He Gave My Dad The Fingers!

The Super Bowl and office pools go together like peanut butter and Ritz Crackers. You know how it works: everyone buys a square with a random numbers for each team. If your numbers match the last two digits of both team’s final score, you win the cash.  And I can’t think about playing this game without thinking about my Dad and laughing. 

My father hated the University of Nebraska. Everything about that school revulsed him, even the “N” on their helmet, which became a joke he told me time and time again. “Hey Joe, do you know what that N on Nebraska’s helmet stands for?  Knowledge!”  His favorite two teams were Alabama, and whoever was playing Nebraska.  It was unnatural for an Alabama fan to have such loathing for any team not named Auburn, but he did. 

It all began on January 1, 1966. Alabama was playing Nebraska in the Orange Bowl. The stakes were high that night - the National Championship was on the line.  But that wasn’t the only reason the game was so important.  My Dad was participating in a big office betting pool. 

Since this was such a big game, the price of the squares went for $25 each - an unheard of number back then.  This made the total winnings worth $2,500. Adjusted for inflation, that is almost $23,000 today. 

My Dad had a couple of indifferent numbers randomly assigned to him: Alabama 9, and Nebraska 7.  Since the money pot looked to be a long shot, it wasn't on anyone’s mind as kickoff approached. 

The game itself was a thing of beauty if you wore Crimson and White. Bear Bryant’s game plan kept Nebraska dizzy. They kicked on-sides kicks. They tossed long passes out of the end zone. They were even throwing the ball to their linemen!  Nebraska was ill prepared for such an aerial onslaught. Consequently,  the Tide  took a comfy 24-7 lead to the locker room at halftime.  

As the bands played, my Dad was undoubtedly doing the math. If Nebraska went scoreless in the second half, or if they finished with a total of 17, 27, or 37 points, he was halfway there.  

Alabama was a different story. They would need to score  5, 15, or 25 points  to come up with a total ending in 9 - Dad’s winning number.  Highly unlikely. 

 

In the middle of the third quarter Nebraska scored a touchdown, went for two, and failed, making the score  24-13.  Alabama calmly answered with a steady drive - scoring 6 points and making their two point conversion. Now the lead was 32-13, and my Dad began moving to the edge of his seat, his legs shaking nervously because the planets had begun to align. All he needed was another touchdown by Alabama, and two more by Nebraska, to hit the jackpot. 

 The fourth quarter started, and Nebraska began moving down the field.  Within a few minutes, they scored another touchdown and PAT, making it 32-20.  Dad  began pacing.  Once again, Bama responded by shredding Nebraska’s defense thru the air. Another easy TD and the score was 39-20.  Time was running out. The game was over for everyone - but my Dad.  

What happened in the next few minutes has been repeated at Hobby family outings for decades. I can recall it clearly.  

Predictably, the tension in our den rose after Alabama kicked off. My father began cheering for Nebraska like an alumnus from Omaha. It seemed to work.  Nebraska drove into Alabama territory, and with time winding down, the Cornhuskers scored a touchdown!   

Dad leaped, did a pirouette, landed on his feet, and began doing a little jig. Our den was a happy, joyous place. It’s 39-26!   Dad began singing,”Kick the PAT and it’s cash for me! PAT and cash for me!”

Then Dad glanced at the TV and saw something very disturbing. Nebraska Coach Bob Devaney was holding up two fingers. They weren’t going to kick. They were going for two points! 

The dancing and singing stopped. Darkness fell over the room. Instantly, myFather  turned into the Spawn of Satan. His face turned red. His eyes bulged. Veins popped out. And he began to hold up one particular finger to Coach Devaney, as he stomped and cursed loudly. 

This was not stuck-in-traffic, gonna-be-late-for-the-movie, kind of cursing. What came out of my Dad’s mouth was something I had never heard before. He was using words that I still don’t know. A few years later I went to see The Exorcist, and was struck by the similarity between the possessed girl and my father. Except he wasn’t acting. 

I was terrified - but strangely, found myself admiring my Father. If anger and rage was art, my dad was Michelangelo. 

Nonetheless, I was torn between staying in the den with Beelzebub, or hiding under my bed with my dog, who left at the first eruption. I kept my seat.  

My Mother walked in from the kitchen with her arms folded, and watched his tirade in silence. She rarely swore, so she did not approve of this insanity - but allowed it to go on for a few minutes. Wisely, Mom knew this was like letting the steam out of a pressure cooker. 

Finally, she spoke calmly.

“James, that’s enough.”  

He wasn’t ready to give it up. “That stupid, ignorant,  Devaney!  He didn’t even have to go for two!  That SOB cost me $2,500! I was going to use some of that money to buy Joe a car in a couple of years!”

Wha-wha-what? My head snapped around.  That low-life, piece of crap, fat excuse of a football coach. Bob Devaney just ruined my life too!  I had become collateral damage. 

For the record, the game ended 39-28, and Alabama was declared the National Champion.  Dad didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the car, but I got a story to tell for the rest of my life. 

And I still don’t like Nebraska either.