A TRIBUTE TO JOHNNY UNITAS

This, "TRIBUTE TO JOHNNY UNITAS," was written prior to the advent of, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND." I understand that the original is floating, light years away, in the infinite void of the cyber-universe. Unfortunately, a computer crash robbed me of my copy and I can't find where it is on the Internet, so I'm re-writing it in blog form.

Johnny Unitas died from a heart attack on September 11, 2002. That day was the first anniversary of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. His death was overshadowed by the remembrance.

THREE-TIME NFL MVP AND HALL-OF-FAMER JOHNNY UNITAS WAS ONE OF THE GREATEST QUARTERBACKS IN NFL HISTORY. AFTER BEING DRAFTED BY THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS, HE WAS CUT BEFORE THE 1955 SEASON. THE NEXT YEAR, HE WAS PICKED UP BY THE BALTIMORE COLTS AND BECAME A LEGEND, (1956-1972). HIS LAST YEAR, (1973), WAS WITH THE SAN DIEGO CHARGERS.

To help support the memory of this great man, both on and off the field, I would like to share my 1989 chance meeting with him on the Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk.

First, we must go back to 1974. That summer, RBOY and I enjoyed a working vacation at DISNEYWORLD. It was so great that we didn't want to leave.

RBOY AND I WERE SWEEPERS. MY TURF WAS FANTASYLAND AND AS YOU CAN SEE, MY AREA WAS SPOTLESS.

To prove how good that summer was, we went back the next year in hope of a repeat performance. But due to circumstances beyond our control, we only stayed a week and came back to Brooklyn.

That first year, RBOY and I lived in Kissimmee Florida, at a former Ramada Inn that re-opened under the name, the YOUNG AMERICAN INN. The YAI accommodated only Disney employees. That meant that he and I split $95.00 a month while our hormones exploded with a couple of hundred kids our age.

Kissimmee is a skyrocketing community these days. But 36 years ago, it was a rural cow town with a single, stark roadway (the East Space Coast Highway), running through it. The main business district was at the junction of Robinson Avenue. All I recall being there were; a Zayre's Department Store, a bank, Schultz Brothers Used Furniture and a Waffle House. The streets rolled-up early so that we denizens of the YAI had to make our own fun.

RBOY and I worked at Disney until midnight. So when we got "home" other than watching out for stray alligators or re-routing giant tortoises back into the marsh, our clique hung-out and hobnobbed until the wee hours. On a few of occasions, we piled into a car and had a road trip to civilization...Denny's.

The 15-mile mystery-ride through the swamps of "Gator-Alley" took us to an even smaller hamlet, Taft Florida.
BACK THEN, DENNY'S WAS ALL TAFT HAD TO OFFER. OVER THE YEARS, THEIR IMAGE HASN'T CHANGED. THEREFORE, THIS IS THE BEST PHOTO OF IT THAT THE INTERNET HAS TO OFFER, (in 2000, the population was 1,938).

The restaurant attracted folks from miles around. Most of them were senior citizens and it seemed that where ever they were coming from, they were well-dressed.
AS THE ONLY OPTION WE KNEW IN OSCEOLA COUNTY, DENNY'S WOULD BE HOPPING AT 1:30AM.
RBOY always ordered, "MEAL ITALIANO." I think that translated into industrial meatballs and canned spaghetti. Being a connoisseur of fine dining, I was aware that there were few authentic Italians cooking-up gourmet specialties at a Central Florida Denny's, in the early morning. Therefore, I avoided the risk and ordered the old reliable cheeseburger deluxe with an ice-cream soda.
For these outings, our party was typically six or more. The conversations were loud, obnoxious and punctuated with outbursts of laughter. We got used to the stares, dirty looks and stink eyes...and never relented.
One time, Denny's was so busy that we had to wait ten minutes for a table. When we were seated, I had a clear view of the entrance. Two elderly couples came in after us and approached the hostess. The men were both wearing three-piece suits. One man held his jacket across his left arm. Something about the shade of his blue suit caught my eye. Considering that I am color-blind, it was unusual for me to be distracted to the point of gaping at this man over a color.
When the hostess led them our way, I figured it out. His suit was the distinctive Baltimore Colts "speed" blue. A second later as they passed, I saw on the back of the man's vest, a white, football uniformed-sized, number 19. THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID HE HAD A HUGE, WHITE NUMBER 19, SEWN INTO THE BACK OF HIS SPEED-BLUE VEST!
In an incredible combination of discovery and disbelief I cried out, "That guy thinks he's Johnny Unitas!" The gentleman slowly turned, stepped up to our table and snarled, "I may NOT be Johnny, but I am Mr. Unitas!"
I don't embarrass easily but getting set straight by Johnny Unitas' father did redden my face.
Fifteen years goes by. My wife Sue and I are in Ocean City Maryland.
WE VACATIONED IN OCEAN CITY, 13 CONSECUTIVE JUNES FROM 1988-2001. WE LIKED IT THERE SO MUCH THAT WE WOULD HAVE DONE TESTIMONIALS OR TV COMMERCIALS, FREE!
On this particular cloudy, breezy afternoon, the boardwalk was empty. Sue wandered into her 40th gift shop. I couldn't stand another schlock-store. So I filled-out several "REMAIN OUTSIDE" waiver forms and completed them in triplicate. If Sue denied my application, I was prepared to hammer a Bic pen into my good ear. After citing my many grammatical flaws, the misses opted to overlook (this one time), my ineptitude. And instead, she began to lecture me on the proper protocol for such written requests. Twenty minutes later, I was permitted to stay outside under the condition that I didn't meander too far away...to an eatery, bar or arcade, (of course, I still would've but I didn't want to fill-out more forms).
In a recess of the building, I found a spot sheltered from the wind. I stared out at the crashing surf and became mesmerized by my sudden calm. After being transfixed, I realized that someone was standing beside me...doing the same thing. I looked up at him and recognized that it was Johnny Unitas.
I knew from the feedback that I received from Baltimoreans that Johnny U. was not only approachable but that he was a friendly and warm individual. I stuck up a conversation. Although he continued staring at the ocean, he was cordial and receptive to my compliments without giving me eye-contact. I told him I was a New York Jets fan and reminded him of the Super Bowl and another game that he played great but was out-done by Joe Namath. He remained interested so it was with great confidence, I told him when I met his father in Taft Florida in 1974. Johnny looked at me for the first time. He glared deep into my eyes and with utter sincerity said, "My daddy died when I was five." Like I said, I don't embarrass easily but this was the worst moment of my life. I was unable to mask being mortified and stammered, "S-s-s-sorry." I slunk away. There would be no Kodak moment of us shaking hands, no autograph, no nothing!

Years later, but before I had Internet access, ESPN did a biography on Unitas. In it, the pre-mature death of his father was verified. I guess if that man in Florida WAS Mr. Unitas, he must have been an uncle or something.

All Johnny wanted to do was stare at the ocean and not be bothered...and I burst his bubble. Maybe to get back at me, he put a whammy on my Jets. Or maybe my team stinks on their own and Mr. Johnny Unitas was the heroic gentleman that his legions of fans believe him to be. To prove it, he was willing to spend a little time with an admirer...until I ruined it.