The Boys of Autumn

This is my favorite time of year. I grew up in a football family. My father, a small man, was on his high school football team. My brother played on the junior varsity until his knee failed him. In our pre-adolescent years while my father went to college and law school he worked for the SF 49ers. It was a good part time job for a man who had to support his family while grunting through torts. The job was really an 'inside' hire. My Godfather, a big cigar chomping Irishman, Dan McGuire was the reigning publicity director of the 49ers. The Morabito brothers Tony and Vic owned the club then. My brother and I went to all the training camps which were held at St. Mary's in Moraga. We amused ourselves in the 100 degree heat while the players expired mentally on their field of dreams. It was the 50's. I couldn't do Math in school but I memorized every number on the team. 39? Hugh McElhenny. 79? Bob St. Clair. For six years we went to every home game. While my father paced the sidelines, my mother watched us from the press box. My brother and I sat on the 30 yard line. My sister was home with the babysitter. But she would soon become a devoted fan of ol' number 14. YA Tittle. That's Yelberton Abraham to you. The 49ers weren't very good in those years. With the seagulls circling over Kezar stadium (you had to see the place to believe it) as the game wound down we would hang our heads and run out onto the field as the teams left for the locker room. Afterwards, as a ritual, the team would go to the Leopard cafe for their steak dinner. We'd go home and pretend the 49ers had won. It would be a long time between drinks; several decades, new ownership, change of venue, before San Francisco started filling their trophy case. Today, I can almost feel the autumn snap in the air. I'll be digging out sometime in late January.