THE SAD STORY OF JOE JEFFERSON

Joe “One-Pull” Jefferson was a devoted NFL fan, which is to say he was one of the blessed many of us who have no trouble integrating enthusiasm and lethargy.

“I can’t wait to sit on my ass and watch football all day!” he would exclaim before his first sip of coffee on each week’s seventh morning.

And last Sunday was no exception. After the final sip of his third cup, he kissed his wife goodbye and buzzed down the street to his favorite watering hole. Normally he would have been draped in the jersey of his favorite team, but this was the second round of the playoffs and Joe’s squad had already been dispatched to the beaches and golf courses of the world, so a t-shirt adorned with an ambiguously vulgar phrase would have to do. But everything else was just perfect.

Joe enjoyed the games, and drank his beers and cavorted with his friends just as millions of other Americans did on that day. He couldn’t help thinking ahead, though, past that week’s games and the Conference Championships and all the way up to the biggest day of the year: Super Bowl Sunday. Oh, how Joe and his friends loved that day.

He chuckled at the thought of the good times to come. Unfortunately, he was engaged in one of his famous “one-pulls” at the time and the chicken wing he had stuffed in his mouth – with the hopes of picking it clean with one pull of the bone – became lodged in his windpipe.

Joe jumped up from his seat gasping for air, but since both he and his buddies believed the Heimlich maneuver to be gay, he was left to his own devices. Joe desperately rammed himself against first the pool table and then the jukebox in attempts to expel the bone. Incidentally, the force of his thrusting against the latter set off a George Michael song, but due to the escalating seriousness of the situation the irony was lost on almost everyone, including Joe.

When neither pounding his chest nor “Kissing a Fool” helped him, Joe’s panic grew and he ran amok and eventually right out the door and into oncoming traffic, where a speeding Camry that happened by thankfully dislodged the chicken bone, but in doing so shattered several others. An ambulance was called.

Joe awoke several hours later to the unfamiliar but unmistakable surroundings of a hospital room. He deduced that all the tubes and machines meant he was in serious trouble, but he could not understand why he felt no pain. Then he noticed the black-cloaked Angel of Death in the corner of the room.

“Am I dead?” Joe asked.

“Not just yet,” Death replied in a tone much more compassionate than one would expect.

“Any chance I can get a pass on this one?”

Death didn’t answer, but Joe knew he had no choice. After all, if he was to survive an ordeal such as this he would surely require thousands of dollars of surgery and care, and Joe had the misfortune of being an independent contractor caught in between health plans. On the other hand, just last month he had finally acquiesced to a long-forgotten acquaintance’s strange and incessant requests to get together to “discuss his future”, and in doing so he picked himself up some term life insurance. Yeah, Death was the way to go.

“Shall we get to it then?” Death asked.

But before Joe could submit he thought about just how close he was to his favorite day of the year: Super Bowl Sunday. Perhaps he could remain among the living until then?

Death thought he heard them all before, but this was a new one.

“I promise you,” Joe pleaded, “when that game ends I won’t put up a struggle; I won’t even argue. In fact, I’ll say, ‘hand me my sneakers’, and I’ll jump out of this bed and gladly follow you all the way to…heaven?”

“Eh.”

But Joe was unfazed. We went on to describe how much he loved the Super Bowl and how this year’s edition could prove to be the most special of them all. New England and its record breaking offense could complete a perfect season. The old gunslinger Brett Favre could go out in one last blaze of glory. The match-ups and storylines rolled off Joe’s tongue for hours as he passionately made his case, until, finally, Death was convinced.

“Alright,” Death conceded, “I cannot possibly deny this request. Your fanaticism for the NFL is truly inspiring.”

Joe basked in a warmth like he had never felt. He was at Death’s door, but he was never so alive. He rejoiced for all that lay in front of him.

“You know,” Death offered as he walked to the door, “I already know the final score.”

“Don’t tell me,” a giddy Joe pleaded, “I want the Patriots and Packers to surprise me.”

“Well that’s the thing,” retorted Death, “It’s going to be the Giants versus the Chargers.”

With that, the smile dropped from Joe’s face.

“Hand me my sneakers.”