Rain Man
12-07-2008, 01:45 PM
I went Christmas shopping yesterday, and wandered through a nondescript mall in the 'burbs. Little did I know what awaited me.
I had just rounded "Avenue 2" past the Chinese foot massage place and the Borders bookstore when I saw it. Up ahead, on the right, there was a little crowd of people. It piqued my curiosity, so as I walked toward it, I kept on eye on what was happening.
There were two men sitting at a table. I saw a football being autographed. Eh, probably some Bronco scrub signing some autographs. I looked up and saw that it was a sports memorabilia store. Yup, that's it.
I walked by the table, and looked to see if I recognized anyone. They were older guys, and they were...
Holy Christmas Day! That's Jan Stenerud!
Jan Stenerud! The Norwegian Montana State grad who ruled the Chiefs' kicking game for over a decade! Who kicked the only field goals a Chief has ever kicked in a winning Super Bowl! Jan Stenerud!
I looked at the other guy.
No way.
No freaking way.
Len Dawson.
MVP of Super Bowl IV. Lenny the Cool. The only career Chief on offense in the Hall of Fame. Len Dawson!
Two Chiefs Hall of Famers in a suburban Denver mall. That's like walking in the woods and happening upon a Springsteen concert with topless Playboy models dancing in the mosh pit. It was beyond shock. It was a stunning discovery. It was like what nuns must feel like when they see the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast.
I wanted to run up there like a giddy schoolgirl, but there was a line of autograph seekers and some staffers who were providing ersatz security. I stood there in the aisle of the mall soaking in the radiant aura of their greatness, wondering what to do next.
Should I buy something? Should I go through the autograph line to say hi to the men involved in every Super Bowl point the Chiefs ever scored? What would I say? Could I even talk? Would I freeze up?
I could certainly say 65 Toss Power Trap or something, but then again they've probably heard that a thousand times. I could tell them where I was on Christmas Day 1971, how I fought the greatest battle of my life to keep my parents at my uncle's house so I could watch double-overtime, but Jan might not like that, or Len either. I could possibly talk about the current Chiefs, but then they would just nod and sigh and smile and I'd be just another person in the line.
I wasn't just another person in the line. Those people were filing through like automatons, getting their stuff autographed so they could sell it on Ebay. Those people didn't cry on Christmas Day of 1971. Those people didn't pretend to be Jim Lynch and Otis Taylor and yes, Jan Stenerud, on the playground throughout their youth. They just wanted signatures.
I didn't want a signature. I didn't care about getting a signature. I just wanted to go up to those guys and tell them how they changed my life, how their feats germinated a hobby and a love that 40 years later is still one of my greatest passions in life. I wanted to tell them how I differentiated good from evil by watching them battle the Raiders. How my best memories of youth were in pickup football games emulating them. How I could get accepted in every new school I moved to because I spoke the language of Dawson and Lanier and Buchanan, and no one picked on the new kid if he could talk Chiefs and catch a short out pass.
I didn't think I could do it. I walked away, my mind swimming, back to the Sbarro at the food court, and thought about my next step. Do I go to them? Do I tell them that? They're just a couple of guys now, older guys who look more like my dad than Hall of Fame professional football players. They would probably appreciate hearing from a fan who cared so much about them, as opposed to the line of businessmen getting their $20 Ebay items.
I went back. They were still signing. The line had gone away, and they were both signing photographs in preparation for other visitors. I stood around and loitered. I pretended to look at the signboard announcing their presence. I watched them out of the corner of my eye.
As stupid as it sounds, I realized that I would probably choke up if I told them what I wanted to tell them, how much they meant to me. These were not just football players. They were the gods of my childhood, the men who molded my attitudes and life even though they never met me, and I never met them.
I stood there and watched them for a moment, two senior citizens signing 40 year-old pictures of past glories. I'm a lot bigger now, and they're a little smaller, but in that mall yesterday I decided that I don't want to approach them as equals. I want to always be a kid around them, and I want them to always be the red-clad heroes who vanquish Raiders and Vikings. I don't want to add another chapter to that story.
I turned and left.
I had just rounded "Avenue 2" past the Chinese foot massage place and the Borders bookstore when I saw it. Up ahead, on the right, there was a little crowd of people. It piqued my curiosity, so as I walked toward it, I kept on eye on what was happening.
There were two men sitting at a table. I saw a football being autographed. Eh, probably some Bronco scrub signing some autographs. I looked up and saw that it was a sports memorabilia store. Yup, that's it.
I walked by the table, and looked to see if I recognized anyone. They were older guys, and they were...
Holy Christmas Day! That's Jan Stenerud!
Jan Stenerud! The Norwegian Montana State grad who ruled the Chiefs' kicking game for over a decade! Who kicked the only field goals a Chief has ever kicked in a winning Super Bowl! Jan Stenerud!
I looked at the other guy.
No way.
No freaking way.
Len Dawson.
MVP of Super Bowl IV. Lenny the Cool. The only career Chief on offense in the Hall of Fame. Len Dawson!
Two Chiefs Hall of Famers in a suburban Denver mall. That's like walking in the woods and happening upon a Springsteen concert with topless Playboy models dancing in the mosh pit. It was beyond shock. It was a stunning discovery. It was like what nuns must feel like when they see the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast.
I wanted to run up there like a giddy schoolgirl, but there was a line of autograph seekers and some staffers who were providing ersatz security. I stood there in the aisle of the mall soaking in the radiant aura of their greatness, wondering what to do next.
Should I buy something? Should I go through the autograph line to say hi to the men involved in every Super Bowl point the Chiefs ever scored? What would I say? Could I even talk? Would I freeze up?
I could certainly say 65 Toss Power Trap or something, but then again they've probably heard that a thousand times. I could tell them where I was on Christmas Day 1971, how I fought the greatest battle of my life to keep my parents at my uncle's house so I could watch double-overtime, but Jan might not like that, or Len either. I could possibly talk about the current Chiefs, but then they would just nod and sigh and smile and I'd be just another person in the line.
I wasn't just another person in the line. Those people were filing through like automatons, getting their stuff autographed so they could sell it on Ebay. Those people didn't cry on Christmas Day of 1971. Those people didn't pretend to be Jim Lynch and Otis Taylor and yes, Jan Stenerud, on the playground throughout their youth. They just wanted signatures.
I didn't want a signature. I didn't care about getting a signature. I just wanted to go up to those guys and tell them how they changed my life, how their feats germinated a hobby and a love that 40 years later is still one of my greatest passions in life. I wanted to tell them how I differentiated good from evil by watching them battle the Raiders. How my best memories of youth were in pickup football games emulating them. How I could get accepted in every new school I moved to because I spoke the language of Dawson and Lanier and Buchanan, and no one picked on the new kid if he could talk Chiefs and catch a short out pass.
I didn't think I could do it. I walked away, my mind swimming, back to the Sbarro at the food court, and thought about my next step. Do I go to them? Do I tell them that? They're just a couple of guys now, older guys who look more like my dad than Hall of Fame professional football players. They would probably appreciate hearing from a fan who cared so much about them, as opposed to the line of businessmen getting their $20 Ebay items.
I went back. They were still signing. The line had gone away, and they were both signing photographs in preparation for other visitors. I stood around and loitered. I pretended to look at the signboard announcing their presence. I watched them out of the corner of my eye.
As stupid as it sounds, I realized that I would probably choke up if I told them what I wanted to tell them, how much they meant to me. These were not just football players. They were the gods of my childhood, the men who molded my attitudes and life even though they never met me, and I never met them.
I stood there and watched them for a moment, two senior citizens signing 40 year-old pictures of past glories. I'm a lot bigger now, and they're a little smaller, but in that mall yesterday I decided that I don't want to approach them as equals. I want to always be a kid around them, and I want them to always be the red-clad heroes who vanquish Raiders and Vikings. I don't want to add another chapter to that story.
I turned and left.