78

If you live long enough, you reach a point where the distance between, ‘Once upon a time. . .’ and the reality you meet in the moment is really, really far. I remember my childhood well enough and most of the stations in between but I’ve worn a lot of different hats and changed my style many times over that span. I suppose there is something to be said for being raised in a certain way and growing old, tried and true to that model but I can’t think of it now; probably not later either. My journey has been largely about discovery and change. The idea of getting it right the first time and, ‘Not fixing what ain’t broken. . .’ just eludes my sensibility. Where would we be without course corrections? Getting to the point, I have left so many things behind that were so important at the time in favor of curiosity and possibility that it’s hard to fit them into the same story. This is one of those stories. 

From as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was play ball. There was no junior high or little league football in my time but the school was small and they checked leftover equipment out to 7th and 8th graders. The high school coach let us practice, take part in drills, hold dummies, even get run over in the mix when numbers were short. I suspect the coach took some comfort in seeing 30 bodies on the field instead of 20. As a 115 lb. freshman, my playing potential was nil but come Friday night my name was on the program. I was the last to get a game jersey. It was white with gold sleeve stripes and blue numbers. When I slipped it on over my shoulder pads it looked like I was standing under a tent with my head out a hole in the top. It was so big that the bottom part of my number, ’78’ was tucked in my pants and the sleeves came down past my finger tips. 

Time flies and the world changes; you change with it or get left behind. Over time I have outgrown or jettisoned that, ‘Play-Ball-win one for the Gipper’ affinity. I’m not even a good sports fan now, don’t watch games, don’t care much who wins. Other than the University of Michigan, I have no particular loyalties, and that is much more about academics and their graduate school than about sports hype. I was a player and then I was a coach, for a long time, but I let it go because it didn’t serve my needs anymore. There were new ideas and interests on my plate. 

Yesterday I went to Costco, the wholesale warehouse store to get some photos printed. The lady said it would be about an hour so I took a cart and started pushing it around the store. I didn’t have anything particular to shop for but marketing strategies work and consumers that we are, I couldn’t resist a jar of almond stuffed olives. So, on about my third lap around the store, with my olives rattling around an otherwise empty basket, I noticed two men standing, talking across their shopping carts. The one was unremarkable, about my size and profile. The other was a tall, black man, probably my age with short, gray hair and beard. Perfect fit on the blue sport jacket, open collar shirt and black pants. My eyesight is poor and faces blur until I get close but I couldn’t, not pay attention. I stepped closer and just waited. Shortly he  turned to me, body language inferring, “Yes?” 

I said, “You are Bobby Bell.” He smiled and said, “Yes, I am Bobby Bell.” I felt like a little kid, trying to say something that would be appropriate in a lofty conversation, beyond my simple frame of mind. I told him that I was at Wm Jewell College when the Chiefs had their summer camps there, that I used to lifeguard the pool when they swam after practice. He laughed, said he loved the pool, that many players didn’t use it because it was so cold but he loved the cold water after those hot practice sessions. I thanked him for all the great years with the Chiefs and wished him Happy Holidays. As I started reaching my hand toward him, his hand was already reaching for mine, returning the holiday greeting. BobbyBell, NFL Hall of Fame, his number 78 is retired at Arrowhead Stadium. He was as splendid a combination of speed, strength and savvy as ever played the game. His cart contained two 12 packs of bottled water and a 12 pack of toilet paper. He was shopping at Costco, just like me. I got my photos and drove home but couldn’t help thinking about playing football. In high school I finally grew up some and as a senior I played both offense and defense. We lost more than we won but I got to play and that was my aspiration, to play. Of course you want to win but when it’s over it’s over and you move on, win or lose. In college I was older, in my late 20’s. I didn’t get to play much but I did get to practice against our first team a lot. There is something about Saturday afternoons in the fall, breaking a sweat, it stirs something primitive; the pursuit, the rattle of pads, the collision and the smell of turf; I’d forgotten how much I loved it. Being on the sideline was my reward for giving the 1st team a good preparation on Wednesday and Thursday; and sometimes, I got in for a play on offense or a kickoff or punt coverage. That’s not my game anymore but what do you know, there will be times when, unexpectedly, you cycle back to the, Once upon a time. . . and you are reminded how that was the perfect time to be the guy you used to be.