It's My Number

It's My Number

 

I am talking, by phone, with old friend from high school. We're both septuagenarians (that's Seven-Oh plus), so high school is what we'd call "way back."

I want to send him an email so I ask, "What's your email?"

"Bainie12@aol.com," he informs me, then adds, "It was my number."

I understand immediately. He was a quarterback. He played football. Twelve was his jersey number.

I correspond with several of my former football teammates. Please know that we were decidedly small time - but never mind - more than a few of us have put our numbers into our email address. As for me, my number is sprinkled throughout my many computer passwords. A lot of passwords require numbers and I get mine from old football jerseys.

Sometimes - more often than not - I make up passwords from ancient football plays. I think of this as quite clever. No joke.

For example: 108Lateral, 211Reverse, and LinePlunge17 (17 was my HS number when the "line plunge" was in fashion). Cool huh?

My personal favorite is: 17FB45IB19HB, which represents my three numbers, 17 as a fullback in high school, 45 as an "I" formation back in prep school and 19 when I was a halfback in college. So far in the three or so years that I have used this password, it has never failed to bring a warm feeling to my chest each time I type it.

I'm not making this up. Yes, I know. Nuts.

Regardless, here's what happened the other day.

I am at the gym. It's post workout. I walk into the locker room and notice a young man is using the locker right next to mine. As is the protocol, he apologizes for choosing a locker so close.

"No problem," I offer.

"It's my number," he says, "twenty-two." He gives me a sheepish grin, then goes on to describe his most recent athletic endeavor. "I just got back from Finland," he says.

"Really?" I say.

"I was playing professional hockey there. But they couldn't give me my number."

Hmmmm.

Of course I recognize the story, a thinly disguised variation of my own I played football story collection. I give him my full attention.   

"They couldn't give me 22 in Finland. They said they only went up to 20. I could have either 2 or 20." 

"So which did you choose?" I ask.

As one who has told many a tall football tale, I oblige him with all due courtesy, plus I ask questions so he doesn't have to resort to speed-talking in run-on sentences, a common necessity, with seniors speaking to disinterested parties.

Needless to say, I get an ear full, which brings a feeling not unlike - my good deed for today.

FYI: He chose 20.

Walking out from the gym I chuckle to myself about the encounter and then get a bright idea. Next time I book a flight I'll reserve a seat in aisle 19. Then when I board, I'll stash my bags overhead, squeeze in, arrange the seat-belt, fiddle with my stuff (laptop, newspaper, neck cushion), settle in, get comfortable and exhale.  I'll look to my right (or left). I'll make eye contact.

"Ah ... aisle 19," I'll say. Eye to eye now. "It was my number." Blank stare. "Football number," I'll offer with a half smile, slightly apologetic.

Actually, I wouldn't expect any real interest.  

But hey … I think the point is not that others hear the story. The point is that I hear it.