Some years ago in Albertsons I run into a local lawyer, head guy at one of the biggest law firms in town. That's not saying much, maybe. It's a small town even if does have an Albertsons.
This guy's name is Tom. Golden Boy from yesteryear. At least he didn't commit suicide during the oil patch meltdown of 1984 like his compatriot, Golden Boy Banker.
I'm not talking about real Golden Boys like Paul Hornung, Ray Nitschke or Troy Aikman; the guys I'm referring to here are facemen. They look great and have trophy wives.
Tom's married to a fine figure of a gal who bears an uncanny resemblance to Million Dollar Mermaid, Johnny Weismuller squeeze and retro swimwear model Esther Williams. JoAnne wears high-dollar beach shoes to the swimming pool.
It's Super Bowl Sunday and 'Here's T-o-m. Out of respect (he's much older), I say hello and shake his hand. "Oh, hi, Joe, nice to see you." Always it's nice. Guthrie always says ni-i-ice, three syllables.
So, I ask Tom if he's celebrating the Super Bowl. Oh, yes, we're having some friends over, he says.
"You know," he tells me. No, of course, I don't know, but I'm about to find out anyway, like it or not.
"My wife doesn't know anything about football," says Tom. "I asked her who she was rooting for in this year's game. She told me, 'I just want to see Montana play.'
"Hell, Joe" says Tom. "They don't even have a team in Montana."
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