Later this month, the college playoffs and Super Bowl will be over. That means no more office football pools until next September. Football and office pools go together like peanut butter and crackers. Even Baptists know how they work: Everyone buys a square with a random number for each team. If your numbers match the last two digits of both team’s final score, you win the cash. And I can’t think about office pools without thinking about my dad.
This story began on January 1, 1966. Alabama was playing Nebraska in the Orange Bowl for the National Championship. But there was another reason the game was so important. My dad was participating in a huge office pool.
Since this was such a big game, the price of the squares were $25 each – an unheard-of number back then. This made the total winnings $2,500. Adjusted for inflation, that would be over $23,000 today.
My dad didn’t draw good numbers: Alabama 9, and Nebraska 7. Consequently, the money wasn’t on his mind as kickoff approached.
From the get-go, Bear Bryant’s team kept Nebraska dizzy. Alabama kicked on-sides kicks, passed from the end zone, and even threw the ball to their linemen. Nebraska was ill-prepared for such an onslaught, so Bama took a comfy 24-7 halftime lead.
As the bands played, Dad was doing math. If Nebraska could finish with 7, 17, 27, or 37 points, he was halfway there.
But, Alabama would need to score 15 or 25 more points to come up with a total ending in 9, Dad’s winning number. Highly unlikely.
The third quarter began with Nebraska scoring a touchdown and missing a two-point conversion. 24-13. Alabama answered with a TD and made their two-point conversion. 32-13.
Dad’s legs began twitching. Another touchdown by Alabama, and two more by Nebraska, and he would hit the jackpot.
When the fourth quarter started, Nebraska moved down the field, scored and made the PAT. 32-20. Dad began pacing as Bama shredded Nebraska’s defense. Another easy TD made the score 39-20 with very little time left.
Once Alabama kicked off, my father began cheering for Nebraska like an alumnus from Omaha. The Cornhuskers drove into Alabama territory, and with time winding down, scored a touchdown.
Dad leaped, did a pirouette, and began doing a little jig. Our den was a joyous place. It’s 39-26! He began singing, ”Kick the PAT and it’s cash for me!
Then my father saw Nebraska Coach Bob Devaney holding up two fingers. They were going for two.
The dancing and singing stopped. Darkness fell over the room. Instantly, my father became the Spawn of Satan. His face turned red. His eyes bulged. He began cursing loudly. My dog ran out of the room.
This was not stuck-in-traffic, gonna-be-late-for-the-movie, kind of cursing. What came out of my Dad’s mouth was something I had never heard before. He was using words that I still don’t know today. A few years later, I went to see “The Exorcist,” and was struck by the similarity between the possessed girl and my father.
I was terrified, but strangely found myself admiring this outburst. If anger and rage was art, then dad was Michelangelo.
Nonetheless, I was torn between staying in the den with Beelzebub, or hiding under my bed with the dog. I kept my seat.
Mother walked in from the kitchen and watched in silence. Clearly, she did not approve of this insanity, but allowed it to go on for a few minutes. Wisely, Mom was letting steam out of the pressure cooker.
Finally, she spoke.
“James, that’s enough.”
He wasn’t ready to give it up. “That stupid,^%#~*%#, Devaney! He didn’t even have to go for two! I was going to use some of that money to buy Joe a car next year!”
Whaaat? Now it was personal. I had become collateral damage. My head snapped around, and I yelled, “That low-life, piece of crap, fat excuse of a football coach, Bob Devaney!”
For the record, the game ended 39-28. Dad didn’t get the money, and I didn’t get the car, but I got a story to tell for the rest of my life.
And for the record, I still don’t like Nebraska much either.
