It was Howard Cosell that told me
John Lennon was dead,
during the course of one of our
regular Monday Night sessions and
both of us wept at the senselessness
of such an act.
Even my father, my regular Monday Night session mate
from the beginning in 1970,
was moved. This was the same man who had sat in his chair
and scoffed in 1964 as his hormonal 12 year old daughters
and his amused 6 year old son
watched Ed Sullivan introduce The Beatles
to an adoring American audience, who in later years
admitted that yes, they were pretty good, and who was in fact
the same man who watched
Ronald Reagan explain American football to John
in the booth with Frank and Howard and Dandy Don
on Monday Night in 1973,
again during one of our regularly scheduled sessions.
Our lives didn’t revolve around football,
but it was our good common ground and Monday Night
became the pinnacle of the ritual.
It came pre-loaded with the best games
and biggest names,
a prime time jewel.
It was Monday Night that got us
a second color TV for mom’s bedroom.
Monday Night was the prime time
for father and son to bond. We didn’t miss
much of the first six years and when I returned home from the Navy,
we eased back into it whenever possible.
I did, however, take Monday Night to a higher level
while in San Diego, an NFL city
with a hot team in the late ‘70s.
National City had a bar where you could:
play Asteroids, drink beer and watch girls strip or
shoot pool, drink beer and watch girls strip or
watch the game on a big screen projected TV
(very rare in 1978), drink beer and watch girls strip or
go out back and supplement your beer drinking
with something a little stronger and then come in
and watch girls strip.
We went there for the big TV screen, of course.
On Monday Night, in California, the party started early and
finished late, but while in California I
didn’t have a car and
never drove anywhere.
I bought Big Blue from a friend of dad’s,
she was a 1973 Chevy Impala
and built like a tank, but much faster.
Big Blue and I set the world on fire
for five years until December 1st, 1986,
the Monday Night we both
went down in flames.
I worked and went to school with David,
he was from New Jersey and
his main claim to fame was
having his collarbone broken by Bill Bates.
Bill (not Bates, he played for Dallas)
hung with us frequently,
he had tried out for the Kansas City Royals and
was studying sports broadcasting.
Most of our activities were
sports and beer related;
we formed a city league softball team,
we went to UT football and basketball games,
played Sports Illustrated dice baseball,
and just basically got together
when we could.
The Giants were playing the 49’ers.
The Giants were on a roll and in fact,
won it all that year. They had Phil Simms and
Lawrence Taylor. The 49’ers had Joe and Jerry,
no last names needed.
This was a big Monday Night session,
this required a big screen.
Not as rare in 1986, Mr. Gaddi’s
had a big screen,
pizza and
pitchers of beer and
a party on Monday Night.
It was a good close game
up until Mark Bravo dragged
7 would be tacklers 20 yards down the field
on a simple play down the middle.
There was no stopping the Giant train then.
Mr. Gaddi’s closed up at eleven, but
the game played on.
Roger’s Place was two blocks away and
had a TV and pitchers of beer,
the train was back on track.
Roger’s Place closed at midnight and
the Giants won the game, but the train
was still rolling…
this was a mistake that found a place to happen.
Doodle’s shared the parking lot
with Roger’s Place.
Doodle’s was a full bar where
one could get lucky or
very unlucky.
It looked good to us at 12 am,
what could go wrong?
Two for one from 12 to 2?
Tequila sunrises, two at a time,
“This train is bound for glory, this train…”
Two hours of
heavy flirting and
laughing and
crying and
drunk dialing ex-girlfriends
(we used quarters back then) later and
it was 2 am,
time for the train to pull in to the station.
We said our good byes
and all headed for
the back roads to home.
I bet you are thinking you
know how this ends, but there
were no blue flashing lights or
great tragedy.
The moral perhaps as subtle
as a sledgehammer, but
this is actually a mystery,
one I have tried to unravel
for the last 23 years.
I made it safe and sound
back to my subdivision
and had only to maneuver 4 blocks
to arrive safe at home.
At the top of the hill
the road went straight down,
perhaps 4 football fields in length,
ending in a hard left
before an abrupt dead end
and after a gentle left at the bottom of the hill.
My Jenson speakers were blaring
“Highway To Hell” and
I floored it and
never let go and
never came close
to making even the gentle left turn,
driving straight through some rose bushes,
a mailbox,
a beautifully manicured lawn of
Kentucky Bluegrass
and being stopped only
by a fire hydrant.
In Hollywood they gush 20 feet,
in real life they bubble up
some water that wouldn’t
put out a campfire.
In Hollywood they take you off to jail and
madcap adventure ensues,
my night in jail was rather sobering
and boring.
I was three months away
from graduation and applying
for jobs in transportation.
I got off easy, but that was delusion.
The only job I got was managing
a gas station.
I lost my chance to make sure
the trains were running on time
in the blink of eye and
the inexplicable
press of a foot
on Monday Night or
early Tuesday morning,
if you prefer.
Big Blue was never the same again,
neither was Monday Night and
truthfully,
that was the night
the party ended.
Mike Carson
5-27-2009
