My Favorite ThanksGiving Day Football Memory

My favorite Thanksgiving Day memory has less to do with the timeless story of Pilgrims and Native Americans than it does with Cowboys and Redskins. It was 1974. I was thirteen years old.

This memory involves the annual gathering of the boisterous, love-out-loud maternal side of our extended family. It centers on the small, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, white clapboard home of my grandparents (affectionately, called by one and all, "Big Granddad and Granky"), and on a small, wind-blown, edge-of-town motel, where roughly half of the letters in "VACANCY" glowed in the office window.

The day began bright and cool. By 9am, my two now ex-uncles by marriage; my mom's baby brother, also an uncle, but just three years my senior, so more like a brother; and I were involved in our annual ping pong tournament. We used the table in the Fellowship Hall of the tiny Baptist church, where Big Granddad served as pastor. All we had to do was walk across the front lawn to get there. The rivalries were fierce, and the pumping fists of the victorious inevitably met the scowls and demands for "one more game" of the vanquished.

By 11 or so, the ankle-biters, the younger male cousins were up and about. Ping pong gave way to backyard football. Each of the ex-uncles, one with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the other with the intensity of Roger Staubach burning in his eyes, played QB. The rest of us were receivers. The game never reached any sort of concluson. It was brought to a screeching halt when Big Granddad rallied the troops to the dinner table.

What a dinner it was! Turkey and ham and all the fixin's. Granky's homemade rolls. Pies of every description. We could have fed "Cox's Army," Dad would say. I agreed, though I had no idea who Cox was, why the guy needed an army, or whether they would even be hungry. But we backyard warriors were hungry, so the prayer seemed, as Thanksgiving Day prayers often do, inordinately long.

When the prayer ended, the feasting began. We dug in with zest and gorged ourselves on all the goodies. I didn't dilly-dally. The clock was ticking. It wouldn't be too long before kickoff. This year, my Beloved Cowboys were playing the Hated Redskins. I couldn't miss that!

There was just one thing missing. Big Granddad, good Baptist preacher that he was, hadn't yet warmed to the idea of having a television in his home. That was a problem! I couldn't see any way around it. There was nothing to do but beg Dad's car keys and risk running down the Delco battery in his Chevrolet listening to the game on the radio.

Just when all things football seemed rather bleak to me, my two favorite ex-uncles ordered us older boys into their cars, along with Dad and Big Granddad.

"We're going to a motel to rent a room and watch the game," They declared to the women. I don't remember a single woman protesting. But if they had, it would have fallen on the deaf ears and disappearing backsides of we "men," for we were in full sprint toward the getaway cars. That motel room was small and its decor Spartan, at best. The TV was small, too, and the picture a bit grainy, as there was no cable; only a tall antenna that trembled slightly in the West Texas wind.

For nearly three quarters, it seemed my uncles had rented that room for nothing. The Cowboys were trailing those damned Redskins, 16-3. The mood was somber, but we reminded ourselves that Captain America (aka, Roger Staubach) was king of the miracle comeback, and as long as he was at the helm, all was not lost.

Then the unthinkable happened. Roger was knocked looney by those Redskin bastards. He had to come out of the game, and that lankey kid from Abiline Christian University, Clint Longley, was pressed into duty. What happened after would make this the greatest Thanksgiving Day game of all-time. Longley would lead the desperate Cowboys to three touchdowns, while the defense would yield just one more TD to the Redskins, and the Cowboys won, 24-23.

The play of the game, and one of the most dramatic plays in Cowboys' history, came with just 35 seconds left. It was second down, ten to go at midfield. The Dallas Morning News would record the event like this:

Just before the huddle broke Drew Pearson, who would naturally be the guy
Washington doubled, told Longley, "I'm going to fake inside and then go deep."
Pearson was supposed to go deep over the middle and hope. Faintly hope. But Drew
faked inside and Stone bit. Then he turned and started running with safety Brig
Owens and Stone straight for the goal line.

Longley calmly lofted the ball. Drew looked up and saw it and then got an
extra burst of speed and ran under the ball inside the goal line for a
touchdown. Rather a TOUCHDOWN!

Pandemonium ensued in that motel room. Pillows were flying. We were all whooping and hollering and hitting the ceiling. Not one of the men yelled at us boys for jumping on the bed. The Cowboys had won! We had watched them do it together.

All was right with the world.

I am thankful for the extended family that filled so much of my childhood with love and laughter. I am thankful for my two crazy ex-uncles, wherever they are today, for playing ping pong and backyard football with a couple of rotten, loud-mouthed kids, and then shelling out their hard-earned cash to make it possible for us to witness history. I am thankful for my dearly-departed Dad, who watched a sport he couldn't care less about to be with a son he loved entirely. I am thankful for a nation with the wisdom to be annually, and officially, thankful.

Today, I thank my God for precious memories, the ones made...and those in the making.

Happy Thanksgiving, you wonderful Americans (and, yes, that even includes you dirty Redskins fans.) May today find you in the presence of those you love the best, making memories of your own.