept  putting up their computerized strike zone for the millions to see, and there was no doubt.  There was no difference in the two pitches, yet the home umpire would call it a ball.
Based on the CIRCUMSTANCE, he would make a JUDGEMENT CALL.  A JUDGEMENT CALL!  The letter of the law that everybody is using to defend the decision of the third base umpire concerning the obstruction law is now somehow up for interpretation with the home plate umpire when it comes to the strike zone?  One pitch is a strike once, and a ball in a different circumstance?  Why the latitude here but not the latitude at first base?
Or the better question is why not give that third base umpire the same opportunity concerning a specific situation like what transpired last night to sense the circumstance and make a judgement call?
The Boston Red Sox are going to come to the ball park tonight and play as if nothing happened last night, because that's what good teams do.  Maybe the play and the resulting loss will come back to haunt them.  Maybe they will reel off three straight victories.  Either way, Major League Baseball needs to look at this specific rule and allow for discretion when there is nothing a fielder can do to get out of the way.  To bring common sense back to the game.  MLB cannot allow for such judgmental hyprocracy.
If you're still not convinced, just imagine if this had been Game 7!

Writing and Inspiration

I am not a big fan of promotion.  I was told that long ago, back when Hemmingway was hanging out in Key West, or at least sometime along those lines, it was the writer's job to write.  Live life, find inspiration, write. 

It's not so easy with me.  So much of my energies are spent promoting my novel The Mentor.  ryanmshelton.com 

(see what I did there?)

But in all honesty, since I fancy myself as a father and husband first, then a writer somewhere down the line, I usually get to writing around, say, 10:00 P.M.  For example, it's 10:57 right now.  Let me be frank.  I am far too tired to write meaningful prose after a long day of daily duties (from the Department of Redundancy Department.)  And this is summer vacation for me.  During the schoolyear?  Forget about it!

There are moments during the day though when I feel the inspiration.  I imagine it must have been what famous artists like Monet or Picasso or Escher must have felt: see something beautiful, drop everything, grab the fan brush, and paint. 

Well, I was in Mardel's Book Store this afternoon and I picked up a copy of Fireproof. 

Now this movie is one of my favorites, and I hadn't realized it had been novelized (by Eric Wilson from Alex and Stephen Kendrick's film.)  I looked over at my wife who was sorting through a mountain of stationery on the next aisle over, so I picked up the book and flipped to the middle.

I landed on the scene where the protagonist, Caleb, is rescuing a girl from a burning house.  One page in, reading the description of the house burning all around them, the splintered wood jabbing into his side, and then the disjointed dialogue ensuing after he gets the little girl out of the house (Stephen Crane's Red Badge of Courage style) and I immediately wanted to drop everything and write.

Of course that didn't happen.  For starters I didn't have a computer with me.  But it was more than that.  My daughter, who was buckled into the car seat, situated on top of the shopping cart, woke up.  She stretched, looked up at me with those big blue eyes, and smiled.  And my heart melted.

At that point, I started looking for a fan brush.

Being a Teacher

A friend once told me out of the blue that he would have made a good teacher.  I was a couple years into the profession at the time, and inquisitive enough to ask him what led him to that conclusion.  After all he was fairly successful at his particular business, and I couldn't help but wonder why he would consider such philanthropy.

"Because I am smart," he replied.

I didn't argue that point.  He was indeed smart, even brilliant in my scope of vision.  I immediately found myself comparing his brain to mine.  Really there was no comparison.  His capacity for book learning far excelled mine, yet I knew his reasoning was faulty because he had no idea of what teaching is.  I imagine his idea of teaching was like that of the popular movie The Matrix where people are essentially turned into computers, and certain intelligence programs are simply downloaded into their brains.  Or maybe Field of Dreams, "If you teach it, they will learn."  If only it were that easy.

What he didn't know was that "teaching" meant doing more with less.  Every year.  With less money, fewer teachers, and more students in each classroom, the teacher still has to make the student increase his or her knowledge so much so that the government legislates that every student must make a certain score on a particular test, or the teacher is a failure.  The teacher has to find a way to make that happen or be ridiculed to scorn from the opinionated and tax-paying community.

It doesn't matter if the student makes a habit of staying up all night long on school nights playing video games.

It doesn't matter if the student is the de facto parent because the parents are absentee, hanging out at the casino as the student cooks for his younger siblings, bathes them, then puts them to bed.

It doesn't matter if the student works after school until late to help support the family, then has no time or energy for homework.

It doesn't matter if the student is dealing with tragedy. 

It doesn't matter if the student comes to school drunk or baked.

It doesn't matter if the student is sent to school by his parents to deal drugs.

It doesn't matter that the student is scared in the toilet stall because of bullies.

It doesn't matter that any particular student might just decide he or she doesn't want to learn, no matter what the teacher says.

This list could go on and on, but the point remains that teaching isn't about how smart the teacher is.  Sure, the teacher has to be knowledgeable about his or her subject matter and the pedagogy must be sound.  That's a given (or should be,) but a teacher has to be so much more.

A teacher must be a counselor, a cheerleader, a motivational speaker, a leader, a learner, a translator, a chairman, a petitioner, an advocate, a comic, a...human, doused in humility and sprinkled with kindness, overwhelmed with burden and ever hopeful for the future.

A teacher must care about his or her students passing, not because of threats of being fired because of scores on standardized tests, but because a teacher truly cares about each student, not the student ID number.

This wreck of words comes on the heels of my thirteenth year of teaching.  With mere days left and only final exams for which to prep my students, I find myself slightly philosophical about the matter.  I look across the room at all my students, working diligently, and I think about all the progress they have made throughout the school year, and I think about what their futures hold, and I am overrun by hope and joy, though not necessarily in that order. 

I've thought a lot about that conversation with my friends over the past decade.  I've smiled at victories and pondered defeats and constantly been introspective.  Each student is different and takes a different approach.  It made me wonder if there was one unifying answer to all questions about teaching.

In the end, all I really know for sure is that to be a teacher means to love.

Happy Quotes

Happy Gilmore is one of the best comedies of all time, ranking up there with Dumb and Dumber in the "So Dumb You Can't Help But Laugh if You're a Guy and There Are Not Any Women in the Room" category.  Classic college flick! What makes a comedy so good are the quotes, so here are Happy Gilmore's 10 best.  Enjoy!

1. "Volkswagon!" 

The line isn't so funny, but it's the circumstances that make it funny.  Gilmore, a tough hockey player playing golf, is walking down the fairway when a Volkswagon Beetle runs him over.  He's too tough to say something conventional, like "ouch."

2. "Friends listen to 'Endless Love' in the dark."

Happy is on a "friend date" with the hot PR lady, Virginia, and he takes her to a skating rink.  The lights turn off and the music cues up in the middle of the song.  My buddy from college, Ryan Hardaway, was hilarious in the fact that we would be sitting around, doing homework or something else totally boring, and out of nowhere he would blurt out, "Friends listen to 'Endless Love' in the dark."  Always good for a laugh.

3. "You eat pieces of poop for breakfast?"

Happy's nemesis, Shooter McGavin, has just outbid Happy for his grandmother's house and challenges Happy to a winner take all at the tour championship.  Trying to intimidate Happy, McGavin says, "I eat pieces of crap like you for breakfast," to which Happy replies, "You eat pieces of poop for breakfast?"  Flushed, McGavin stammers before saying, "...uh, NO!"

4. "During high school, I played junior hockey and still hold two league records: most time spent in a penalty box, and I was the only guy to ever take off his skate and try to stab somebody."

To which Virginia replies, "You had me at hello."

5. "What? I didn't *break* it, I was just testing its durability, and then I *placed* it in the woods because it's made of wood and I just thought he should be with his family."

It is as good an explanation as any.


6. "Why you don't you just go HOME? That's your HOME! Are you too good for your HOME? ANSWER ME!"
It's been repeated on putting greens across America ever since!  

7. "You're gonna die, clown!"
    
It's been repeated on mini-golf courses across America ever since!

8. "Erm... I was just looking for the other half of this bottle. Oh. There's some... and some more."

Nice catch after an almost bar fight.

9. "The Price is Wrong, Bob!" 

How many of his contestants have wanted to punch Bob Barker over the years after hearing, "That was not nice and easy."

10. "Darnit! Is that goal regulation size or what? Sheesh!"

Happy swears after missing an easy slap shot.  This could be adapted to about any situation: The basketball court, the football field ("Are those goal posts regulation size or what?" or the tennis court ("Is that net regulation size or what?")

#1 Super Bowl

1. Super Bowl III New York Jets 16 Baltimore Colts 7


In the first game officially recognized as the "Super Bowl," Namath's salute says it all.  In the first two Super Bowls the AFC had been woefully represented.  Many still believed the AFL was still a laughing stock of a league.  What makes this game so great are the circumstances, and the great declaration.  Asked for the umpteenth time how his Jets were going to possibly stand up to the mighty Colts, Namath, out of anger, said that the Jets were going to win.  He was practically laughed out of the press room, but his teammates took it as a challenge.  The game itself was a defensive struggle, but with a great game plan and timely passes on Namath's part, the Jets staked a 16-0 4th quarter lead over the stunned Colts.  The Jets didn't throw a single pass the entire 4th quarter.  Johnny Unitas came in in the 4th quarter in relief and threw a late touchdown, but it wasn't enough, and the Jets finally legitimized the AFL.

Greatest Super Bowls of All Time

Yesterday I reviewed the best catches ever in Super Bowl history.  Today I went right for the juglar.  These are the 5 best Super Bowls of all time.  In 46 games there has been some snoozers and some great performances.  Chief among these are the classic upset, of which this list is heavy.  Enjoy, and as always, feel free to comment and disagree!

5. Super Bowl I  Packers 35 Chiefs 10 "Max McGee's Drunken Night"

No, this wasn't the best Super Bowl of all time, and it wasn't even called the "Super Bowl" at the time, but the brain child of Pete Rozel pitted the champion of the NFL versus the champion of the upstart AFL.  Though the NFL's Packers thoroughly dominated the Chiefs, the game legitimized the AFL and would lead a few years later to the super merger and the NFL that we know today.  The game is best known for the performance of Packers tight end Max McGee's 7 receptions for 138 yards and 2 touchdowns.  That performance may seem pedestrian, but the story is that McGee, the backup TE, got drunk the night before, thinking he wouldn't get much playing time.  When the starter Boyd Dowler went down, Max shook off his hangover, made the first Super Bowl touchdown, and became the first Super Bowl star.  What many don't know is that he couldn't even find his helmet and had grab the first one he could find!

4. Super Bowl XXXVI Patriots 20 Rams 17 "Tom Brady's Coming Out"

The St. Louis Rams' "Greatest Show on Turf" looked to win their second Super Bowl in three years, but the underdog Patriots had other plans.  The Pats were a surprise Super Bowl team, making their way through a minefield of great teams in the playoffs, including a shellacking of the top seed Pittsburgh Steelers.  That alone was impressive, but doing so with rookie backup quarterback Tom Brady made the feat nearly miraculous.  Brady had taken Drew Bledsoe's starting spot earlier in the year due to an injury, but when Bledsoe returned, their head coach decided to stick with his rookie quarterback, a very risky and unpopular decision in the Boston area.  It worked though (and Bostonites have been smiling ever since.)  Tied at 17 all and with only 1:30 on the clock and no time outs, Brady led his team down the field to set up Adam Vinateiri's 48 yard field goal with no time remaining to shock St. Louis and begin the Patriots own dynasty that would result in two more Super Bowl victories in the new centuries's first five years.

3. Super Bowl XXV Giants 20 Bills 19 "Wide Right"




Everyone just knew that the Bills were going to win.  They had the game's best all-purpose running back in Thurmon Thomas, one of the best quarterbacks in Jim Kelly, and possibly the most accurate kicker in Scott Norwood.  That the New York Giants had made the Super Bowl was a bit of a side note to the Bills high octane "Run and Shoot" offense.  Well, on this night the Bills offense didn't run or shoot very well, mostly because the Giants held the ball for over 40 minutes, still a Super Bowl record.  Always an X factor, Bill Parcels had his team well prepared, and a great game plan of Otis Anderson running for 102 yards, Dave Megget's129 all-purpose yards, and Jeff Hostetler not making any mistakes.  Still, the Bills had their chance.  Kelly drove the Bills to the Giants 29 yard line with 8 seconds to go to set up Norwood for a 47 yard field goal, practically a chip shot for him.  Unfortunately for the Bills, the ball just missed wide right and the Bills fortunes went down the drain with the kick.  The Bills would represent the AFC in the next three Super Bowls, but this was the only game they had any shot of winning.

2. Super Bowl XIII Steelers 35 Cowboys 31 "Bless His Heart!"


The Cowboys and Steelers meeting up in the Super Bowl is the NFL's version of Celtics-Lakers, Ali-Frasier, or Yankees-Red Sox.  It's possibly the greatest collection of football talent ever to take the field for a single game.  14 players and 2 coaches would find their way to the Hall of Fame.  If the football gods (or NFL execs) had it their way, these two teams would meet in the Super Bowl every year.  Thankfully we've had it that way three times, but the best of those games is Super Bowl XIII.  The game was close throughout, but turned on a single play. Late in the 3rd quarter with Pittsburgh up 21-14, HOFer Roger Starbach drove the Cowboys to the Steelers 10 yard line.  On a third down play, Starbach found future HOFer Jackie Smith wide open in the back of the end zone.  The normally sure-handed Smith lost his footing.  As his feet came out from under him, the ball, thrown a little low, bounced right off his hands, prompting one of the most famous broadcasting calls in Super Bowl history by Verne Lundquist.  "Bless his heart!  He's got to be the sickest man in America!"  The Cowboys settled for a field goal.  Pittsburgh took over at this point and were able to squelch a furious Dallas rally at the end when war hero HOFer Rocky Blier recovered an onside kick to preserve the win.


1.??? Gotta wait till tomorrow.  Feel free to guess though!

Super Bowl's Greatest Catches

With Super Bowl XLVII a mere 3 days away, I thought it would be fun to talk about the greatest moments in 46 years of Super Bowls.  Today's topic is the five greatest catches.  As always, feel free to leave a comment and disagree!

5. Super Bowl XXXIV, Steve McNair to Kevin Dyson, Post Route

The St. Louis Rams mowed through the competition with their "Greatest Show on Turf" offense, which is why it was so surprising that this Super Bowl was a defensive struggle.  That is why the game's final play is so interesting; it was a defensive stop by a team known for its offense.  With the Rams' fans on the edge of their seats, Kevin Dyson ran a post route and Steve McNair connected with him five yards short of the end zone when Rams linebacker Mike Jones reached out, and with only the strength in his fingers in one hand, grabbed onto Dyson's leg and pulled him down.  Dyson stretched the ball out, only to come a yard short.  It was the most exciting Super Bowl ending since Montana hit Taylor with 39 seconds to win Super Bowl XXIII.  Even though Dyson was stopped short, this reception will forever be remembered.

4. Super Bowl XXIII, Joe Montana to John Taylor, Slant Route

Speaking of Montana to Taylor, "The Drive" might be a little bit of a strong title (for there have been many great drives,) but it is an important piece of Super Bowl history nonetheless.  With Cincy leading 16-13, Montana drove the San Francisco offense methodically down the field, thanks in large part to the dreaded Prevent Defense, Don Shula's invention which only prevents the defense from winning.  It seems everybody knew how it would end.  The only surprise was that the ball went to Taylor and not Jerry Rice.

3. Super Bowl XIV, Terry Bradshaw to John Stallworth, Streak Route

People like to look at the score and think it was a blowout, but most don't realize that the 10.5 point underdog Rams held the lead late.  With 13 minutes to go and down by 2 points, Bradshaw, faced with a 3rd and 8 from the Pittsburgh 27 and without his best wide receiver Lynn Swan, decided to go for broke.  Putting just enough air under the ball, Stallworth hauled in an over-the-shoulder catch just beyond the outstretched arms of Rams safety Rod Perry and took it in for the score.  It was a go-for-broke play that broke the Rams backs. 

2. Super Bowl X, Terry Bradshaw to Lynn Swan, Fade Route

It's been played over and over, always in slow motion and always with orchestra music that gives you goosebumps.  The Steelers and Cowboys were the "Lakers/Celtics" of the NFL, two historic franchises with the best players and story lines.  And they hated each other.  Swan was recovering from a concussion and it was thought he wouldn't play.  Cliff Harris, Dallas defensive back had hinted around that he might hurt Swan if the wide receiver did play.  Late in the second quarter, Swan ran a fade route along the right sideline.  Bradshaw woefully underthrew the pass to the inside and it looked like it would be intercepted, but Swan, as graceful as his name, reached over the defender, tipped the ball up, waited for the defensive back to fall and the angels to sing while he tip-toed along the sideline. Then he lunged and caught the ball on his fingertips as he fell to his stomach.  This may be the best catch of all time, but because of the situation, it only takes second place on this list.  The Pittsburgh drive would stall and they wouldn't get any points out of Swan's heroics.  So since situation counts for so much, the number 1 is...

1. Super Bowl XLII, Eli Manning to David Tyree, Broken Play

It was a perfect season for the New England Patriots, and a very imperfect season by the New York Giants.  The favorite Pats, up 14-10 late in a defensive struggle, relied on its defense to stop Eli Manning, who had a pedigree, but had never been in a big game like this before.  On the play, Manning is nearly sacked, but miraculously escapes, lookes straight downfield and heaves it in David Tyree's general direction.  The ball is overthrown, but Tyree leaps up, barely gets his fingertips on the ball, and cradles it against the top of of his helmet as if stuck by velcro, before he falls to his back.  Before this play, pretty much everyone knew the Pats were going to pull out the perfect season.  After it, even the Pats defense knew it was over.  A few seconds later when Plaxico Burress catches a touchdown pass, they were right.

January Inspiration

There's nothing like having a computer in front of me as I gaze out my frosted January window at a winter wonderland.  Almost as if Disney scenes were playing out before me, I watch a family of deer meander through my backyard, frolicking in the snow.  Squirrels chase each other through the labyrinth of trees.  Kids create snowmen as robins and cardinals fly back and forth, admiring their work.  It's all so beautiful.

Of course, I live in Oklahoma and it's going to be 60 degrees today, so forget about all that nonsense.

I'm wondering what has happened to winter?  It might be snowing in other parts of the country, but we have had extreme drought and heat for a couple of years now.  Snow is hard to come by, and that is a shame, because there is nothing so inspiring as freshly fallen snow.  I feel the same way about a foggy day.  Stephen King claims that inspirational writing comes from a dark corner of a room with the shades pulled, but I personally love to gaze out the window.

Some of my best work has come on cold winter days.  Add some falling snow and a hot cup of coffee and let the daydreaming begin. 

For example, in my new novel The Mentor coming out soon, I wrote a WWII flashback scene on a cold, snowy day.  My imagination was stirred, and I could envision the Nazi's bearing down on this poor man who was running for his life.

Fair weather gives me the urge to get outside and play.  I get cabin fever way too easily.  Spreaking of which, it's 51 degrees outside right now, so...

Miss America v. NFL Playoffs

Strip my man card right now.  I know you're about to think that.  The Packers are shooting it out versus the 49ers on FOX right now, and instead of relishing the last few games of the dwindling football season, I am sitting in front of the television with my wife watching Miss America.  Why, one would naturally wonder?  Well, for starters, I am a great husband.  Okay, that's not entirely the truth.  She watched KU basketball and one playoff game with me already today, so you could say that I owe her one.  Plus, she's the world's biggest OKC Thunder fan and I am forced to watch Kevin Durant play three to four nights a week.  What a horrible life I lead.

Seriously though,  I enjoy watching the Miss America pageant.  For starters, Miss Oklahoma makes semi-finalist every year (she was just announced a few seconds ago.)  Oklahoma is serious about their pageant girls.  Besides, about ten years ago one of my wife's best friends was runner up to Miss Oklahoma.  It was an excuse to get dressed up and go out on the town, all while spending time with the woman I loved, doing something she enjoyed.

By the way, she just told me that if the Thunder were playing right now, we wouldn't be watching Miss America.

Anyways, I've come to appreciate the Miss America pageant.  Having seen the process first hand, I have to appreciate just how dedicated these young ladies are.  Forget Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.  These women are extremely bright, they work hard at their talent, they concern themselves with current issues (forget world peace) and they go around their states, speaking with kids in schools about making good decisions.  I like to think of these women as the female versions of Eagle Scouts.  If anyone has ever looked into what it takes to be an Eagle Scout, you'll know just how serious it is. 

Now I will say that there is one weakness to the whole process of crowning a Miss America, and it's not any of the girls.  Every year the pageant chooses judges that have absolutely no right judging these girls because they have no respect for what they go through, their platforms, or anything related.  For example, this year Daymond John from Shark Tank is a judge.  Now I respect his opinion about business and clothing, two of his specialties, but what does he know about pageants?

And Rush Limbaugh in 2010?

Judges aside, the Miss America pageant celebrates women who work hard to be the best people they can be.  By championing great causes, they are a positive force in the universe.  In addition, having a scholarship pageant on television is a nice break from so much reality television that tries to depict women as foul-mouthed and morally loose.  It's nice to see positive role models on TV.  For these reasons alone, I am more than happy to spend a cold January evening in front of the TV watching these amazing ladies while the NFL playoffs are a temptation just a mere two channels away.

And those of you who still think I deserve to have my man card revoked after such a well-crafted argument, just think swimsuits.