A Little Late in My Rememberance

My dad would take me along to his best friend Steve's for Monday Night Football. I couldn't tell you what year(s) this occurred, or my age--old enough to remember images, too young to know that what the adults were smoking wasn't tobacco. I couldn't even tell you what games we watched, the teams that played. I don't remember all the names of Steve's friends who'd stop over briefly during a game. Except, of course, the regulars like Glenn, Mike, Big Boy (whose real name was also Glenn), and Stoner.

But I do remember some things clearly: sitting on the sofa behind the two recliners, which were spaced far enough to either side of the room so there was a clear view of the TV from where I sat. Nate--Steve's son who my dad told us was "special," though he always called him "goofy"--would sit next to me, unable to sit still, keep quiet, or refrain from trying to put things up his dog's butt. He'd ask me if I wanted to see him make his Hot Wheels disappear, then lift up Fifi's tail and laugh maniacally.

I often wondered about the appropriateness of Nate's suggestions. They didn't seem on the level and since Steve or my dad rarely turned around to say something--at the time, I figured they were too consumed by the game--I assumed Nate's frequent indecencies were comparable to the act of an edgy comedian. So, more often than not, I'd laugh right along with him. Sometimes that would bring about a glance back from my dad, followed by a joking remark: Hey, no laughing allowed! Then he'd pass back to Steve a medical clamp, the smoking remains of a roach pinched between its jaws.

At Halftime, Steve would break out the Nintendo and get in a quick round of Conflict or Silent Service before the game resumed. My dad never played video games. Instead, he'd roll another "cigarette" to be savored during the third quarter. Some games ended sooner than others, meaning that the outcome was decided well before the end of regulation. But whenever it was clear as to who the winner would be, my dad would stand and sing, "Turn out the liiiiiights, the party's over."

This signaled it was time to go home.

I didn't know who wrote that song; I figured my dad had made it up. But whenever I watched football from then on, I would think of those lyrics while the final seconds wound down. I'd be taken back to Steve's living room, see the woodcut of M.C. Escher's "Reptiles" that hung over the TV, and smell the burning sage scent of a lit joint.

Until 2002, I hadn't heard of Don Meredith. That's when a made for cable movie about Monday Night Football first aired; that's when I found out the connection between football and a Willie Nelson song. When I heard Don Meredith died on Sunday, I wanted to go back home and watch football with my dad. I wanted to hear him sing that song again.