4,000 Miles to Joe

In the fall of 1972 I was marching-band my way through high school in Matawan, New Jersey while Joe Namath, clad in green and white, was running around Shea Stadium with the rest of the Jets.  I could have cared less about football, but John Phillips Sousa-ing each week with the rest of the Marching Huskies (as well as admiring my classmates in full padding) eventually took its toll.

My football-ism is stuck in those glory days of Joe, Roger and Howard Cosell.  I don’t particularly like Instant Replays; and questionable ethics in athletes just continues to disappoint many of us.

Joe Namath became, and remains, my hero.  BC wears her homemade Jets coat with pride; and I almost fell off a sports barstool recently when, on one screen broadcasting vintage AFL footage, I spotted #12 hobbling across the field with that fabulous head of hair.  Aaahhh…

So what’s the point of this post?  Well, many people seem to feel a destination is needed in order to give my journey any purpose or meaning.  ‘Wandering aimlessly’ just doesn’t cut it, so I’ve decided to use this as an excuse to cross one item off my personal Bucket List:

I would like Joe Namath to sign my 1972 Life magazine, which I discovered packed away in Mom’s house.  And maybe snap a photo.

That’s all; nothing sinister.  I’m sure he’s busy but I’m hoping for 5 minutes.  I figure that if this post ever makes it to his breakfast table, he can either be flattered and pencil me in for some time in October (after spending time with Mom in ‘Jersey), or…

…they'll be plenty of time to request an order of protection.  But just so Joe doesn't feel used, I'll create a gourd for him as a thank you.


I happen to be lying about having a Bucket List; to me it’s become a ‘fad’ or whatever the term is today.  You’re either going to do something or you’re not; no Bucket List is going to propel you any more than your own fortitude.

Fortunately I had (most of) my wild adventures when I was young and my body was more limber.

I think Joe might say the same.