I hope Trent Dilfer subscribes to "Google Alerts" because this is a true story and might be the best way for me to thank him.
Trent Dilfer was mostly a back-up quarterback in the NFL, (1994-2007). His biggest sparkling moment had to be, leading the Baltimore Ravens to a decisive 34-7 victory over the New York Giants, in Super Bowl XXXV.
Mr. Dilfer and I have never met. To my knowledge, we've never been in the same building at the same time nor have I ever bet on a game he participated in. Yet, twenty Super Bowls ago, on January 28, 2001, on a day that marked his greatest professional achievement, he also accomplished something far more profound. He most certainly saved my life.
DILFER HAD MORE DOWNS THAN UPS AS A PLAYER DURING HIS CAREER. UPON RETIREMENT, HE BECAME AN ARTICULATE ANALYST FOR ESPN UNTIL IN 2019, BECOMING THE HEAD FOOTBALL COACH, AT THE LIPSCOMB ACADEMY.
I should point out that in my youth, I had several brushes with death, (more than five times in my Las Vegas years, 1979-1984). Most of those could be blamed on poor judgment (okay, stupidity). But this story focuses on being a victim of circumstance, (aka another nimrod's stupidity).
Seventeen years after returning to the east coast, my last brush with death occurred in the adjoining town of Smithville NJ. With a little research, I could tell you the exact second I almost met my demise. Please bear in mind, the names have been changed to protect the GUILTY!
A friend and his wife invited my son Andrew, Sue and I to a lavish Super Bowl party in their custom-built home. This event included a kiddie birthday party downstairs so I would estimate that there were a hundred guests. While mingling, I counted six separate TV's showing the game as I took a self-guided tour of the cool nooks and crannies of this unique and beautiful home.
This game pitted the favored New York Giants versus the far less sexy, Baltimore Ravens. Overwhelmingly, the throng were Giants fans or had bet on them. That left me, a bunch of Philadelphia Eagle diehards and one sloppy drunk, forty-something, valley-girl from Timonium Maryland as the only folks pulling for the Ravens.
In a combination of getting away from the hostile, pro-Giants crazies and finding a seat, I brought my two-liter Pepsi-One bottle and wandered into a two-story atrium-like alcove off the dining room.
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| PEPSI-ONE (1998-2015) WAS MY GO-TO BEVERAGE BACK THEN. |
I found a home in this cozy southwestern-themed greenhouse spot. In front of a little TV, surrounded by plants and flowers, I plopped down on the only chair in the room. To make my Eden-like situation even better, during the early part of the game, I had private access to a banquet table full of delicacies. Even when others discovered my guest cave, they were forced to stand or sit on the spiral staircase that led to a bedroom loft.
The game was still scoreless when our more-than-tipsy hostess, inexplicably decided to water these plants. She probably would have gone unnoticed if she hadn't temporarily uprooted the couple sitting on the steps of the winding staircase. On her way up, we all lost focus on the game when she slipped and almost fell.
A few minutes later, I stood up to get a food refill as Ravens quarterback Trent Dilfer dropped back to throw. He arched a long bomb. I stopped to watch. When the receiver caught the touchdown pass, I cheered and took an instinctual step, closer to the TV. While celebrating Dilfer's perfection, I felt a breeze on the back of my neck and heard a nearly simultaneous crash. Inches behind me, in the exact spot I had vacated, a huge barrel cactus in a heavy, earthenware pot lay splattered on the terracotta-colored, ceramic tile floor.
THIS NATIVE AMERICAN TREASURE, DROPPED FROM A LEDGE...WITH OR WITHOUT A STOUT BARREL CACTUS INSIDE...COULD'VE BEEN LETHAL.
Curiosity seekers came into the room. I looked up and saw the hostess. She was holding a watering can in one hand and covering her mouth with the other. I was shocked and couldn't figure out if she was embarrassed or laughing. Her concerned friends pried through the crowd into the tiny garden room, looked up and voiced their concern for the poor woman's well-being.
I was still stunned as people jostled me away to tend the mess as she unsteadily came down. Her husband greeted the bombardier at ground-zero, saw the countless spider cracks in the floor tiles and said, "What happened?" She shrugged, "Hadda whoopsie."
She turned her back on him and ignored me as she was surrounded by more lady friends. The valley-girl from Maryland handed her a can of Heineken. Madame Guillotine inhaled it in one continuous chug. While getting ushered away, she picked out a large pottery shard from the trash and announced to her cronies, "This shit cost me $300 at the Hopi reservation in Arizona."
I never got an apology. The hostess was so blitzed that I'm certain she forgot about me seconds after her little accident. And the host probably never knew how close I got to meeting the Grim Reaper...or suffering some level of damage in my already gray matter deprived brain.
Instead, I took the high road, put that drunk out of my mind and concentrated on the fact that Trent Dilfer saved my life. Yes, there's no statute of limitations on appreciation. So now, twenty years later, I still hope this blog will find its way to my savior so we can communicate and allow me to voice my gratitude.
