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vancelot23
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Last night, I dreamed I went to football heaven.
As I walked toward the bright lights, I could hear the faint roar of a crowd, and as I passed through a turnstile, I was greeted by the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and cotton candy. I was welcomed by a large man who might have looked intimidating elsewhere, but here looked as threatening as a newborn kitten. He introduced himself as Deacon, and said he'd show me around.
We headed out to the left, onto a large field of the greenest grass I'd ever seen. Just ahead a group of young men in green ran a loose scrimmage, laughing as they ran plays. The only thing greener than the grass was the "M" on the helmets, and though I didn't recognize the players individually, the unmistakable chant of "We are Marshall!" from the few spectators gave their identity away. Standing among the players, alongside a man with a clipboard, was another man I recognized. He was wearing a houndstooth hat and looked as much at home as each of the players under his tutelage.
As we walked from there, we passed some guys I recognized. Gaines Adams sat under a tree reading a playbook, Otto Graham and Sammy Baugh passed a ball back and forth, an exchange of perfect spirals, Pat Tillman just sat on a hill, seemingly enjoying the quiet.
Our next stop was a small building which sat apart from everything. As we stepped inside, rows upon rows of televisions were set up, stretching for what appeared to be miles. As we followed the row of seats, I came upon a group of gentlemen watching a particular screen. Paul Brown sat front and center. He was flanked by Tom Landry and Hank Stram, all watching tape, furiously making notes. I watched the screen they stared at, and on it, the Bengals held on in Super Bowl XXIII, winning 16-13. The three coaches compared notes as we moved on, coming upon a friendly looking fellow with an entire bank of monitors in front of him. A large NFL Films logo adorned his sweater and he flashed a huge smile as we exited the building.
Deacon told me our final destination was just ahead, and we made our way onto the most beautiful football field I'd ever seen. The sky was the deep blue of the clearest ocean, a gentle breeze carried with it the scent of unseen tailgating, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. I stood transfixed as the coaches took their spot on the sidelines. Bill Walsh stood grinning on one side, contrasted on the other side by the scowl of the most legendary of them all, Vince Lombardi. The players followed, led by a lanky, youthful player wearing a crew-cut. The original Johnny Football was followed by a host of legends. The action started quickly, and I was afforded a spectacle to beat all spectacles. Korey Stringer did battle with The Minister of Defense at the line of scrimmage, Derrick Thomas was a blinding streak coming after Unitas in the pocket, while Sean Taylor covered Doak Walker out of the backfield. Every play was art, perfection with a pigskin. I saw "Night Train" grab an impossible interception, and I saw "Sweetness" dance 80 yards, a blur of a touchdown. Fittingly, the game ended in a tie, and everyone met at mid-field to shake hands and exchange hugs. Then the exited the field together.
The game over, I stood up and looked around at the fans who were mostly unknown to me. Deacon explained that family was the most important thing, as I noted that every fan wore a jersey matching a player on the field. Then I noticed an exception. I small boy stood nearby wearing a purple jersey with the number 28 on it. I asked Deacon about him, and he explained, with a tear in his eye, that he was a special case, taken before his time. The kid smiled, looked up at my guide and asked "When is Dad coming?". Deacon answered back "Don't worry. He'll be here."
He turned to me and said it was time to go, and put his huge arm around on my shoulder. As he led me back toward the gates, I was silent, thinking about all that I'd seen. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and a sense of happiness about me. I wanted to write things down before the dream, like they often do, began to fade from memory.
It's many hours later, and the experience is still fresh in my mind, and the memory of each moment is as crisp as when I first awoke. As I finish writing this, I find myself hoping that place really exists. I hope there's a place where Johnny Unitas is still throwing touchdown passes. I hope Walter Payton is still making moves that drop jaws. I hope Junior Seau is in a place of peace. And I hope there's a place where a two-year-old boy waits to see his dad again, and they can be together as father and son, forever, dad with his arm around his son's shoulders, on the way to watch him play the perfect game, forever.
As I walked toward the bright lights, I could hear the faint roar of a crowd, and as I passed through a turnstile, I was greeted by the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and cotton candy. I was welcomed by a large man who might have looked intimidating elsewhere, but here looked as threatening as a newborn kitten. He introduced himself as Deacon, and said he'd show me around.
We headed out to the left, onto a large field of the greenest grass I'd ever seen. Just ahead a group of young men in green ran a loose scrimmage, laughing as they ran plays. The only thing greener than the grass was the "M" on the helmets, and though I didn't recognize the players individually, the unmistakable chant of "We are Marshall!" from the few spectators gave their identity away. Standing among the players, alongside a man with a clipboard, was another man I recognized. He was wearing a houndstooth hat and looked as much at home as each of the players under his tutelage.
As we walked from there, we passed some guys I recognized. Gaines Adams sat under a tree reading a playbook, Otto Graham and Sammy Baugh passed a ball back and forth, an exchange of perfect spirals, Pat Tillman just sat on a hill, seemingly enjoying the quiet.
Our next stop was a small building which sat apart from everything. As we stepped inside, rows upon rows of televisions were set up, stretching for what appeared to be miles. As we followed the row of seats, I came upon a group of gentlemen watching a particular screen. Paul Brown sat front and center. He was flanked by Tom Landry and Hank Stram, all watching tape, furiously making notes. I watched the screen they stared at, and on it, the Bengals held on in Super Bowl XXIII, winning 16-13. The three coaches compared notes as we moved on, coming upon a friendly looking fellow with an entire bank of monitors in front of him. A large NFL Films logo adorned his sweater and he flashed a huge smile as we exited the building.
Deacon told me our final destination was just ahead, and we made our way onto the most beautiful football field I'd ever seen. The sky was the deep blue of the clearest ocean, a gentle breeze carried with it the scent of unseen tailgating, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. I stood transfixed as the coaches took their spot on the sidelines. Bill Walsh stood grinning on one side, contrasted on the other side by the scowl of the most legendary of them all, Vince Lombardi. The players followed, led by a lanky, youthful player wearing a crew-cut. The original Johnny Football was followed by a host of legends. The action started quickly, and I was afforded a spectacle to beat all spectacles. Korey Stringer did battle with The Minister of Defense at the line of scrimmage, Derrick Thomas was a blinding streak coming after Unitas in the pocket, while Sean Taylor covered Doak Walker out of the backfield. Every play was art, perfection with a pigskin. I saw "Night Train" grab an impossible interception, and I saw "Sweetness" dance 80 yards, a blur of a touchdown. Fittingly, the game ended in a tie, and everyone met at mid-field to shake hands and exchange hugs. Then the exited the field together.
The game over, I stood up and looked around at the fans who were mostly unknown to me. Deacon explained that family was the most important thing, as I noted that every fan wore a jersey matching a player on the field. Then I noticed an exception. I small boy stood nearby wearing a purple jersey with the number 28 on it. I asked Deacon about him, and he explained, with a tear in his eye, that he was a special case, taken before his time. The kid smiled, looked up at my guide and asked "When is Dad coming?". Deacon answered back "Don't worry. He'll be here."
He turned to me and said it was time to go, and put his huge arm around on my shoulder. As he led me back toward the gates, I was silent, thinking about all that I'd seen. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and a sense of happiness about me. I wanted to write things down before the dream, like they often do, began to fade from memory.
It's many hours later, and the experience is still fresh in my mind, and the memory of each moment is as crisp as when I first awoke. As I finish writing this, I find myself hoping that place really exists. I hope there's a place where Johnny Unitas is still throwing touchdown passes. I hope Walter Payton is still making moves that drop jaws. I hope Junior Seau is in a place of peace. And I hope there's a place where a two-year-old boy waits to see his dad again, and they can be together as father and son, forever, dad with his arm around his son's shoulders, on the way to watch him play the perfect game, forever.
