Charlie Mitty walked to his pickup truck – cleats slung over his left shoulder and weighted down by a bag full of pads and equipment – opened the door, and flung the cargo onto the passenger seat.
It was a Saturday in December, and just as he had done most Saturdays since the arrival of fall, he donned a green jersey with the number 99 ironed on the front and back, and squeezed into a pair of grass-stained football pants.
He’d then load up his vehicle, pull out of the parking lot and drive away.
There was nothing particularly odd about any of that – at least not on the surface. It was still football season, and football games weren’t the sole domain of college and professional athletes.
Thing is, Charlie was well into his 60s, and most of the residents at the Serenity Valley retirement community he called home didn’t quite know what to make of him.
Oh, he was friendly enough; he smiled and waved at everyone. But he had a reputation for telling tall tales about his gridiron exploits, and that would usually put a quick end to any potentially lengthy conversations.
Ex-athletes often talked about their glory days – it’s a default setting for some – but Charlie would have you believe he was still living his glory days.
Those who maintained their version of an active lifestyle at Serenity Valley played pickleball or golf, and some would make use of the faded shuffleboard in the back of the complex – once a vibrant green but now more of a mint color thanks to frequent beatings from the sun.
“Hey, Charlie,” Vester Taylor would ask from time to time, “You, uh … you planning on playing football again today?”
Charlie would give him the thumbs-up sign.
“Yessir,” he’d answer. “I’ve got to practice my kicking. Still can’t quite hit a 50-yarder yet, but I’ll get there … I’ll get there. Made a 35-yarder last week against the Dolphins. We lost, and I missed an extra point, but you gotta put it behind you.
“Like they say, the biggest game is the next one.”
Vester and his wife, Sandra, lived in the complex across the street from Charlie. They had followed his “ballplayer activity,” as Sandra called it, for several months.
At first, they noticed him wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt and carrying a football under his arm. Since September, however, the sweats had been replaced by a uniform.
“I think something must be wrong with Charlie,” she’d say to her husband. “We’re getting on in years, and people our age don’t go around wearing ballplayer outfits.”
Vester would laugh.
“Ah, I don’t suppose he’s hurting anybody. And if you look at him, he seems fine. Drives fine … shoot, he’s got a lot more spring in his step than I do.
“Nah, I imagine he’s just a little off. When you get down to it, we’re all a little off. If he wants to think he’s in the NFL, I say we should just let him think that.”
Still, Vester and Sandra would often amuse themselves by wondering where Charlie went each Saturday – and what kind of attention he attracted.
They’d envision him going to the playground down the road, putting on his helmet and pads, and running around in circles while parents hurriedly snatched up their kids to shield them for the “strange old man.”
When they’d see him arrive home several hours later, he did, in fact, look like a man who spent an afternoon doing something other than sitting on a bench.
On this particular Saturday, Vester was taking out the garbage when Charlie pulled up and hopped out of his truck – still wearing his cleats.
“I shouldn’t be driving in these things,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’m too sore to bend over. They had me punting today, and that worked on some muscles I hadn’t used in a while.
“But get this … I kicked a 45-yard field goal that won the game for us. Kicked it on the last dang play, can you believe that? Jets 10, Giants 8. I don’t like to brag, but this time I will. Still haven’t kicked a 50-yarder, but 45 was all the yards I needed today.”
Vester offered up a polite smile, then shook his head after Charlie walked away.
Once Vester got inside, he eyed Sandra with a concerned look.
“I think poor Charlie has finally gone around the bend,” he said. “Talking nonsense about the Jets beating the Giants and him kicking the winning field goal. I wish I knew if he had any kids or relatives we could talk to. They need to know he’s not right.”
Sandra winced.
“That’s sad,” she said. “You know, seems like I remember seeing some younger people over there a few times. Maybe they’re his grandkids. Let’s keep an eye out, and next time we see one of them …”
Sandra was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Vester said. “Probably something we ordered.”
Charlie opened the door and was surprised to see a twentysomething young man wearing a green jersey – and holding a football.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m a little turned around,” he said. “I’m looking for Pops, uh, Mr. Mitty … Charlie Mitty. These buildings look alike, and I can’t remember exactly where he lives.”
Vester opened the door, stepped on the porch and pointed toward Charlie’s dwelling.
“He’s right across the way,” he said. “Let me ask you something, son … are you related to Charlie, or maybe know some friends of his?”
The young man grinned.
“I am one of his friends,” he said. “Actually, I’m also his teammate on the Jets … we’re a semi-pro team – well, mostly amateur, really – that plays over at the high school field. When he asked to try out back in August, I thought it was a joke, but Pops is amazing, and a really great guy. He’s my grandpa’s age but man, can he ever kick a football.
“Anyway, I just came by to give him the game ball because he made the winning field goal for us today.”
