Super Bowl Sunday brings back memories of growing up in a football crazed house. This was back in the day when they didn’t pay three million dollars for 30 seconds of advertising and the players made less than the president of the United States. This was back in the days of Tom Landry and the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins being arch rivals. This was in the day of Dick Butkus, Rosy Greer and Dandy Don Meredith. It was when Joe Namath made sexy shaving cream commercials and wore panty hose.
Any Sunday afternoon after September and before January you would find my whole family gathered in the den with the television tuned to the football game. The preacher at our church would keep his sermon short on those Sundays when the Cowboys were playing and we would hurry home in time for the kick-off. To say we were Cowboy fans is an understatement. My mother had a portrait of Tom Landry in her bedroom. Hey my brother painted it. She had a clock with the Dallas Cowboy Star on it, my dad made it. Time would stop and all extemporaneous actions ceased when the Cowboys played. Heck a second string Quarterback asked my sister to go boat riding with him and we all swooned. Too bad she was already married he may have caught the fever and done better with his career. Sometimes people would stop by and there may or may not be a crowd.
One Sunday when I was still quite young my dad’s best friend and his family were at our house. We were very close to this family and loved them like they were our own family. We took vacations together, ate together, water skied together, trick or treated together, played baseball, dug tunnels and generally just enjoyed being together. We were all sitting around in our scattered places watching the Cowboys go from winning to losing and back again. There was a running back named Drew Pearson who was a receiver. It was one particularly tense game and everyone was on the edge of their seats. Then there was a fumble which if Dallas could recover would mean the game. Drew swept in grabbed the ball and ran. That’s when Francis, the matriarch of our friend’s family, stood up and started screaming “RUN YOU SON OF A BITCH RUN!” That did it! That was it. That was the chant from then on. Anytime Dallas got the ball and the chance to run the ball the chant would ring out “RUN YOU SON OF A BITCH RUN!” From the smallest boy child to the oldest girl child, this cry rang out.
So no matter whom you are rooting for today, no matter that you don’t necessarily like the teams in the Super Bowl. It doesn’t matter that you don’t necessarily like football just remember “RUN YOU SON OF A BITCH RUN!” and everyone will think you are a true sports fan.
Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go make some dip and cook some little hotdogs wrapped in dough in preparation for my chance to scream RUN YOU SON OF A BITCH RUN. The only problem is I usually scream this during the commercials.