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Number Sixty
By Stephanie Kemp
Number Sixty
By Stephanie Kemp
One of my most important childhood dreams never came true.
This (still) matters because I was supposed to change the world.
It was 1979 and I wanted to be the first female quarterback of the NFL. This was not a pipe dream - in 4th grade my friends nicknamed me OJ because no one could catch me at recess AND I could throw a perfect spiral. Usually. (Always, if it was a Nerf).
Specifically (and only), I wanted to play for the Lions.
They needed me.
Greg Landry and Bill Munson were gone, Gary Danielson was hurt and Jeff Komlo was not making it happen. I was no longer angry with Danielson. (I blamed him for the departure of Munson, who I had fallen slightly in love with - after the initial disappointment - upon learning that he was not my friend, Debbie’s dad.)
That said, the season was a disaster.
My dad, uncles and grandpa were huge Lions supporters (if not always fans…..who could be?). We spent countless Sundays and almost every Thanksgiving at the Silverdome, hoping for the best and, at the very least, enjoying massive drinks and peanuts in the shell. If it was a special day, and we were lucky enough to go to Grandpa’s box, we got cold cuts and cheese with smaller drinks in nicer glasses.
I knew I could save the Lions.
I just needed to get to Al “Bubba” Baker and stay clear of Monte Clark. If I was going to become QB, I would need to convince Al Baker to move from defense to offense to protect me. I may have been brave (and a really good athlete), but I was not stupid. #60 would make or break my fate. And I needed to avoid Monte Clark because there was nothing I had seen in his coaching that led me to believe he would be in support of such a progressive part of changing football history.
My chance came when my dad asked me and my sisters if we wanted to go to a training day where we might be able to meet some players and maybe get some autographs signed. (No offense to my sisters, but I have no recollection of them coming with me on this day, but I am sure my dad would’ve invited them. Plus, I was on a mission.)
When we arrived, it was instantly the best day of my life. Players were on the field and people were roaming around casually, with cameras and programs to be signed. Some players were talking to young boys, some players were talking to young moms. The key to my future, #60, was on the sidelines talking to teammates and laughing. I made my move, hoping no one would stop me. I had with me my entire collection of tiny plastic NFL helmets for signing (I had collected 3 additional Lions) and to show that I was serious about football.
There were no ticket takers that day, and everyone seemed to be able to go wherever they wanted, including me. I told my dad I had to go to the bathroom, which I did. At this point in time, I still didn’t like to lie.
When I came back to make my way down to the field, everyone was gone except my dad. I panicked, thinking that my body had betrayed me yet again.
But then Dad said, “Come on, they’re setting up for autographs, outside.”
I ran out just in time to see Al Baker sitting in a chair, holding a pen. I hoped it was a Sharpie. All the players were scattered around in chairs as (mostly) kids were rushing around trying to figure out who to go to first. I made my move and was at the top of the line for Bubba (I also planned to ask him if he liked this nickname), as lesser fans started to gather behind me.
As the chaos grew and official looking people started to try to organize the lines, tragedy struck. The line for Al Baker was moved “to the left!” and I found myself suddenly at the way end of the line - now very long and very full of big, bossy looking boys and men, wanting only a signature, not to change the face of the NFL.
But.
Al Baker saw what had happened and he pointed at me with his pen (not a Sharpie) and said, “Young lady, come up here. You were first.”
My heart stopped. My head exploded. My knees shook. I was trying not to cry or throw up. I clutched my brown paper lunch bag full of plastic helmets and made my way back up to the front.
I don’t remember anything after this, except that Al Baker was incredibly nice, thought the idea of me becoming a quarterback sounded great, did like his nickname, and could only sign my brown paper bag because his regular pen wouldn’t work on the plastic of any of my tiny NFL helmets.
I forgot to ask him if he would consider switching to offense but I have never forgotten the feeling of that day - his kindness, my nervousness and the excitement that comes with the sense of possibility and trying to change the (or any) game. And while this particular dream didn’t come true, it fueled many that did.
To this day, I remain solidly, if woefully, in full support of the Detroit Lions, but mostly #60, Al “Bubba” Baker. (And Bill Munson.)
I also wish I still had that signed brown bag full of tiny helmets to show my daughters. While neither one has ever shown interest in learning how to throw a spiral, they’re both kicking ass in - and changing - life games of their own.
This (still) matters because I was supposed to change the world.
It was 1979 and I wanted to be the first female quarterback of the NFL. This was not a pipe dream - in 4th grade my friends nicknamed me OJ because no one could catch me at recess AND I could throw a perfect spiral. Usually. (Always, if it was a Nerf).
Specifically (and only), I wanted to play for the Lions.
They needed me.
Greg Landry and Bill Munson were gone, Gary Danielson was hurt and Jeff Komlo was not making it happen. I was no longer angry with Danielson. (I blamed him for the departure of Munson, who I had fallen slightly in love with - after the initial disappointment - upon learning that he was not my friend, Debbie’s dad.)
That said, the season was a disaster.
My dad, uncles and grandpa were huge Lions supporters (if not always fans…..who could be?). We spent countless Sundays and almost every Thanksgiving at the Silverdome, hoping for the best and, at the very least, enjoying massive drinks and peanuts in the shell. If it was a special day, and we were lucky enough to go to Grandpa’s box, we got cold cuts and cheese with smaller drinks in nicer glasses.
I knew I could save the Lions.
I just needed to get to Al “Bubba” Baker and stay clear of Monte Clark. If I was going to become QB, I would need to convince Al Baker to move from defense to offense to protect me. I may have been brave (and a really good athlete), but I was not stupid. #60 would make or break my fate. And I needed to avoid Monte Clark because there was nothing I had seen in his coaching that led me to believe he would be in support of such a progressive part of changing football history.
My chance came when my dad asked me and my sisters if we wanted to go to a training day where we might be able to meet some players and maybe get some autographs signed. (No offense to my sisters, but I have no recollection of them coming with me on this day, but I am sure my dad would’ve invited them. Plus, I was on a mission.)
When we arrived, it was instantly the best day of my life. Players were on the field and people were roaming around casually, with cameras and programs to be signed. Some players were talking to young boys, some players were talking to young moms. The key to my future, #60, was on the sidelines talking to teammates and laughing. I made my move, hoping no one would stop me. I had with me my entire collection of tiny plastic NFL helmets for signing (I had collected 3 additional Lions) and to show that I was serious about football.
There were no ticket takers that day, and everyone seemed to be able to go wherever they wanted, including me. I told my dad I had to go to the bathroom, which I did. At this point in time, I still didn’t like to lie.
When I came back to make my way down to the field, everyone was gone except my dad. I panicked, thinking that my body had betrayed me yet again.
But then Dad said, “Come on, they’re setting up for autographs, outside.”
I ran out just in time to see Al Baker sitting in a chair, holding a pen. I hoped it was a Sharpie. All the players were scattered around in chairs as (mostly) kids were rushing around trying to figure out who to go to first. I made my move and was at the top of the line for Bubba (I also planned to ask him if he liked this nickname), as lesser fans started to gather behind me.
As the chaos grew and official looking people started to try to organize the lines, tragedy struck. The line for Al Baker was moved “to the left!” and I found myself suddenly at the way end of the line - now very long and very full of big, bossy looking boys and men, wanting only a signature, not to change the face of the NFL.
But.
Al Baker saw what had happened and he pointed at me with his pen (not a Sharpie) and said, “Young lady, come up here. You were first.”
My heart stopped. My head exploded. My knees shook. I was trying not to cry or throw up. I clutched my brown paper lunch bag full of plastic helmets and made my way back up to the front.
I don’t remember anything after this, except that Al Baker was incredibly nice, thought the idea of me becoming a quarterback sounded great, did like his nickname, and could only sign my brown paper bag because his regular pen wouldn’t work on the plastic of any of my tiny NFL helmets.
I forgot to ask him if he would consider switching to offense but I have never forgotten the feeling of that day - his kindness, my nervousness and the excitement that comes with the sense of possibility and trying to change the (or any) game. And while this particular dream didn’t come true, it fueled many that did.
To this day, I remain solidly, if woefully, in full support of the Detroit Lions, but mostly #60, Al “Bubba” Baker. (And Bill Munson.)
I also wish I still had that signed brown bag full of tiny helmets to show my daughters. While neither one has ever shown interest in learning how to throw a spiral, they’re both kicking ass in - and changing - life games of their own.