Here's Your Sign

The dryer was tossing practice pants around in tight circles as we stood in line. I didn't know if the "something is burning" aroma was from a worn out belt, the out dated inner workings of the ancient machine or the pants had caught on fire. We were high school freshmen, and, naturally, bringing up the rear. We huddled around the equipment room door like cattle. I would come to learn over the next four years that the slightly burning smell was as natural a part of a locker room as the jock straps or the used up strips of tape strewn about after a long hot afternoon on the field.

"Next." Coach Scott didn't even look up. I stepped into the doorway. Before I could even look around or relish my moment at the head of the line a jersey hit me in the chest. "Next."

I extended my "game shirt" to arms length to get a good look. It had already served in a campaign or two. There was a small hole on the upper left side and a smear of blue paint, hopefully off of a Paris High Blue Devil helmet, on one sleeve. It was faded out to a light gray, with two UCLA type red stripes across each shoulder. It happened to be a large, but it didn't matter, with freshmen "one size fits all". The most distinguishing feature on the heavy cotton jersey was the big red 45 emblazed on both front and back.

Blind luck!

That's how my number was picked. Just a jersey selected at random by an over worked coach at the end of another long day. It was the least favorite of all his duties. And he had no way of knowing the lasting effect of his routine action......

I immediately begin to bond with "45" wearers across the nation. Johnny Podres was sporting that number back in 1955 when he defeated the New York Yankees in game seven of the World Series to bring the Brooklyn Dodgers their only championship. Emlen Tunnell wore number 45 as a defensive back for the New York Giants in the NFL. I began to track his interceptions. My beloved St. Louis Cardinals had just given that number to an untested rookie up from the minors. His name was Bob Gibson. I'd never heard of him but I pledged to follow him closely. I was going to do everything in my power to help him along.

Us "45'ers" have got to stick together!

I wore it so proudly that first season! I had a good look at every game from way down on the end of the bench. I never got close to getting in the game. But Coach Scott declared that us freshmen had really helped to prepare the team each week. What he meant was we lined up on defense day after grueling day like we were Blue Devils or Gleason Bulldogs or Huntingdon High Mustangs while Bob Cassidy, Tommy Herron and Doug Paschall stomped right over us!

I earned my number one footprint at a time!

I begged Coach Givens to give me "45" for my basketball number. I almost quit the baseball team because the highest number they had was 18. And when the new football coach came in and moved me to quarterback he wanted me to take a number in the teens, "Son, you've got to have a quarterback number."

No, I didn't. I'd worn it for a couple of years now and I fought to keep it! I'm not sure I understand to this day such loyalty to a number. But I know there was magic in it for me! And you can't outgrow it. Number "45" has been with me now just a year short of half a century.

You went by your number in the locker room. "Hey, ‘four-five', that was the worst pass I've ever seen! I was wide open! You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn!" "‘Four-five', you want to cruise by the dairy bar before we go home?" "Listen, ‘four-five', I'm in kind of a pickle, you got five I can borrow?"

Stan Musial had the most famous number in our neck of the woods. Everyone knew who "6" was. We still hold that number in reverence. Ted Williams' number 9 or Mickey Mantle's "7" are just as well known. In football, even the most novice sportsman recognized Johnny Unitas' "19" and Red Grange's "77". You had to get a little more into it to remember Bill George was "61" and Bronko Nagurski sported a big "3"on his Minnesota Gopher uniform.

I had other numbers over the years. My college baseball number was 10. I don't know what it was with baseball and low numbers back in the sixties. I wore it but I told Coach Majors the first day I could never reach my full potential in this jersey. "Oh, that's alright son," Shirley Majors was the most direct man I've ever met, "we're not expecting all that much out of you anyway."

I named my first son "6". Cathy was a little surprised I didn't give him "45". I didn't want a junior. My second son was "14". He was named for Ken Boyer, a third baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals that I admired. Having the right number is serious business in our family! Both of our boys have already selected a worthy number for their children.

I'm so proud of them.

And if you think this is all silly......check with Michael Jordan (who, incidentally, has worn "45"on occasion), Payton Manning, Alex Rodriguez, Dale Earnhardt, Jr.......

That old high school football jersey still holds a place of honor in my closet. It is a tad more faded and seems to have shrunk over the years but I wouldn't take a million dollars for it. I get it out every once in a while. I run my fingers across the numbers and remember another place and another time. I hold it up close and I can still smell the burnt odor from a now extinct dryer......

Respectfully,

Kes