I watched the first quarter of this week’s Monday Night Football game. Those fifteen minutes moved at an arthritic pace, equal to the borish syncopation of recent Academy Award ceremonies. The highly anticipated return of Peyton Manning to MNF drew millions of viewers anxious to witness the second coming of this generation’s most proficient passer. Manning’s first road game with his new team, the Denver Broncos, proved to be unceremonious and altogether uncomfortable to watch. Yes, Manning threw three interceptions in the first quarter and his team fell behind early. But, as I’m told, the visiting Broncos mounted a respectable comeback, yet still lost the game 27-20 to the upstart Atlanta Falcons. I went to bed early, fully convinced that sleep would be more titillating.

It may surprise some to know that Peyton is not running for President, though maybe he should. Aging quarterbacks reinvent themselves regularly in the NFL, but few have been held in higher esteem than this year’s transfer from Indianapolis. Ironically, as Monday’s game progressed, it wasn’t Peyton who drew all the attention, except for the ubiquitous squatters playing in the Falcon’s defensive secondary. Many fans were drawn to the underwhelming and comical presence of the NFL’s replacement refs. Fortunately for Peyton, someone else’s mistakes overshadowed his own.

As some of you know, the replacement referees are the NFL’s answer to a unionized squabble between the regular referees and the League, personified by Commissioner Roger Goodell.  We often refer to replacement workers as “scrubs.” Call them what you may, I find the drama quite entertaining. Though most of the scrubs are officials from Division III college football, some have officiated only on junior high and high school levels. I’ve known a few high school football officials and they are all hard-working, honest individuals who love the game and grieve over missed calls and imperfectly officiated games. There’s no reason to think that most of the NFL’s replacement officials don’t approach their part-time assignments the same way. But we’ve learned that in the age of Fantasy Football and labor disagreements, nothing is as real as it appears, even the presumption of unbiased officiating. The hope of immortal transcendence often attaches itself to the number of wins and loses achieved by our preferred franchise, or the performance of our fantasy team’s prized players. In the middle of a game, one replacement official chastised a starting quarterback. “Come on,” the ref vented, “I need you for my fantasy (team).” Referees are no exception to this mesmerizing product we call professional football and the larger-than-life personalities that excel at the game.

Like preschoolers roaming around the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, replacement officials have annoyed and exasperated the players, coaches and fans with a dubious grasp of the rules and inexplicable game-altering calls. The ferocious emotionalism of the game and the corresponding financial stakes are too high to be left in the hands of amateurs, we insist. But this is the very place where the clear-headed should intervene and deliver an unpopular but reasonable message. I am not naive enough to argue that the NFL is just a game. The growing cancer of greed and the hope of lucrative rookie contracts can be observed by reading the tweets of elite high school athletes looking for the surest path to the NFL. Is it really any wonder that seventy percent of NFL players file for bankruptcy within two years of retirement? At the excruciating pace of today’s game, replacement refs are only postponing the inevitable court dates for many of this year’s NFL retirees.

For the record, I’m a fan of the game. But football is not a competition that will uncover the cure for cancer, stabilize tensions in the Middle East or eradicate terrorist cells. If our favorite team squanders a lead due to the inept determination of a replacement official, no one will die, except the guy whose gambling debts have made him the subject of a hard target search. My favorite NFL team won last Monday night but may not fare so well this weekend. Under the near-sighted and uncoordinated supervision of this week’s replacement refs, who knows what might happen. I can only marvel at the product on the field and be grateful that the NCAA officials are not threatening to strike. Now that would be personal and catastrophic. Pardon me. Roger Goodell just called. Seems I’m needed on the field in San Diego this Sunday afternoon. Better go wash my black and whites. Go Falcons!!

Today is my dad’s 70th Birthday.  We spoke last night and agreed that it’s better to be 70 years young than 40 years old.  I’m not sure how old I feel, but I’m glad he’s celebrating today in relatively good health.

Since dad is now a septuagenarian, I’m reminded of the deadpan monologue delivered by Billy Crystal in the 1991 movie City Slickers.  While lamenting the progressive stations of life, Crystal dryly observes, “In your 70’s, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale. You start eating dinner at 2:00 in the afternoon, you have lunch around 10:00, breakfast the night before, spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate soft yogurt and muttering, ‘How come the kids don’t call? How come the kids don’t call.'”  In case you’re wondering, I do call.  And dad eats dinner around 8:45 . . . PM.

As far as I know, dad is not planning to move to Ft. Lauderdale, though I think he might enjoy south Florida.  At 70, he still works four days a week.  He methodically and predictably reads the Metro section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution every morning.  But there’s more to him than what you might think.  I’m one of those adults whose childhood yielded numerous fond memories.  I’d like to recount some of those that are still fresh to me as I’m sure they are for dad.

Every year, we packed the car and drove south to vacation at the beach.  We spent many summers lounging around the pool at the Anchorage Hotel in Daytona Beach Shores.  When we checked out at the end of the week, dad dutifully made reservations for the following summer.  It gave me something to look forward to all year. We also spent a week each summer at Indian Springs State Park.  That’s where I learned to canoe, swim, dive, build a campfire, tell ghost stories, and frog gig.  Yes, I stabbed frogs for fun.  We even skinny dipped a few times but I couldn’t find any pictures to post with this blog.

When I was ten, dad found me languishing around the house one overcast morning and announced with authority, “If it clears up today, we’re going canoeing. If it rains, we’re going to buy you a motorcycle.”  I’ve never prayed so hard for rain in my entire life.  Later that day, I came home with a brand new Honda XR75.  Even in a downpour, I was the king of the neighborhood.

In Junior High, dad picked me up every day after football practice.  That might not sound like a big deal. But upon dragging myself to the car, dad would always have a cooler full of ice-cold Gatorade waiting for me.  Through all this, mom and dad endured the ear-splitting sound of my electric guitar booming throughout the house and across the neighborhood.  I had the coolest guitar and loudest amplifier, thanks to them.  This probably explains why my dad can’t hear anymore.

Many of my memories center upon the long and unheralded days working with dad at the Farmer’s Market in Forest Park.  Dad sold potatoes and onions to local residents and businesses around south Atlanta.  If I ever wrote an autobiography, it would be entitled, “Mornings with Taters.”  That’s not a typo.  As I’ve told dad several times, making me get up early to go work with him was one of the best things he ever did for me.  Since most days it was just me and dad, I learned how to drive the company truck and delivered pallets of produce to local customers when I was just 14 years old.  Don’t tell my mom.  And if you’re an advocate of diversity training, I suggest spending a day on the platforms at Kelly’s Tater House.  I conversed with all manner of folks, even some that defy description and anthropological classification.

There’s much more I could share but I’m testing your limits by now.  Dad, happy birthday!  Like the rest of us, I’m very proud of you.  I’m particularly glad Scott Doby saved your life that day on board the USS Southerland.  A small, heroic act afforded me a place in this world and a strong name.  Thanks for being our hero in big and small ways.  Love you, Dad!