On Sports: An Orange

It all started with an orange. The occasion was the annual Christmas party at the local fire house. It was a day my brother and I looked forward to as soon as the Thanksgiving plates had been cleared and the Christmas season was officially underway. We would get to climb on the fire engine, eat lots of candy and most importantly of all, personally deliver our list to Santa Claus. It was December 1975, a challenging time for the country but a great time for a 9 year old boy in middle class America. Everything was going according to plan at the firehouse until it came time to hand out the Christmas candy at the end of the party. I was dreaming of chocolate Santas, Hershey’s Kisses, or pretty much anything covered in chocolate. The volunteers had set things up in the traditional assembly line manner. The kids would all line up from one end of the fire house and wind their way around to the other side. First they would stop to see Santa and if inclined, their parents or minder for the day would take a photo. On to the next station which consisted of a series of rectangular folding tables. On top of the tables would be the goody bags for the kids, which would be filled with some Christmas themed treats. The challenging economy must have been hitting the fire department hard in 1975 because there were not rows of goody bags lined up for the kids. Were they getting more from the back? Had they run out? As I started to get that sinking feeling, like when you know something bad is about to happen, a middle aged woman appeared toting a crate. Thank god, I thought, they had just temporarily run out. As we walked past the table after meeting Santa, one of the volunteers handed me an orange. Just an orange. This dreaded scenario which only seemed to rear its ugly head on the occasional halloween or visit to my Grandma’s house, had happened. There was no point in protesting, there were no chocolate Santas or Hershey’s Kisses.And in any event, I was whisked along and out the door out onto the cold street with my brother and the rest of my family. It was done and I felt cheated. We made our way home to a warm house and my beloved TV where I would spend the afternoon watching NFL football, the dream of every young American boy. My Papa Tony would join me and my brother and would treat us to his latest culinary creations. The local Giants and Jets were particularly bad during this period and my brother and I had adopted out of towners as our favorites. Dan followed the Dallas Cowboys, for me it was the Miami Dolphins. Not sure how I ended up being a Dolphins fan during this time but it may have had something to do with their back to back Super Bowl Championship season after the 1972 and 1973 seasons. The Dolphins were playing the Baltimore Colts that day and the winner would have a major step up on the other to make the playoffs. It was a tough, defensive struggle, with a heavy fog settling on Baltimore’s Memorial Stadium as the game wore on. Mercury Morris scored the Dolphins lone touchdown in the 3rd quarter which put Miami ahead 7–0. But the young star quarterback of the Colts, Bert Jones, led them on an 86 yard 4th quarter drive, which culminated in a Lydell Mitchell run around right end for a 6 yard touchdown. It was 7–7 at the end of regulation. The Dolphins won the overtime coin toss and were able to move the ball, but the drive stalled just past mid field. Larry Seiple’s punt went out of bounds at the 4 yard line. Jones again led the Colts down the field on a 17 play drive. On fourth down at the 14 yard line, the Colts brought out Toni Linhart, the former Australian soccer player, to attempt a 33 yard field goal. Although this was a relatively short field goal by professional standards, surely the mighty Dolphins would not go down this way. The snap was true, the hold was clean and the kick sailed through the uprights. The Colts had beaten the Dolphins 10–7. The Dolphins had lost and almost certainly would not return to the playoffs. Rage! I could not accept the result, Rage! Humiliation! The Dolphins had lost. I had lost. Something had to be done. In a split second, without thinking, instinctually, I went for the nearest item possible. I was going to kill two birds with one stone. I grabbed that orange, that stupid orange, which had been the symbol of my tremendous disappointment and outrage and used it as a weapon to obliterate the even greater source of my rage. Like David hurling the stone at Goliath, I reached back and fired that stupid orange straight through the front window of my house, back out into the mean, cold world that had saddled me with such unacceptable outcomes. Before the glass shards had finished falling, I was sprinting up the stairs, Papa Tony fast on my heels. He was no match for my young legs and I reached the top in what seemed like two or three large strides. I reached the bathroom, the only room on the second floor with a lock, slammed it tight and flipped the lock before Papa Tony could get to me. I was going to stay here the rest of my life, safe from Papa Tony, safe from the humiliation and the world at large. Safe. I could make a nice life here after all.