Franklin Field on the University of Pennsylvania campus.
Sometimes you can wonder how you came to be the person you are now. What happened to you - in you - that helped shape and define your ‘person-hood’?
And, sometimes, the road signs are so clear.
Sports was not a way of life in our family … it was life. And death. And every sorrow and joy in between.
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My grandfather probably came from a long line of hucksters and grifters. I don’t know or remember a lot about him … probably a good thing. I’m wearing enough scars as it is. His favorite endearment towards me was “you dirty, Irish mick”.
And there was the time he walked away while I was on the Steeplechase ride on Cooney Island, left me there alone, hit the local taproom and didn’t stagger back until it was well after dark. He introduced me to fear. And abandonment.
But he did help me get my first job.
Thomas had the unique gift of staying busy without the burden of gainful employment.
He never appeared to have a job. But he would sell Christmas trees from the street corner in the deep of winter. And, in the fall and early winter, he would hawk programs at football games, mostly at Franklin Field on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania.
Penn played its Ivy League football games in the aged-brick horseshoe of Franklin Field and the Penn Relays track and field event packed the stadium every spring. From 1899 to 1935 Franklin Field was one of the neutral sites for the Army-Navy football game—hosting the game 18 times. In the not so distant past, on Sundays from 1958 to 1970, the Philadelphia Eagles would suit up against their enemies in the National Football League.
My grandfather started out selling soft pretzels at the games, that filling Philly favorite that required a squeeze of mustard along its length to fulfill its flavor. In fact, his eldest son became a professional, career pretzel seller. But Thomas senior found an angle that paid better. There was a higher profit margin selling programs.
You remember. Programs … get your programs. Names and numbers of all the players. Get your programs heeerrrreee! Obviously, that was before Jumbotrons, replays and mobile devices. Without a program, you were skunked. Who was it that made that tackle?
I have no illusions. In 1958 Thomas brought me to Franklin Field for the first time because he believed people would buy more programs from a cute eleven-year-old kid (I was) than a grizzled, sour-looking old man. And he was right. But it got cold and Thomas got cold and I was on my own again. But that was okay. Because I could sell programs. And I made money at it.
But the best part of this job was that, after the Eagles NFL game started, you could sell the programs inside Franklin Field. After the stragglers on the way to the game started to thin out, I’d take my bag and what was left of my programs and start walking through the stands hawking my programs. Programs … get your programs. When my bag was empty, I’d find an empty seat, or an empty stair, and watch football. What a great deal!
Rain, snow, below-freezing temperatures? It didn’t matter. I was there. It was life. It was death. And everything in between.
After two seasons of frigid football, I gave up my career in "program management". But I could never as easily shed the fear of abandonment bequeathed to me by my grandfather.
Sometimes you wonder how you came to be the person you are now. And, sometimes, you just know.
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