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I first met Betty Lewis sitting on a couch in a friends apartment in Rosemont Illinois. I was 23 she was 58. Her first word to me was earrrrr...as she passed me the joint she was smoking. We were an eclectic bunch of societal miscreants. Our clan consisted of idealist's from a variety of walks of life. Age was not a common denominator. We once celebrated Thanksgiving in July--- just because.

Betty came to visit a mutual friend of ours when I lived in Alaska in the summer of 1988. She'd told me her plan to scale the fence of a minute man missile silo in Missouri and place bird seed around the missile opening. I asked if I could go with and she politely said no thank you. I asked her if she was scared and she told me her only fear was not being able to climb the fence. I asked her why she was going to do this. She replied, "to shake the apathy of people. It seems we have come to accept the fact that is was ok if the government had enough nuclear weapons to blow up the world 1000 times, but maybe people might possibly WAKE UP to the fact that the government was going to put a 61 year old grandmother in prison for placing birdseed on a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe that would get their attention"

She done did it!

Betty Lewis was one of a kind!

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 Maybe in Texas the Friday night football players had their name on the back of their jerseys but in Illinois all you got was a number. That fall Friday night, the guy I was matched up against was #27. I was an good receiver. I prided myself on the fact that if I could touch the ball I would catch the ball. I don’t think anyone on my team could remember me dropping a ball all year but the truth was even our coaches only knew me by my number 87. #27 was much better than me. Every running play when I went to block him he would playfully deflect my blocking attempts like a cat toys with a mouse. He never said anything but it was evident after the first quarter he and I both knew who the better football player was not just that night but every time we put on our pads. 

When a passing play was called and we had many passing plays because we were down 14 points, he had, what announcers would call, a blanketed coverage. I ran fast routes and my cuts were perfect. I ran them all  at my top speed. Each time he was right next to me. If I was to ever turn around during the route we would have been closer than two seniors dancing a slow dance at the homecoming dance the next night in our gym. On one third down I had to run a 9 route which was basically…. run straight ahead at your top speed, no fakes, just full speed ahead. I did and again he was within inches of my back. I had a feeling during the route he could have tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m right here.” On that particular play a penalty was called so both of us did not need to sprint back to our huddles so we walked back side by side. That’s when I heard him say, “I’ve never played against anyone who went all out on every single play.” I told him, “I usually don’t but my dad is in the stands and he’s never seen me play.” He said, “Never?” I said, “No, he’s a cop in Chicago and for whatever reason every fall he gets the second shift which is at night.”

We both went to our respective huddles and the night continued. In the fourth quarter we were now down by 24 points. It’s customary at this point in the game to continue to try to score so the quarterback called another passing play and my job was to run the 9 route again. As I lined up against #27 I knew it was pointless but I took off from the line and ran my fastest, straight ahead. After 15 yards I looked over my shoulder and saw #27 was 5 yards behind me. More importantly our quarterback saw I was open and I saw his arm fly forward and from that point all these years later it seems everything was in slow motion. I saw the ball's path and I knew my speed. I was not very good at algebra but I knew football algebra and I knew I could catch this ball. Each step I took, only the tip of my toes touched the turf. #27 was now only four yards behind me now. As I looked over my shoulder I saw #27 almost smiling as the ball just missed his helmet and landed in my soft hands. At that moment I heard the crowd roar. It sounded like harrrrrrrr and as I took in the moment #27 tackled me from behind. As I lay on my back with the ball tucked in my arm #27 extended a hand to help me up. As he did he said, “Nice catch 87. I bet your dad’s smiling.” I said, “Hey, you let….”, He cut me off, smiled and said, “I would never do that.” We both jogged, shoulder to shoulder,   back to our huddles and I flipped the ball to the referee. 

On the way back to school that fall night I looked out the bus window and knew #27 let me catch that ball. I also knew he could not let me score, not that it would have determined the outcome of the game but because #27 had his pride and I am sure his coaches knew his name.

The next week when I had a moment to talk to my dad, I asked him what he thought of my catch. He said he didn't see it because he went to the concession stand to get a coffee. At that point in my life I already learned my father's approval was too illusive. What did matter was that night #27 taught me one of life's most valuable lessons. Thank you #27!

 This may not have been my first prayer however it is the first prayer I remember saying directly to God. I was an alter boy at St. Williams Church, on a Sunday, in the summer of 1969. It was the part of the mass where the alter boys kneel and when the priest raises the host or the wine in the air the altar boys press a button on the ground which would ring a bell in the church. Everything went according to plan and as I knelt next to my friend Mikey. He told me he worked a one hour funeral yesterday and made five dollars. My eyes grew wide as I tried to comprehend the windfall my friend had just received. I knew I needed to work at a funeral and get in on some of this money. I was low boy on the altar boy seniority list so unless there were more funerals it would be a lifetime until I saw that money. It would possibly be a few more years when my age was double digits. I could not wait that long. When the mass ended and I went home. I ran upstairs to my bedroom, knelt by my bed and said the following prayer.

Dear Lord, I know you heard me talking to Mikey today at church, especially the part when he told me about all the money he made working at the funeral last weekend. I was hoping maybe you could see it in your heart to have a few more funerals soon. I mean, I don’t want anyone I know to die, especially my family or anyone on my baseball team but if there is someone that is really old, like over 50 who is going to die soon, can you kind of hurry it up a bit. It would probably be a good idea if they were in a lot a of pain then it would be good, right? I sure could use the money. Thank you, God. Amen.

I had no idea what I would do with five dollars. The most I ever had at one time was fifty cents so five dollars was hard to comprehend but I knew that I had to have that money, and I knew I would figure out how to spend it when the money was in my jeans. 

As it turned out there were three funerals the next weekend and one of the altar boys was going to a family birthday party, so my prayer was answered. I soon learned that a funeral was much like a regular Sunday mass except there were a few more speeches and more people were paying attention. As I sat in my altar boy chair during the speeches and thought about how I would spend the money my thoughts turned from delightful anticipation to shame. If I had not prayed last week the old guy in the casket would still be alive. Everyone here would not be dressed up and probably be enjoying lunch right about now. I closed my eyes and prayed my second prayer. Dear God, please forget about the prayer I said last week. It was a stupid prayer. Amen.

When the mass was over the family thanked the priest and walked over to me and held out a five-dollar bill. I said no thank you and walked home. I never prayed for anyone to die again.