It Was Only A Game Of Touch

My wife sat in the chair in the living room and said, "You're making a mistake," and I thought to myself, when was she ever wrong, and went ahead anyway. We had moved to North Paterson, N.J. a week before, and I was reading the sports page of the local paper, The North Paterson Evening News, when I came across this innocuous personal down in one corner. All it said was:

Nothing more. I read it to Anne and she said, "You're making a mistake even reading it."

"I played in an industrial league in Florida," I said.

"Ten years ago and then you almost got killed."

But it was Sunday and I had just watched Unitas throwing from the pocket, stepping up and hanging a long beauty to flying Lenny Moore who went in for six, so I picked up the phone and dialed KL 5-2368. It rang and rang and nobody answered, and I figured they were all out running patterns when somebody picked up the phone, but he didn't say anything, just picked up the phone. So I said, "Hello, anybody there?"

Somebody or something groaned. I said, "You looking for football players?"

The guy on the other end said, "Harrison Street Athletic Club."

I was getting closer, so I tried again. "You looking for football players?"

He said, "You the guy who just called?"

"Friend," I said, "I'm the guy who's still calling."