"The luckiest guys in the world" from Steve

Last week was a new first for me. I went to a sports bar by myself to watch the Packer game. Since Steve died I've had a football buddy and cohort in our friend, Dan. Dan is off doing an eight week internship stint in West Virginia, leaving me to fend for myself through the remainder of the season. Which is fine, and right, and something I am finally ready for.

Last season Dan watched every game with me. And the Packers had a nice run. Ran it all the way to the Super Bowl. I didn't actually start waking up from my widow haze to see what was in front of my face until the playoffs. And then I was all jittery. It was seemed too good to be true - The Pack winning a Super Bowl for my Stevie in heaven. It was the ending I craved. It was the ending I got.

This year has been a bit different. My sight is clearer and I am able to see the plays, see the calls, see the game. I find myself looking around for Steve, wanting an explanation about a rule or trying to understand a line-up. But I play on, truly finding my own stride in being a Packer fan.

And I'm still a Packer fan. Sixteen months tomorrow and I'm still a Packer fan. Moving the ball forward. Moving it down the field. I was the lucky one, Babe.

(The following was written by Steve on his blog six years ago.)

The luckiest guys in the world - October 28, 2005

I have a very special relationship with my cousin. Before I met my wife he was my absolute best friend. We’d take trips together, have great meals together, go to cultural events together, and on those occasions where as St. Ides once put it “the drink may have flowed too freely”, we reveled in our everlasting adolescence together. He’s the one person in my family who I actually get along with. On the friend depth chart (if adults still keep such things) it goes my wife, my cousin, and all the rest. Well, that’s not true St. Ides cracked the top 5 this year and continues to move up the charts. We’ll re-visit that when my December final standings come out.

We grew up avid Mets fans. I was the product of a Brooklyn Dodger fanatic whose heart was broken in 1959 and somehow blamed this on the Yankees. My cousin is the product of an amazing union between a die hard Yankee fan and a die hard Red Sox fan who finally got her prayers answered last fall. Since we’re 4 years apart, I can’t imagine that he remembers the ’69 Mets (he was 3), but we spent the decade of the 70s being Mets fans together. These were the Frank Tavaras years, the time when the team was run by the miserly M. Donald Grant who in June of 1976 broke my heart by trading Tom Seaver to the Reds. It was a time of futility, a time of mediocrity, and a time when the other New York team had Reggie and Guidry and Thurman Munson to name a few.

By the 1980’s we were old enough to go to games together, and I was old enough to by the beer. $20.00 could get you four big beers at Shea, and in 1980 that was all the money in the world (and before you do the Math my cousin was 14). We spent a lot of days at Shea together throughout that decade. We were there in 1988 when the Mets clinched the division. We saw numerous games with what we called the “Tud Tickets”. These were the corporate box seats for the Alfred Mainzer Greeting Card Co., and were located on the Field level, first base, about the 4th row. Uncle Tud swept the floors for Mainzer and occasionally they’d throw him a bone and give him the tickets.

But as much of a Mets fan as I am, my cousin is the penultimate Mets fan. Not only does he bleed blue and orange, he shits it too. In little baseball shaped shits. Once he shit a shit that looked exactly like “Le Grande Orange” himself, Rusty Staub, as God as my witness. Time and distance and several nasty baseball strikes have waned my passion for the game. Living in Richmond hasn’t helped much either, as maybe 6 or 7 Mets games per year make it on the national broadcast. So last week when I found my commemorative 1986 World Champion Mets cap, given away on some forgotten evening in 1987 at Shea, I had to send it to him. See, not only is my cousin a huge Mets fan, so is his wife. Our conversation went something like this:

Ring Ring Ring….
“Samichlaus residence, hello?”
“Hey Dude”
“Hey Dude, what’s going on?”
“Dude, I just wanted to say thanks so much for the hat! That is so cool!”
“Yeah dude, when I saw it, I immediately thought of you and Lisa. You guys are like Mr. and Mrs. Met”
“Thanks dude”
“Man, dude, you are so lucky. It’s so cool that you found someone who loves the Mets as much as you do”
“Dude, there like 162 games in a season and I’d say that we watch at least 150 of ‘em”
“Duuuuuude!”

Men are truly blessed when they find wives that share their passions.

When I met Mrs. Samichlaus, she knew nothing and cared little about football. But she quickly saw my passion for the game and decided to learn. She knew that one of the keys to a good marriage was sharing common interests, so she agreed to learn about the Green Bay Packers. We would always watch the Packer games, no questions asked. I in turn agreed to (a) teach her what I knew and (b) giver her veto over any other game I wanted to watch.

And she learned about the Packers, and started to enjoy the games. The Packers, it seemed, played better when we watched together. They played better when we wore certain clothes. They played better when the autographed Brett Favre helmet was placed between us and the TV. They played better when she pounced on me and, well I better leave that one alone. So Sunday, with the Packers up 17 – 0 and the Vikings falling apart. She decided to go and take a nap.

“If things start to go bad”, she said, “wake me up”.

And I didn’t.

After the game when she woke, I sadly told her that the Packers had lost. Incredulous, she replied “You were supposed to wake me up!”

“Oh honey”, I said, “you needed to sleep and you know it really doesn’t make a difference”

“But you were supposed to wake me up!!!!”

She wasn’t happy with me, not one bit.

Things stayed quiet in the Samichlaus house for a while until a little after 7:00. I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something that sounded like a football game coming from my living room. Thinking I was mistaken, I continued with my chore, but no… this was definitely a football game. I calmly walked into the living room and found my wife glued to the Giants – Broncos game.

“They can win if they score a touchdown, and they have the ball” she said, her eyes never shifting from the screen.

“Who?” I inquired

“THE GIANTS!!! GOD!!!” And then she observed: “Manning looks so puny out there…”

I was surprised with her familiarity with Eli Manning. She actually knew about him.

We watched the end of the game, the Giants drove, and when Manning threw the TD with almost no time on the clock, we both screamed in joy.

“Son of a bitch”, said Mrs. Samichlaus, “I can’t believe I’m watching football games on my own and enjoying them!”

She wasn’t upset by this, not one bit.

My cousin and I are the two luckiest fuckers I know.