The number twelve, branded into my burger. 1 + 2 = 12 = Jim Kelly. My birthday, The Sport City Grill. It wasn't around too long, the restaurant or my youth. Signed jerseys, cleats, helmets on the walls. Sticks, pennants, gloves. A shrine to the French Connection, a baby blue Bob Mcadoo game jersey, all signed. Road Warriors spiked shoulder pads (extra cool), a bright yellow Hogan tee, torn down the middle, Superbowl-worn game balls - signed, signed, signed. All the pop I could drink, changed up with each fill. Sprite, please/Root beer this time/Can I have another Coke, please? I stopped outside the bathroom to run my fingers along the smooth reinforced glass that enclosed an autographed Shaquille O’Neil shoe - the biggest shoe that anyone who had ever seen it had ever seen. Walls of televisions in the bathroom, more awesome than the sized twenty two shoe outside.
The energy in the restaurant, changed. The hairs on my forearm, prickled. People, out of their seats. A clustered line near the front of the restaurant, grins broad.
The man had entered. Number twelve himself, Jim Kelly.
A tall guy next to him - thick mustache and glossy leather jacket, both black. Flushed cheeks and bellowed laughter. Chomped gum and slicked back hair. My mom handed me the yellow legal pad and blue pen from her purse. People ahead of us gave the mustached, gum chomping man attention, not Jim. They offered up napkins, returned with flourished scribbles. I looked to my mom with questions - A quarterback? A pitcher? A coach? - but she was like everyone else with their pasted half smiles and twinkling gazes on the mustached man. Two women strutted past showing off their signed dollar bills - I can’t believe it/I’m going to frame this.
And then I stood in the shadow of giants.
The yellow legal pad, reached forward with trembling fingers. The mustached man grabbed it without glancing down. I tightened my grip, felt the pad slip away, shook my head but the mustached man didn't see, Jim Kelly didn't see, my mom didn't see. No, I said loud and clear. They looked at me. Not you. I pointed at the mustached man, close enough to smell his cologne and cigarettes. I dragged my stretched out my arm across the narrow space to point at Jim Kelly. Him. The mustached man followed the tip of my finger. Jim Kelly looked at the mustached man, my mom looked at the mustached man, waiters looked at the mustached man, bartenders, people in the cluster behind us, at tables, in doorways, all looked at the mustached man. But I looked at Jim Kelly.
A moment of time passed, in all our lives.
The mustached man laughed, Jim Kelly laughed, my mom laughed, people nearby laughed. But I didn't laugh. The yellow legal pad changed hands. I leaned forward, watched ink swoop along paper. The mustached man, still laughing, put his heavy palm on my head, tussled my hair firm enough to leave a memory. You’ve got your priorities in the right spot, kid, he said.
But my priorities have changed. That is time’s effect - change. Pay attention, and see that time does not destroy, but simply skews. Because who the fuck cares about Jim Kelly? I just told you about the time I met Burt Reynolds.
