Two more Pittsburgh stories.
First of all, the gas pump woman never sent me a bill. Whoever she is, depending on her age, I want to marry/adopt her and/or have her read me a bedtime story.
I was waiting in the lobby of my Pittsburgh motel when a line developed behind me. The guy two places back was wearing a brand new, vintage Mike Webster jersey. My having recently failed to locate just such a jersey, this caught my eye. As before, I wondered what the deal is with black Steelers fans and white players' numbers. I wondered if he put as much silly thought into making a statement as I did. Surely not.
Outside the window, the motel manager was awkwardly strapping on some 6' stilts, which consisted primarily of his teetering like a drunken baby deer on ice while hanging for dear life off the second story deck. This wasn't merely for our entertainment. He was also painting the exterior of the building. As he lurched toward oblivion, I found myself rooting for gravity. That's when Mr. Mike Webster Jersey called me on it.
"What does it say about us that we're rooting for him to fall?" he said guiltily. "We're not exactly rushing outside to help him get upright."
We laughed, and I'm pretty sure one of us even felt bad. I invited him and his buddy to join our tailgate later that day.
When they showed up, I handed them beers and brats and introduced them to my brother-in-law. I saw no outward signs of discomfort from him, but as they shook hands, I felt an electric pulse of childhood memories flooding back, memories of him telling racist jokes. Particularly vile jokes, from what I recall. But maybe he's changed. People mellow, learn. I hoped so. And then he shot me a glare that said, at least in my imagination, You didn't tell me they were black.
I failed you, sir. A thousand pardons. I'm afraid I'm not as well-versed in retard as my sister.
But the evening progressed smoothly enough, with my sister's husband contributing from time to time as the rest of us swapped stories. Eventually I asked the question I'd wondered about earlier.
"Mike Webster? You don't see a lot of black fans wearing white players' numbers around the NFL. What is it with Steelers fans?"
He looked genuinely confused. "Huh?"
Stammering, I explained how I deliberately didn't choose a white player's number because I can't stand how 75% of white fans wear those 5% of the players' numbers.
"That's really...interesting," he said, visibly taxed by the thought that anyone gave this crap any thought whatsoever. "What's the difference?"
He looked at my brother-in-law pityingly.