I posted a tribute a few weeks ago to John Harbaugh, the young rookie coach of the Baltimore Ravens. And, I said that, because he was a devoted Catholic, I was going to root for the Ravens — since the Patriots were out for the season. I don’t really root for a team because of religious reasons, but I felt that Harbaugh deserved a victory for all the good he does for everyone, including his players and fans. I don’t have TV, so I headed over my sister’s house yesterday evening, where I knew I was going to be in the company of some die-hard, passionate Steeler fans. My sister’s husband and family of eleven are all, everyone of them, fanatical, steely-eyed, and obnoxious Pittsburg fans. And they always have been. Even their poor grandchildren are decked out in Steeler clothes as soon as they can stick up their arms for a touchdown. No critics from the choir, please. We all know about the bad influence, in general, of pro-sports today. For the choir’s information, however, there are pro-athletes who are a great influence for the good, and many of these are active pro-lifers, like retired QB Phil Simms, who was doing the broadcasting for the game, and Jay Feely kicker for the NY Jets.
I was a little shaky going over there. My wife pleaded with me not to root for either team, but to just keep my mouth shut and not to let the dog know that I was afraid of him. The dog hates me. It’s not a nice dog, — you know, the kind of canine that God meant to be men-friendly. I don’t know what kind of a dog it is, but it’s rather large, and large men, like me, are unwelcome on his turf. So, just be nice, my wife says to me. Well, I can’t be nice watching football. I shouldn’t even be watching the sport. It’s poison to my system.
So, I took a seat by myself in the corner of the living room lest I be caught in the middle of this feverish mob of black and gold duded nacho-munching loonies, and I awaited the 6:30 kickoff. That did not happen until 7:00. I kept wondering where that animal was. It was getting past my bedtime. And my brother-in-law is usually a lot sharper than he was last night with the commerical censor button.
Suddenly, I noticed something that I had just taken for granted. My nephew and his five year-old son were wearing Pittsburg jerseys with the number 43 on them. I asked them “Who is number 43?” Troy Polamalu, they answered at once. I sensed a bit of a barb in the tone, as if I ought to have known who #43 is.
Although I did not know Polamalu’s number, I did know who Troy Polamalu was. Knowing that, I had to make a change. I could no longer be a Raven’s fan. I had to be neutral. Here is why (an article from the Pittsburg Catholic archives.) Polamalu, by the way, clinched the game for the Steelers with a forty yard return, pass interception. He was crushing the whole game.
