Mr. Mt. Juliet

By Beth Terrell

The slide show at John's funeral has a clipping from a newspaper report of a high school football game. In the newspaper photo, John is looking over his shoulder, football tucked in the crook of his arm. The camera captured him in mid-stride, forever suspended in mid-air. He was our quarterback all through junior high, our receiver in high school, our baseball pitcher, and a lifelong supporter of Mt. Juliet athletics. The next slide shows him in his late teens. He is smiling, thick curls tousled, a beautiful young man wearing a patterned shirt from the '70s. Our senior year, he was the prom king. We voted him "Mr. Mt. Juliet," completely without sarcasm.

In a Hollywood movie, a guy like that--handsome, athletic, popular--would also be the jerk who dunked the geeky hero's head in the toilet. In real life, he was sweet, a little shy, a good-hearted partier who sometimes partied a little too hard. He would struggle with that all of his life, but, as the presiding ministers said, "He always strived to be a good man--and he was."

On Monday, he died of a massive heart attack. He hadn't been sick. He hadn't seemed frail. He'd gone to work that morning; he'd played golf with three of his best friends on Sunday; we'd seen him at the reunion in September, hale and whole and fine. And now, suddenly, just...gone.

His family buried him today. Even with the service held in the funeral home's largest chapel, the funeral home owners had to bring in extra rows of folding chairs to accommodate the crowd. One classmate flew in from California for the service. Some who had not been back to Mt. Juliet in thirty years came to pay their respects. We were shell-shocked. We'd lost classmates before--some to accidents, some to illness, but never like this, never so suddenly. We had always known we weren't immortal, but we'd never before felt old.

A week ago, we still felt young and full of potential. Today, we had to face the fact that the clock is ticking. We no longer have a lifetime to reach our dreams. Seeing the chapel full of grieving people, we took stock of what it meant to be successful. John never played in the NFL. He never starred in a movie. He never made a million dollars. But if love is the only thing we can take with us when we go, he was a rich man. To us, he will always be Mr. Mt. Juliet.

National Felons League

by Ben Small

I'm really torn this year by the start of the NFL season. I mean, here I am in the midst of plotting a one man crime wave, and the NFL is throwing all this felonious competition at me. How can I keep up with the National Felons League now back in action?

Sure I like the mano-o-mano stuff as much as the next guy, the slamming of the pads, the grunts, the crack-back blocks, clipping, the blood, that turf-in-helmet stuff that either means somebody got creamed or the guy's an ostrich. But heck, I was depressed enough when the NBA announced it was expanding and then drafted its next wave of future felons. (Yeah, those basketball guys are weenies, pikers at crime, pansies really. National Baby Association. They've got the tats and play the music and claim the creds, but when it's time to actually hit somebody, most of these overpaid goober-freaks play paddy-cake or have somebody in their entourage do their dirty work.)

C'mon, I need a break. We live in a media world. How can I draw attention to my crimes if everybody's following professional sport crime waves?

Dillinger didn't have this problem.

Back to the National Felons League, where exhibitions aren't limited to pre-season games. Imagine those end zone dances as pre-perp polkas. Assault, robbery, weapons violations, attempted murder...

And that's just during the game.

Sorta like prison university, but the inmates are paid more.

I watched the opening game: Giants vs. Redskins. Then I watched the Redskins coach mouth the words, "Just how stupid are you?" to a player who took a fifteen yard penalty on a felonious late hit. The player grinned through a blood-red mouth guard and flashed two fingers. Gang symbol or IQ? I don't know. And it pains me that I don't, pains me even more that I'm spending my time watching this stuff.

Then a helmeted player head-butted a helmetless opponent.

Battery: a touching with felonious intent.

Bad boy, bad, bad boy. A big, bad buttor bestowed a big, bad butt to a battered buttee's bloated brain.

Boo yah.

Too bad my kids are grown. They used to love this stuff. They'd see a head-butt like that, and they'd keep the school-kids bloody all week long.

Oh yeah, the drugs.... Break 'em out. Steroids, smeroids. Why not? The goal is to get big, isn't it? Who cares if there's brain-shrink? Besides, a lotta these guys can't read. Gotta have a brain before it can shrink. Some years ago, Ricky Williams, the top running back in football, said he was giving up the game because he didn't want people to know he smoked pot. He said this on 6o Minutes, a show with only about five million viewers.

I rest my case: no brain.

And yet, now Ricky's back.

Musta run out of baggies...

So is Ricky better than ever? Who knows? Ricky may run the wrong way. Wrong-Way-Ricky. Has a nice ring. Maybe we should look for smoke on Ricky's sidelines.

Steroids are just appetizers for these guys; there's much better stuff around. Ask former All-Pro linebacker Laurence Taylor. That white stuff on his nose came from lines, all right; just not those on the field. And those long huddles you see? No doubt some good stuff is being passed around. A No-Huddle Offense? Sounds like a meth-effect to me.

You know these guys love contact. Wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, dogs -- tackling dummies, tools for staying in shape during the off-season. Remember, this is the sport that gave us OJ and Rae Carruth. Where else can an athlete play in the playoffs a weekend after being caught with an illegal weapon and just a day after somebody in his entourage shot and killed a nightclub patron? Okay, so that was Chicago; maybe Chicago shouldn't count. A hundred-twenty-seven murders this summer. Chicago's on a roll.

But lawyers love NFL football players: They're annuities. JG Wentworth may even advance cash on future football-felon fees. Look what happened during the great lockout, when replacement players were brought in and the regulars had time off: massive law firm hiring sprees. Legal fee reimbursement must be part of the NFL benefit plan, along with bail bond delivery, fine payment, separate sections for parole officers on team planes, color coordinated ankle locks, suspension cruises, and search warrant pickup at a Will Call window. Now that's effective union representation.

So how do I compete? I can't possibly perv as many teenage girls; shoot up as many nightclubs; carry weapons on as many aircraft; plot as many girl-friend murders, or father and fail to support as many illegitimate children as these guys do, and I don't have the support system the NFL provides to keep me motivated and felonating.

It's just not fair.

Maybe I should organize and hold my own draft. Hello! Anybody out there who's brainless, witless, has no morals or self-control, takes drugs which shrink brains and privates alike, and who wants to have some fun abusing people and stealing their stuff? Applications are now being accepted. BYOD. Politicians and Lindsay Lohan get preferred treatment. Law enforcement -- unless corrupt -- need not apply.

And, oh yeah... go Bears.