Jerry replied, "That's right, our linebackers turn it around with their stunting."
Sandy added, "Of course, that was the best post pattern I ever saw Richardson run against the Ram secondary."
Jerry said, "Yessir, old Johnny U."
Sandy said, "Sure, our splits seemed too large, but it made them go further on the routes."
They went on like that, oblivious to all around them as well as each other, until the market opened, and since this was merely another typical humdrum day of the 1960s, bolted up 27� points in the first trading hour. But enough of that everyday tedium. Monday was Colt Stampede Day, and promptly at noon both Sandy and Jerry rose from their desks to go attend their respective Stampede luncheons. Jerry had only to walk up the street to a nearby restaurant, but Sandy had to take a taxi over to the Elite Club on Pennsylvania Avenue, where the A-ACS met. That was the Afro-American Colt Stampede; previously the NCS, the Negro Colt Stampede; later the BCS, the Black Colt Stampede; recently the CSS, the Colt Soul Stampede. Sandy Tatler was president of the A-ACS, which was fitting because he owed the Colts more than any man in the city of Baltimore. Pro football had made Sandy all that he was, and he never forgot that.
A decade before, in the summer before his senior year at Dunbar High School, Sandy had mailed in an application to the Colts for a season ticket. In those days, just before the Colts won their first championship, a few seats for the season were still available in the far reaches of Memorial Stadium. So Sandy, whose real first name was Roosevelt, applied for his season ticket: for R. Tatler. That very same day a powerful member of the Baltimore Board of Estimates named Ronald Taylor applied for 10 season tickets. Taylor was a very important man inasmuch as any improvements to the stadium would have to be approved by him. Word filtered down from Colt executives to be sure that Ronald Taylor—or simply R. Taylor, as it said on his application—got 10 very good seats. Well, yes, that is exactly what happened. Some dumb bunny in the ticket office mixed up R. Taylor and R. Tatler.
Believe it or not.
Sandy opened his letter from the Colts and saw that he had been allocated 10 seats—not just the one he had requested—and that they were smack dab on the 50-yard line in Section 10, just far enough back to offer a perfect view of the whole field and also be under the protective cover of the overhanging upper deck. He had the best 10 seats in the house.
Sandy's first inclination was to mail the form back, pointing out the error. For one thing, he did not have $300 to pay for 10 tickets; it was going to be hard enough just to scratch up the $30 for one. But, Sandy thought, if he called attention to this error, he would end up with a bad seat way back in Section 37. Then, in the next instant, he figured out something that was to send him on his way forever.
He put on his charcoal-brown suit and his porkpie hat with the feather in it and went down the street until he reached the only bank he knew, the Pennsylvania Avenue branch of the First Merchants Trust. He asked the only friendly face he saw there—which belonged to a 76-year-old messenger boy—who the president of the bank was. The old messenger boy laughed and took Sandy over to Jimmy O'Brien, who was the assistant manager of the bank. Jimmy laughed to beat the band when he heard that this little colored boy wanted to see Mr. Davis Tyler himself.