And the Moral of the Tale Is Written Over and Over

I was hoping Carolina and/or Jacksonville would have reached the Super Bowl because I wanted to reprise an apropos column I wrote some time ago.

Then, I thought, why be tyrannized by events? I’ll do it anyway.

It’s a parable really. Goes like this:

“The heavyweight champion of the world was a great boastful giant who was widely considered unbeatable. The earth trembled when he walked, and the eardrum shattered when he spoke, which was all the time. People laughed at all his jokes and bowed when he passed by. He was so out of opponents that, when the promoters led in this skinny, quiet little guy, the press was scandalized, legislatures threatened to ban the match, arenas boycotted. It was denounced in the pulpit, and the world covered its eyes.

“The contender was a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter and much quieter. Only the bloodthirsty showed up at ringside, and the odds were 20-1 as the giant champion swaggered in and roared ‘OK, sonny, what’s my name?’ And the little guy shrugged and said, ‘How should I know, all I care about is where is your temple?’ And the big guy said, ‘Oh, a wise guy, huh? Well, before I pinch your head off, what’s yours?’ And the little guy said, ‘David.’ ”

(Moral: Keep taking the 20-1. Even a heel has an Achilles’.)

“There was this mob wise guy who was tormenting this youngster. ‘Why, you young punk, when I tell you to get coffee, you say ‘How hot?’ When I tell you to shine my shoes, you use your sweater if you haven’t got a rag. Now, you owe the syndicate $10,000, and you can’t declare bankruptcy in this court. You got 10 minutes to come up with it or I break both your kneecaps. Then I put out lighted cigarettes on your neck. We just might get you a pair of concrete snowshoes and drop you in the East River. You don’t know who you’re fooling with around here, boy. I mean, we’re not a philanthropy here, buddy. I mean, Bugsy Siegel rips off the syndicate, and the next thing you know he ain’t got any eyes. Now, this is just a warning. After your kneecaps, I may pull a fingernail or two. Then, I break an arm or two. Y’unnerstand? Now, where do you want I should send the remains?’ And the kid sighed and said, “To my father. John Gotti.’ ”

(Moral: Never overmatch yourself. Check the family tree before you find yourself swinging from it.)

“The stakes were high at Brackenridge Park golf course in San Antonio that day. And Titanic Thompson had won the money four ways, as usual. He offered to play the young hotshot left-handed, which was a joke because Titanic was left-handed--although he could play right-handed in a pinch. Titanic began to gloat a little bit because he thought the kid would never play him again. ‘How about tomorrow, son?’ he needled. ‘Like to try to get your money back? Tell you what I’ll do: Get yourself a partner and we’ll play a little four-ball, and I’ll give you two a side, how about that? Give you a chance to recoup. We’ll double the bet, how’s that?’ And the kid said ‘OK.’ And Titanic was a little surprised but pleased. He had him a real pigeon, he told himself. He could give this cretin five a side. ‘Tell you what I’ll do, kid,’ he said expansively. ‘We’ll give your pardner two a side also. Now what could be fairer than that? Now, get yourself a partner and we’ll see you at the first tee at 10 a.m.’ ‘I already got one,’ said the kid. ‘Oh,’ said Titanic, chuckling. ‘And who might he be?’ ‘Fellow by the name of Ben Hogan,’ the kid replied. ‘Used to caddie with me over at Glen Garden.’ ”

(Moral: Always cut the cards, even when it’s your deck. The other guy might have an ace up his sleeve.)

“Gen. George Armstrong Custer was feeling good that day. His breakfast was sitting well, his juices were flowing. It was a good day to be alive and to do something that would make the history books remember you forever. He had the Indians right where he wanted them. ‘I think I’ll lure them out and we can settle this thing right here and now,’ he told Maj. Reno. ‘We can wipe out this force and be back at the fort by noon tomorrow. We will have won the West, Major! What did you say the name of the chief of the Sioux here is again?’ ‘Sitting Bull,’ Maj. Reno said. ‘Never heard of him,’ Custer said airily, ‘but tomorrow he’s going to make me famous.’ ”

(Moral: Always keep an eye out for an expansion team.)

There are 30 teams in the NFL. Almost half of them have been there since the days when an incomplete pass on fourth down in the end zone turned the ball over to the defending team on its 20-yard line. But two teams a little over a year old would have made the Super Bowl except for an interception or two, a fumble returned for a touchdown and a game played in the Ice Age.

Custer and Goliath could have warned them. And the captain of the Titanic (and the coach of the Panthers) could have reminded them that you never take even an ice cube for granted.