I usually try to post a little extra on here at Christmastime, but haven’t gotten around to it this year. So to kick things off, this column I wrote in the Christmas Eve, 2007, edition of The Courier-Journal
By ERIC CRAWFORD
Dec. 24, 2007
I’ve not written you for a long while, I know.
I’m only writing now because I should have written this long ago, but didn’t.
It’s been 30 years since you brought me the best Christmas gift I ever received. Maybe you remember it. It was the only thing I asked for that year a Dallas Cowboys football helmet.
You must get this a lot, Santa. Everybody has one gift they remember more than the others. We all have our own “Red Rider B.B. gun” stories.
I wish I could tell you what it felt like to see the helmet under the tree that Christmas morning, but I can’t. I don’t remember. That’s all right. It holds other memories that are far more important.
It couldn’t have been an easy gift to find. Back then, the NFL didn’t have replica merchandise. The only people wearing Cowboys football helmets were the Cowboys.
The year Santa worked overtime
But I didn’t know the real story behind it until another Christmas, 23 years ago, when in the pages of this newspaper my father wrote about how hard it had been for you to locate that gift. The long-distance phone calls to Chicago, and then Dallas. The fretting over finding it. The worrying over whether it could be found at all.
Way out where we lived, there weren’t many kids to play football with. In fact, about the only one my age was a couple of miles down the road, and she wasn’t really into football and was probably faster than me, anyway. But what I lacked in competition I made up for in room to roam.
On football fall days, I’d take off to yard or field and somehow manage to play all 22 positions plus special teams by myself. I’d save my biggest plays for when the wind would whip the turning leaves into a roar. They were my applause. I kicked the extra points over an electric wire attached to the house.
I didn’t want a real audience, but once in a while somebody would remark to my parents at seeing me diving and falling, making passes to myself in the yard.
When it was too cold, I’d line up under center above the family room couch, Roger Staubach about to hand off to Robert Newhouse for a short-yardage dive.
I played on real basketball and baseball teams, but football, Santa, was always a game in my head, a game of image and of words.
I don’t suppose I’d be writing this if I hadn’t been out in the garage yesterday looking for a place to hide a present. And there, in the floorboard of a battery-powered Hummer, sat the old helmet. There was a T-ball glove next to it, and up on the seats were a Wiffle Ball bat, a pair of roller skates and a tackle box that had been converted into a motor pool for a fleet of toy Army vehicles.
From time to time through the year the helmet will come charging at me on the heads of one of my sons, and I will remember those afternoons when I was the only game in town.
But more than that, I will remember the Santa who loved me like a son.
The gift of lasting memories
It was a gift that gave both of us more than we ever suspected, and I’m not just talking about newspaper columns though those are no small things in themselves sometimes.
Sports has changed since then, Santa. You wouldn’t believe. But I’d like to thank you this Christmas Eve, and I know a lot of other folks would too, for similar gifts they remember. People like us are thankful that, despite it all, sports can still be about more than winning and losing and controversy.
They still can be about families and memories that burn long after the lights on scoreboards and Christmas trees have gone out.