Remembering Johnny.
No, not THAT Johnny.And not THAT Johnny either.
Nor that one.
Or that one.
(It appears I might have a thing for men named Johnny).
No, none of those. This one. He died September 11, 2002. He was 69 years old, working out in a gym, then gone.
I always looked up to him. I wore high top black sneakers in his honor. Wore a football jersey with "19" on it. For a time, I even sported his haircut. I met his center, Bill Curry, when he came to Malaprop's bookstore recently–and almost couldn't speak. I dragged Jylene and Janey to the Pro Football Hall of Fame when I visited their fair town of Canton, Ohio, for a book reading. We had just a few minutes to spare. A docent greeted us (his name was Roman, which I loved for its football-ness) and started telling us the history of football. "I'm sorry," I interrupted gently, "but we have only ten minutes to visit here. Where is the Johnny Unitas section?" A series of docents put on alert to the crazed white-haired woman in the lobby efficiently moved us from section to section: "Here's his helmet." The next: "Here's his jersey." Childhood hero. Remember Johnny.