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The Bike Lesson

January 27, 2007 11:03 PM | 0 Comments

Growing up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in the 1960s, I was oblivious to sports. This is incomprehensible to most men I know, who can’t believe I wasn’t avidly tracking the tragic exit of the Milwaukee Braves or the promising debut of the Milwaukee Bucks or the incredible feats of the Green Bay Packers. In fact, the Pack is the source of a recurring nightmare I have had throughout my life.

In this nightmare, my father is teaching me to ride a bike in our “Rear Window-like” back alley. It is a fabulous new pink bike, complete with a sparkly seat, white and pink streamers, and what my brothers called a “sissy” bar, a high, curved bar designed to transport extra passengers on the back of the bike. Visibly missing are training wheels because my father “didn’t believe in them.”

Just as we are getting started, Skip, one of my Dad’s buddies -- a 6-foot-five-inch Teutonic giant with a square jaw and a Schlitz® beer can permanently welded to his hand -- announces that “the game” is about to begin.

My Dad’s response is visceral: He abandons me mid-push and races for the kick-off. I experience my own personalized version of a kick-off from the football’s point of view. I don’t take flight, but I careen wild-eyed down the alley, my short life replaying itself in slow motion.

I travel a remarkably long distance, list, wobble, flail my arms and then crash into a couple of garbage cans. Then I wake up in a sweat.

So, now, flash forward 35+ years (probably more, but who’s counting) and I am seized with a strange, morbid curiosity: I need to find out why the Green Bay Packers were so damned important.

Why do I have this recurring nightmare? Why was my bike riding instruction stalled out for so long? Why do I suffer from panic attacks when asked to take out the garbage?

So, I decide to visit the source of my pain, the official Green Bay Packers web site, www.packers.com . I refer to a chapter in their esteemed history, Chapter 6: The Lombardi Era. I learn that under Lombardi’s leadership the Packers won world championships in 1961, ’62, ’65, ‘66, and ’67. Here I quote from the site:

“His (Lombardi’s) teams, which finished no lower than second from 1960-67, became the standard of football excellence. Over a 9-year span as head coach, Lombardi went 98-30-4 (.758). In post-season, though, he went 9-1 (.900), winning his final nine playoff games, a feat incomparable in pro sports. He coached and won two Super Bowl games.” Blah, blah, blah. Honestly, this means nothing to me. Translation, please?

Nonetheless, here’s where a little bit of knowledge placed in the wrong, fumbling hands becomes dangerous.

The next day, I am sitting on Alki Beach in Seattle with my husband and his good friend, Stu. He is a tall, lanky guy with red hair and freckles and looks like Alfalfa from “The Little Rascals” pretending to be a grown up. He is also the quintessential sports enthusiast.

To impress them I take a swig of my microbrew, gaze earnestly out at Elliott Bay and say, “I’m learning a little bit about the history of the Green Bay Packers and the Guy Lombardo years.” They both look at each other and laugh hysterically. My husband says, “It’s not GUY LOMBARDO. It’s VINCE LOMBARDI.”

Trying to dig myself out of the verbal hole I have excavated for myself, I say, “Ohhhhh, the guy who used to appear in the Mr. Coffee® commercials, right?”

This is followed by more raucous laughter, more humiliation. And, my husband says, “No. No. No. That was JOE DIMAGGIO, and he was a BASEBALL player.”

This gives you an insight into the handicap I face in trying to overcome my Sports Widow status. My word retrieval system malfunctions frequently. For years, my mother’s nickname for me was Miss Malaprop. Mrs. Malaprop was a character who was always bungling her words in an obscure 1775 play called “The Rivals” by Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

My malapropism becomes especially pronounced when it comes to acronyms. In my labyrinthine mind, AAA , AARP and AA are all interchangeable. This does not mean in some Freudian way that I believe all senior citizens like to travel and are recovering alcoholics, it’s just the way I organize information. Anyone can see that Lombardi, Lombardo and DiMaggio, all Italian names (I think) with similar word endings, can wind up in the same jumbled file.

So, now my education begins. The Sports Widow is led on a divine path to determine the difference between these three individuals and their relevance to the world.

For me the most accessible individual to start with is Guy Lombardo. He comes from popular culture, from The Big Band era. Guy Lombardo’s Royal Canadians used to play “Auld Lang Syne” at New York’s Waldorf Astoria on New Year’s Eve. Reviewers commented that his orchestra was immediately identifiable by “the exaggerated vibrato of the saxophones, the clipped brass phrases,” and a unique “vocal styling.”

Guy may never have coached a professional football team, but his New Year’s Eve party was the longest running annual special program in radio history, with 1979 marking its 50th consecutive broadcast.

Likewise, Joe DiMaggio was not just a purveyor of Mr. Coffee® brand coffee-makers, he is considered one of the greatest baseball players of all time. In fact, he defines the word percolating. DiMaggio played for the New York Yankees from 1936-1951, taking them to the World Series 10 times with nine championships. In 1941, with World War II looming, DiMaggio set a record that gripped the entire nation: He snagged at least one hit in 56 straight games. (That’s definitely more snags than I have ever experienced with pantyhose in my adult life.) This record is one of the most hallowed achievements in baseball history.

DiMaggio was also voted the American League's most valuable player three times. His lifetime batting average was .325 times in 6,281 at bats, a remarkably low number, apparently.

DiMaggio was also renowned for his grace on the ball field and for never slacking. When asked why he played so hard, he replied: “Because there is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first time. I owe him my best.”

I confess, what interests me the most is DiMaggio’s 9-month marriage to Hollywood siren Marilyn Monroe, in 1954, and their subsequent on-again, off-again relationship. After her death, DiMaggio had roses delivered to her grave site twice a week for the next 20 years. Now that’s tragically romantic.

I’ve already shared some of the greatness of Vince Lombardi, but his hard work, dedication and perseverance may be his greatest legacy. Gearing up for the 1959 season, Lombardi, who was conducting the first of his notoriously intense training sessions, is quoted as saying: “Dancing is a contact sport. Football is a hitting sport.” In 1971, the National Football League’s most prestigious award was renamed the Vince Lombardi Super Bowl Trophy in his honor, and in 2000, ESPN’s SportsCentury named him Coach of the Century.

So, in the revised words of “Auld Lang Syne,” “May new acquaintances not be forgot.” Despite my challenges, I’ll do my best to remember the contributions of this great trio -- Guy, Joe and Vince, all Italians with somewhat similar sounding last names. I also think I’ll hop on my bike.

After all, Life is a Contact Sport. Seize the Remote.©
Nan Hall, the Sports Widow

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