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Volume XVIII – Just One More
I used to know the guy
that played quarterback
at Cornell back when
Ed Marinaro was smashing
people, before his days
on Hill Street Blues.
The Judge had some great
stories.
He played when
blacks were first getting into
Ivy league sports.
There was a guy on their
team named Marshall. He played
wide receiver. One night at a practice
that went real late, The Judge
said, "Marshall, smile. I can’t
see you out there." Yeah,
by today’s (occasionally difficult
to politically interpret) standards
it seems prejudiced, but back then
he was the first person
to joke with the guy, actually
help him feel like a teammate.
Marshall thanked him later.
The coach’s name was Stumpy
used to spit when he got fired up,
bump chests with people
way bigger than him,
prototypical coach behavior.
The linemen were huge –
in a three-point stance
they were almost as tall
as The (6'2") Judge under center.
He once told me a story
about him and a hockey player
taking a linebacker from NYC
out to Lake Erie. The guy had
never been on thin ice before
and wound up falling in.
They had to save him and
all three almost missed games
with a severe cold.
The Judge was from Buffalo,
played college ball in his home
state, and right before he was drafted,
in 1972, he was in training camp
trying out for the Buffalo Bills
in Rich Stadium, built in part
by his own uncle. He was
up against another rookie QB
named Joe Fergurson. He handed
the ball off to an even fiercer
bull of a running back,
O.J. Simpson.
The Judge only got
a few snaps in the pre-season
before he was assigned
to the real deal –
a cockpit over the South Pacific.
His time came
in a game against Minnesota’s
Purple People Eaters.
His first pass attempt
landed just shy of the stands
‘They were more frightening
than Penn State, and they
used to scare the hell
out of me.’
He had war stories
of being taken down
on the sideline and
straining his Achilles,
or having guys
roll into his knees
and ankles. His arm or
shoulder would go out
when playing with the
neighborhood kids
from having it grabbed
in the middle of a pass
by a rushing defensive end.
The guy was damn-near a cripple.
It was always something.
The doctor told him
the knee surgery would be
forty grand – too much.
His ankles would swell up,
straining the top of his shoe.
I’d ask if it was the diabetes,
yeah, he’d say, and the old injuries.
He was a fantastic guy to watch
a game with, always reading the
middle linebacker.
Hell, he was just
nice to have at a bar,
always full of
stories
I met The Judge's cousin
at the funeral. I'd heard
about him before. They had
grown up together like brothers.
I asked if it was true that
they'd once blown up a
transformer
while goofing around
with a makeshift javelin.
The cousin looked sheepish.
He's a principal at a high school
now. "Wow. I hadn't thought about
that in years."
We talked and talked. Now
more than ever
I’d like to be able to
go out and have a couple
with my friend
one last time
now that I know
he never even
played sports
in high school.
Or attended
a single class
at Cornell.
Instead, he went to
a New York City college
and was
the lead guitarist
in a rock band.
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