A Brush with Greatness

“I think you should come.” That’s how it started. A simple comment. A simple call back. Before that, my buddy and I were merely discussing some future business ventures, kicking around ideas, old stories, you know, the usual Monday night, pre-football, we-need-to-kill-some-time-before-the game conversation. When we hung up I expected the usual post-conversation activities to occur. I would shower then eat dinner, settle down and cheer on my boy Brees and the Saints’ electric defense. But this Monday night was different, and as I prepared to shower my friend called me back. “I think you should come.”

He was talking about a fundraising event he had briefly mentioned earlier on in our little chat. Some “party” to raise money for lymphoma or something awful like that. Being the good-natured human that I am, I commended him for his actions but respectfully declined the initial offer, choosing lounging by the TV over speeches about fatal disease and tragic stories of actual victims. But when he called again and suggested I attend, I knew something was up. “Just pick up an envelope from my dad, meet me at my apartment and we’ll head down together.” I have to admit, like Karen from Goodfellas, I liked the secrecy of it all. It made me curious. Maybe I was getting into something way over my head, but I figured hey, a little risk never hurt anybody, right?

After I picked up the envelope I headed down to Hoboken, left the car in a convenient 20 minute parking spot, and snuck a peek inside. I thought about all the times I’ve dreamed about what I would do if I had a signed blank check in my hand. Now that I actually did, I referenced the movie for ideas: water slide from my bedroom to the pool, mini racetrack with mini formula 1 cars, giant Velcro bull’s-eye with Velcro jumpsuit and inflatable trampoline. My dreams are interrupted when I met my friend outside his apartment. “Let’s go.”

We headed to a bar on the waterfront towards the end of Hoboken. The streets were fairly empty, with only a few stragglers roaming around but no signs of a real scene worthy of the 15 minute ride and the hasty, potentially expensive parking decision I had just made. Then, as we walked over the small red carpet lain out on the sidewalk, we entered the bar and the night went from mundane to anything but.

We were greeted by 4 girls offering 3 hour open bar wrist bands, mini footballs, and raffle tickets. My buddy and I accepted all graciously and made our way over to his friend, our connection at this party. After brief introductions were made we checked our coats and made our way to the bar. 2 bud lights later the three of us wandered over to a table and met some other guests. “A.J. this is Demarcus, Demarcus, A.J.” My hand was engulfed by the massive paw that was Demarcus Ware’s hand, then again by the grasp of Osi Umenyiora. “I told you you should come,” my friend mumbled to me as we walked away and grabbed two more beers.

We looked left towards to the two flat screen TVs airing a game each (Yankees/Phillies in the far left corner, Saints/Falcons in the far right). Amongst the sea of pin-straight pony tails, fashionable dresses, and freshly pressed button downs we sniped a mop of dreadlocks in a mocha brown sweater filling up the space of two persons of normal width: Cedric Benson.

To his right, seated on the couch enjoying some red wine and steak, was a small, thick-set guy in a lifesavers candy-like sweater. “Is that?” “Yea, I think so. Ray Rice.” That’s correct; Ray is not opposed to a glass of red, so long as it’s for a good cause.

After some perusing around the prize tables and mingling with the other plebian guests, my buddy and I were in dire need of another drink. We could see most of the NFL players taking pictures and glad-handing other VIPs, but noticed Benson was missing from the group. “He’s probably at the bar with a girl or something,” we joked. We walked towards the bar. Sure, enough, with a drink in one hand and a brunette in the other, there was Ced, cool as ever watching Saints game. Phenomenal.

I was hesitant at first approach because his face was saying something along the lines of, “I’m watching the game, don’t bother me.” My friend’s bold brashness saw something different as he patted Cedric on the back and asked for a picture. When the blond selected to take the shot dropped the camera my heart jumped thinking we had lost all the pictures from the night. “Not really the ideal time to drop a camera,” I say to the girl and Benson breaks out a little chuckle. A friendship was born.

The drinks continued to flow from the open bar and the conversation got more and more intimate with each gleeful gulp. “You ‘gonna stiff arm Ray Lewis or what?” my buddy barks out referring to Benson’s upcoming game against the Ravens. A nervous pause…and we all burst into laughter. “Yea I got to,” Benson replies. I start to think, wow, this guy really is going to be playing against the Ray Lewis in six days. What will I be doing in six days? Watching him. That is my life. But for a night, it wasn’t. For a night I was “boys” with Cedric Benson. For one night, I was important enough for Tony Romo’s new favorite target receiver, Miles Austin to introduce himself to me!

When the Saints had won their seventh straight, we debated their strength of schedule, grabbed our last few drinks and parted ways. Ced left with his girl of the night, a tradition he said started at the University of Texas and never stopped. We of course didn’t doubt him in the slightest. My friend and I watched in awe as one of the leading rushers in the NFL walked away from what was arguably one of the best hour-or-so long conversations the two of us had ever had. “You think he’ll remember us?” my friend asks. “You did tell him to stiff arm Ray Lewis and to do Lewis’ signature dance in the end zone if he scores.” True. If you see number 32 throw the stiff arm out there and do the dance, let it be known, he did it per request of two drunken fools he met at a lymphoma benefit party.

We walked out of the bar changed men. We had lived our respective dream lives for 3 glorious hours.

“Told you you should come.”

“Yes you did. And goddamn you were right.”