You Play With Your Feet?

What a sports day. In between watching Tiger take the PGA lead, two semi-final matches in  the U.S. Open series in Cincinatti (Way To Go Andy), and the Broncos blistering of the Titans?  I work in a 20 mile bike ride. About the only non-athletic part of my day is a trip to the bank.  Or so I think.

At the bank (which will remain anonymous for security reasons) is a TV moment that will produce an Emmy should a camera  be rolling.

As Peggy and I are standing in line waiting to make a deposit, I look over? In the next window is  All-Pro Denver Bronco wide receiver Rod Smith. He is trying to get some help getting to his safe deposit box. ( I know that's what he's up to 'cause I'd been through the maze myself a few times.)

The TV moment? The teller (a male) is dumbstruck.  His jaw is down to his collar  bone, and he is speechless. Rod is very politely trying to communicate with this stuned fan.  Soon a supervisor (a mature female) arrives to save the day.  She takes a look at her suffering underling, and then to Rod.

"What can I do for you sir?"

"I'd like to get into my safe deposit box."

"Certainly sir.  And may I have you name?"

"Rod Smith."

The mute teller now has his tongue hanging out? His palm is stretched towards Rod hoping the Superstar will shake his trembling appendage.

The supervisor is puzzled.

"May I have your name again sir?"

"Rod, Rodney Smith."

 Rod ultimately shakes the tellers hand.

"Oh, thank you Rod.  So cool to meet you.  Good luck tonight."

"Thanks."

The supervisor is not getting it.

"Mr. Smith I'm afraid we'll need to see some ID."

( Never on that level, but I have to tell you SOMETIMES it is just nice NOT to be recognized.)

Well Rod and the Supervisor disappear into the basement where the Safe Deposit Boxes are kept.  And my imagination kicks in.

Supervisor, let's call her Jane, wraps up for the day and heads home. She walks in the house and shouts to her hubby, let's call him Billy Bob, and her teenage son Billy Bob Junior.

"I'M HOME!"

"Great Sweetie, how was your day?"

"A little strange. This man comes into the bank and wants to get into his deposit box. While I'm trying to get his name, the teller just keeps mumbling...Bronco...Bronco....Bronco.  I don'tget it. Why would you call a man a Bronco?"

"What was this man's name Jane?"

"Let's see honey, I think it was Rodney Smith!"

"ROD SMITH?"

"MOM?"

"What?"

"Rod Smith, best wide receiver in the whole world?  I'll bet  he was in there checking on his SuperBowl rings!"

"What's a SuperBowl, Junior?"

"Oh, I can't believe you. Did you at least get his autograph?"

"Well, I got his signature. Does that count?"

I don't think any of us should build our lives around sports hero worship. We shouldn't make fun of Jane for not knowing a sport and community icon. Even though she's been at that bank for 16 years, all of the years Rod's been a Bronco? Even though she  must have surfed the internet, read a newspaper, seen a billboard, watched a bus go by, watched a TV, looked at product endorsements in magazines?  Even though the man, Rod, lives in the same town, and owns a retaurant in the same town, where Jane works?

Let's forgive her. But I doubt Billy Bob or Billy Bob Jr. ever will.

"Yes, maam, that's spelled capital R little O little D, Smith. Would you like me to spell Smith?"

[ The teller, let's call him Jimmy Joe, doesn't make it to work for a week. He's got an infection from having R...O...D... tatooed on the palm of his hand.]