Life On Monday Night

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