Of childhood heroes and a long-time wish fulfilled

I love football. It is a sport that has fascinated me since I was a child. I remember playing touch games during recess in elementary school — the best games were always played on a muddy field on a cool, overcast day. I remember begging my parents to let me join the pee-wee team my brother played on. They wouldn’t consent but Dad did let me take part in practices, at least until the boys (in pads) complained that I (sans pads) hit too hard. There’s a running joke in my family that the reason I was voted pee wee homecoming queen (yes, moi, a homecoming queen — gasp!) was because the boys feared me. I don’t know if that’s true, but I definitely had a passion for the game at a young age.

It wasn’t until my teen years, however, that I developed a true understanding of the game’s rules and strategy. And it wasn’t until I saw Joe Montana play (under the genius tutelage of Bill Walsh) that I comprehended the artistry of the sport. Montana made me fall in love with football in a whole new way and I spent much of the ’80s living and dying with my beloved 49ers and their surgeon of a quarterback.

It was a thing of beauty to watch Montana slice apart defenses with precision passes. And there was nothing more thrilling than watching him raise both arms up over his head following a touchdown. For opposing teams in that decade, that had to have been one of the most fearsome sights in the NFL, but it always made me jump up and shout with joy.

I was kind of the odd person out in my family when it came to NFL allegiances. I was the only 49ers fan in clan of requisite Cowboys faithful. But I wouldn’t be swayed, no matter how hard they tried. I loved my Joe Montana, remember to this day being the only person in the room smiling at the end of the 1982 NFC Championship game. (“The Catch,” anyone?)

In fact, I was such a devoted Joe Montana fan that my little sister, when she was in elementary school, actually tried to write him to get me an autograph. I don’t know who she wrote really, but she did get a publicity picture back, and I still have it. I also still have a number of trading cards and a couple of posters that I bought back in high school. There was one thing, however, that I always wanted and never got — a No. 16 jersey.

For years, I salivated at the prospect of donning that red jersey with three white stripes on each sleeve, emblazoned with a huge 16 front and back, and MONTANA across the shoulders. I would see people wear them and, boy, was I bitten by the green-eyed monster of jealousy.

I asked my parents for one, but knew it would never happen. It cost too much and they had three other kids with wish lists as well. I mentioned it to my grandparents, but I’m not sure if they fully understood the significance at the time, though they did later. When I started working my first job, I kept thinking I’d get one, but there never seemed to be enough dollars to do so after paying for gas and school lunches. And forget having money when you’re in college.

By the time I was finally earning enough and buying one was comfortably in my sights, Montana retired and the jerseys were no longer sold, so I kind of wrote it off as a dream that would go unfulfilled. Then I went to the mall on Labor Day.

As is my habit, I went into FanZone with the intention of looking around, maybe buying a t-shirt since the NFL season is about to start, but I didn’t have anything in particular in mind to purchase when I went inside. I don’t usually look at the jerseys because, frankly, I don’t have any particular player (except maybe former Longhorn Vince Young) that inspires me that much to make the investment. But as I was walking around, I caught a glimpse of that old 49ers red and those three plain-Jane white stripes out of the corner of my eye, and looked up at the jersey wall.

The jersey was kind of folded, so I couldn’t see the whole thing, but I did see that the second number was a “6″ and that the last name of the player ended with “TANA”.

Now, it might seem utterly silly to confess, but I almost cried. I seriously teared up as I walked over and straightened the jersey to see the whole thing — I could barely reach the tail on it because it was so high up on the wall. And as I stood there, staring up at that jersey that I’ve been wanting for more than 20 years, I made a decision, which I announced to my sister (yes, the one who so sweetly wrote JM back when she was a kid) once I waved her over to where I stood.

I pointed up to the wall and said, “I don’t care how much it costs. I am not leaving this store without one.”

And I didn’t.

Links of Interest

Joe Montana (Wikipedia)

***The first image used in this post is a copyrighted work and used here for informational and entertainment purposes ONLY.***