Gold Blooded

Ask me if I’m a football fan and I’m likely to say no. Although I will debate if Tebow or Brady will win next Sunday’s showdown, I probably won’t pay attention to the game.  But one thing I am, and always have been is a 49er fan. Do I understand the game? Hell yes. Do I care who else clinches payoff berths?  Not really.  Can my sports post fare with those previously written by Mansa and Bottle?  Probably not.  But who needs to run with the boys when I can walk backwards and in heels?

I grew up in the throes of the 49er dominance.  Joe Montana, Jerry Rice, Steve Young, and Roger Craig were the usual lunch time conversation topics between my friends and I over fish sticks and Lunchables.  My dad looks like a brown George Siefert, straight up, and every Sunday he wouldn’t hear the end of it as my family watched the game in our matching gold satin Starter jackets.


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