SPORTS

My first memories are about sports. My dad told me I was ten-months old and sitting on his lap in the fall of 1951 when the New York Giants' Bobby Thompson hit the home run heard around the world to beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in the third game of their iconic playoffs.

There wasn't a Notre Dame game from the thirties or forties that he couldn't retell, but he would get misty eyed when he would relate me this anecdote: "I was sitting on my father's shoulders as the Notre Dame players stepped down from the train on their West Coast journey to play SC, when my father suddenly started pointing and said, 'There's Knute Rochne!'"

I was a California guy. I worshipped Sandy Koufax and Maury Wills and the Los Angeles Dodgers before my allegiance changed to the Oakland A's and Catfish Hunter and Reggie Jackson. I initially followed the Los Angeles Rams with Roman Gabriel at QB (pronounced RO-man GAB-ri-el before I switched my allegiances once again, first with the wild Oakland Raiders and all their characters and then to the more sedate San Francisco with Notre Dame's Joe Montana at the helm, the greatest quarterback in NFL history until Tom Brady replaced him.

I played football in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball throughout the spring and summer. There were countless days spent in neighborhood school yards where the action was as intense as any games played under the Friday Night Lights. Sports was, is and will always be the metaphor for everything in life.

When I want to achieve a Zen transcendence, I go to a bar, drink, eat and watch sports. It is generally quiet and dark. With or without company, those are my most sublime moments.

Yesterday my youngest brother called. After receiving the basic information about the family, we discussed the Super Bowl, both of us agreeing that the Pats will prevail, the greatness of Roger Federer, the beauty of basketball as displayed by the Golden State Warriors and that Willie Mays was a streaky hitter.

Today I will take my three sons and significant other to Cobbleheads where we have a table reserved to watch Super Bowl LII. I still remember Super Bowl I well when the Green Bay Packers thrashed the Kansas City Chiefs. Nobody from my generation will ever forget Super Bowl III when the New York Jets' Joe Namath predicted that they would defeat the Baltimore Colts. I don't know if "Broadway" Joe proving true to his word was more or less shocking than the degenerate Donald "The Dick" Trump winning the presidency.

As Sonny and Cher once sang: "The beat goes on!"

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