In some ways the most memorable NFL draft my family experienced happened in 1999 when 12-year old Charlie, who loved a good practical joke, re-set the password on our cable box, blocked ESPN and left town with me, his unsuspecting mother.

That year the Eagles dramatically chose Donovan McNab amid a chorus of boos from misguided Philly fans, the Packers used their second seventh round pick, the 213th overall, on a small wide receiver named Donald Driver, and Charlie’s dad spent a great deal with Time Warner Cable tech support.

I never bought into NFL draft day’s television-generated drama. Why spend all day watching something easily summarized in the agate section of the newspaper?

I prefer the guts and glory drama of the pre-season. It’s one thing to be drafted, it’s quite another to make the team.

This year’s draft does hold some special significance to me, though, because the Packers have the 26th pick for only the sixth time in team history. One of those first five guys was my dad, Ron Kostelnik.

I wrote about my dad’s draft day experience, which took place in my grandparent’s living room on 20 Row in Colver, Pennsylvania in this post.

In 1961, there were only 24 teams in the whole league, today there are 32. NFL rosters listed 32 players in 1961, today they hold 45 active players and 8 members of the practice squad

As the league grew, so did its players. At 265-pounds my dad was the second biggest player on the 1961 Packer roster, topped only by 6-8, 275 pound Ben Davidson, who was waived by the Packers in 1964 for not meeting weight guidelines. In 2012, the Packers listed 18 players who weighed over 300 pounds, led by 338-pound Ryan Pickett.

I can’t say I’ll be munching popcorn and intently watching the NFL draft like some other members of my family, Charlie and his dad included.

But I will keep an eye on the 26th pick, which has brought great success to the Packers with the likes of Ron Kostelnik, Bill Lueck (1968), John Anderson (1978), George Cumby (1980) and the recently re-signed 2009 pick, Clay Matthews.

Ben Davidson and his wife Kathy, seen here with my mom, Peggy Kostelnik, enjoyed the 2011 Packer Alumni reunion. Big Ben Davidson stood 6-8 and weighed 275 during his playing days and went on to enjoy a successful Hollywood career. Sadly, Mr. Davidson died last July of prostate cancer.

The team is posing for a Norelco electric razor ad here, but I was struck by how few players and coaches there are in the picture. In 1961, the NFL limited rosters to 32 players.

Linemen looked big in the 60s, but most of them weighed less than the average NFL player, including skill positions, today.

He looks innocent here, seated in between his dad and his Grandpa Ron, but in a few short years this little tyke would wreak draft day havoc.

My father grew up happily in a Pennsylvania coal mining town. Nicknamed Uncus, his favorite character from the Last of the Mohicans, he spent days outside, roaming the woods. What he needed, and it wasn’t much, his mother purchased from the company store.

Still, it was my father who took me shopping for my high school prom dress. And it was he who burst into Bee Frank, a woman’s clothing store, every Christmas Eve Day, tickled to find half off clothing he purchased annually for his wife and three daughters.

One day, when I was pregnant with my second child, Dad showed up at our apartment and offered to take my baby son off my hands for an hour or two. They came home giggling later that afternoon, arms full of beautiful maternity clothes they’d purchased for me.

Though he loved a good bargain, the man believed in quality and I wore those maternity clothes through two more pregnancy, and lent them out in between.

Yesterday, Molly came downstairs dressed for school in a particularly eye-catching ensemble. I looked up and said, “Hey! That’s my sweater!”

“That’s what makes it cool,” she said.

And I agreed.

Purchased by my dad in 1981, the sweater retains its perfect non-pilled shape. I remember I was with him when he bought it and I protested the price.

“Cost per wear,” he said. “That’s the important thing.”

It became a running joke and, when he saw me wearing it in college, he nodded approvingly and said, “Cost per wear.”

“Dad, this baby’s paying me by now,” I said.

I’m thrilled the sweater’s making it through another generation, and I know my dad would be too.

Memories, lessons, love and 100% alpaca wool all built this season’s warmest sweater.

Thanks Dad.

I borrowed this picture from a previous post. This is my dad and Charlie. Dad loved to take Charlie on adventures and, one day, they returned with a whole maternity wardrobe for me. Classy guys.

Here’s the sweater on Molly, 33 years after my dad bought it for me. Cost per wear? Priceless.

Note: I’ve never been a big fan of Daylight Savings Time, which has always struck me as an embarrassingly mortal attempt to stave off the inevitable shortening of the days. Who are we kidding, here? We can’t control time. It’d be nice if we could, though…

I’d like to fall back once a year 

I’d like to fall back once a year

to hang out with those I hold dear.

I’d relish the choice

to hear my dad’s voice

and gather my little ones near.

I’d like to be able to see

the kids who are closest to me

walk home from the park.

It’d be quite a lark

to serve tiny cups filled with tea.

I’d like to buy dresses with bows

and paint nails on fat little toes.

My boys’ dungarees

would have holes in the knees

with grass stains above and below.

I’d like to see Colver once more

and hike to the general store.

I’d eat walnut rolls,

slurp soup from big bowls,

see Grandma and Pap at the door.

The future’s as bright as the past.

My visit would not have to last.

I just think it’d be fun

to see everyone

because seasons change shockingly fast.

The park across the street is still full of kids, I just liked it a little better when it was full of MY kids.

We took his training wheels off and Charlie never looked back. This little tyke now works as a television producer in New York.

It was nice when they could walk home from where they were, and they carried all their important things in fat backpacks.

But those kids jumped off the front porch and kept right on growing.

I miss this front porch on 20 Row in Colver, PA too…

…and the lady who lived there — my grandma, who played a mean game of coffee, tea, lunch punch!

I’d like one more day with my kitchen full of all the crazy little boys in the neighborhood.

I’d like to see this guy again, too!

…and pour one more highball — Kesslers and club soda in a tall glass with ice — for my grandpa, Bob Fey.

I liked buying dresses that tied in big bows in the back…

…and all four of my kids together on the front porch.

My dad exhaled at the exact right moment on December 31, 1967 and we’ve been seeing his icy mug ever since.

Frozen breath frames his baby face in one of the more dramatic images from one of the NFL’s most dramatic games.

For nearly 50 years logical viewers have assumed Ron Kostelnik‘s pained expression reflected the icy conditions.

Nope.

Born in Colver, Pennsylvania and raised among the snowy hills of mining country, my Dad rarely let Wisconsin winters affect his plans. He used to snow blow the entire block wearing nothing but a flannel shirt, jeans and a clumpy pair of boots.

Turns out my dad, a defensive tackle who lined up with Hall of Famers Henry Jordan and Willie Davis, and talented defensive end Lionel Aldridge, was nursing a painful case of gout.

“Your father and I had taken turns the night before standing next to your bed in the hospital,” my mom said. “We were up all night and the next morning your dad had the gout.”

The touching image of parental devotion — two young parents keeping vigil over their three-year old daughter, who was dehydrated from a nasty case of the flu, provides a warm contrast to the frosty Ice Bowl images.

“That’s so sweet,” I said. “Poor dad, though. I’ve seen his shoes. There’s not a lot of padding. And that field looked frozen solid.”

Mom shrugged.

“You know,” she said. “I don’t even remember being that cold. I had hand warmers and foot warmers on and one of those big orange things you see…”

“You were wearing a snow mobile suit?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “We used to get all dressed up for the games — high heels, teased hair, the whole bit. But, not for that game.”

“Wait a minute,” I said slowly. “Dad and you were so worried about me that you stayed all night in the hospital and took turns standing over my bed.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Then Dad had to play the entire game with the gout.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And you watched the whole thing from the stands, wearing a giant orange snow mobile suit.”

“Yes.”

“But, then, who stayed in the hospital with me?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” she said.

Nice, right?

Still, the legend of the Ice Bowl rolls on…

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But in the mighty Ice Bowl, Kostelnik had the gout.

(P.S. Here’s another Ice Bowl story making the rounds…)

And, here’s one of the many videos of the big game:

One of the stories my dad liked to tell about his years at the University of Cincinnati involved a spontaneous trip to the drive-in theater with a couple of guys frugally shoved into the trunk.

One of those guys was my dad, a 6-4 defensive lineman, and the other, so the story goes, was his friend and fellow athlete Oscar Robertson.

I met up with Mr. Robertson last night at the Red Smith banquet and asked him about that trip.

“We were pretty big guys,” he laughed. “I think it would have been hard to fit both of us in a trunk.”

In addition to their height, the two men shared a lifelong affiliation with their alma mater, UC. Both men have been inducted into the school’s athletic hall of fame, and, after graduating and playing professionally, both men returned to campus to further their education. My dad earned his master’s degree during the football off-seasons, and Mr. Robertson earned a doctorate of humane letters in 2007.

The following year Robertson received a lifetime achievement award for philanthropy and entrepreneurship.

Called the Big O, Robertson earned unprecedented success on the basketball coach and was named “Player of the Century” by the National Association of Basketball Coaches.

He was NBA Rookie of the Year in 1960-61, played in 12 straight NBA All-Star Games, was selected to the All-NBA First Team nine consecutive seasons, won the NBA Most Valuable Player Award in 1963-64, and helped the Milwaukee Bucks win the NBA Championship in 1971. He was elected to the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in 1979 and named to the NBA’s 50th Anniversary All-Time Team in 1996-97.

Throughout his mind boggling professional, collegiate (in 2006 he was named to the inaugural class of the National Collegiate Hall of Fame) and Olympic accomplishments (he won a gold medal), Robertson remains loyal to the teams whose jerseys he wore.

He attends nearly every Cincinnati home game and took over as interim head coach in 2004 during UC basketball coach Bob Huggins’ month-long suspension for drunk driving.

He maintains ties to Wisconsin as well and he and his wife Yvonne travel here frequently. In fact, my dad used to see him every year at a pro-am gold tournament in Milwaukee.

Oscar Robertson’s rise to fame did not come easily; he battled poverty and discrimination along the way.

Still, loyalty to his teams, his alma mater, his family and his sport, remains his legacy as much as all of those incredible athletic accomplishments.

Here are Oscar Robertson and my dad, two proud UC grads. Oscar graduated a year ahead of my dad, but the two men kept in contact through the years.

Today, a statue of Oscar Robertson stands on the University of Cincinnati campus.

I met up with Mr. Robertson when he was in town last night to receive the “Nice Guy” award at the annual Red Smith Awards Dinner.

Oscar Robertson was named College Player of the Year after both the 1958 and 1959 seasons. Since 1998, the United States Basketball Writers Association has called their college player of the year award the Oscar Robertson Trophy.

It isn’t easy to get to my father’s hometown. At best you have to fly into Pittsburgh and drive 76 miles east over the Allegheny Range, hoping the roads stay clear as you climb Chickaree Mountain on route 22.

We made the pilgrimage entirely by car for most of my life, an excruciating 12-hour road trip we all looked forward to because it ended in my grandma’s kitchen, where she served us friendly gossip along with apricot cookies, pieroghis, halubki, and walnut roll.

I thought our trips to Colver ended when my Grandma died, but happily, today we’ll be heading that way again.

Thanks to the NFL’s Super Bowl High School Honor Roll Initiative, a whole bunch of Kostelniks will be making their way to my dad’s high school tonight to witness the Golden Ball presentation, which honors the high schools of athletes who played in the Super Bowl. As a member of Vince Lombardi’s Packers, my dad played in both Super Bowl I and II.

We’re excited to visit Central Cambria High School and shake hands with the kind people assembled there. My dad loved his high school experience and returned for reunions as often as he could.

He spoke with great respect about his high school football coach Jim Cook and remained lifelong friends with the coach’s daughter Nancy.

In addition to honoring my dad and the high school that sent him on his way, I’m looking forward to hanging out with our family — his older brother, younger sister and their families, my mom and her sister, my siblings and a whole passel of Kostelnik cousins. We’re all hoping to connect with our Colver relatives, and to make a stop at our Pap’s favorite watering hole, Sisti’s.

The accidental timing of our trip makes it even more special. My Dad’s 76th birthday would have been yesterday and tonight the NFL is airing the first Super Bowl.

We’ll raise our glasses tonight to toast my Dad, the town, the school and the people he loved.

Nostrovia!

These are my cousins, my siblings and me on my grandma and pap’s front porch in Colver, PA. I’m guessing this is 1977 or so.

Same cousins. Same porch approximately 20 years later.

We’ll miss seeing these two holding court on their front porch when we drive down 20 Row.

I’m thrilled to have unearthed this picture of Charlie and his great grandpa Micky. Pap was a coal miner and here he and Charlie are sporting company hats.

A dapper Pap, with my Uncle George, my dad and my cute little Aunt Martha.

How cute is this picture of my dad and his Central Cambria High School team?

Ninety-one-year old Lido poured the Yuengling. Cousin Julie baked the walnut roll. Uncle George and Aunt Martha brought the memories. The NFL provided the occasion and Central Cambria High School did all the rest.

My dad, Ron Kostelnik’s, Golden Football Celebration turned out to be a rip-roaring good time in which we collected stories from people we rarely get to see, re-introduced ourselves to relatives we had hoped to see, and celebrated both a man we all loved and the school that gave him his start.

In conjunction with the Golden Football Celebration, in which the NFL honors the high school of any athlete who played in a Super Bowl, Central Cambria High School also retired my dad’s jersey number.

As I’ve written about before, my dad grew up on 20 Row in Colver, a tiny coal mining town in Western Pennsylvania. He played football for the first time as a high school sophomore and went on to enjoy success at the University of Cincinnati and with the Green Bay Packers. He earned entry into Hall of Fames at all three levels of the game.

“Everyone knows Colver kids are tough as nails,” said Stephen Gironda, CCCHS assistant athletic director and the evening’s MC.

They called my dad Uncas, due to his love for both the outdoors and the Last of the Mohicans.

Seeing the outpouring of love and respect Friday night in the Central Cambria County Gymnasium, Uncas would have been overwhelmed.

The Red Devils provided personalized football jerseys and, by tip-off, our group of Kostelnik-jersey-wearing family members had swelled to include relatives who traveled from North Carolina, Florida, Wisconsin, Illinois, Maryland, Minnesota, Erie, New York and, most special of all to us, Colver.

My grandma’s brother Jimmy Melnyk came with his son Jim, whose son Tanner played on the Red Devils basketball team. My dad’s cousin Timmy Kostelnik, also a decorated Red Devil athlete, joined the group as did my dad’s formidable aunt Genevieve Semko and her daughter Janet. Most of my cousins came, and all of my siblings.

Though health troubles kept them from attending in person, my dad’s cousins John Mihalik and Jo Semko helped coordinate the event via social media.

We’ll be grateful for the rest of our lives that we had the opportunity to celebrate my dad in such a special way among the people who knew him first.

Cookie Sokira lived next door to my grandma and pap her whole life. Here she is giving my cousin Susan a patented Cookie hug.

My Uncle George (my dad’s older brother), his daughters Susan and Julie and their daughters Norah and Kelsey.

Katherine and me.

My Aunt Doris and my sister Kathy make their way toward the gym for the ceremony.

My sister Kathy, my Great Uncle Jimmy and me.

My brother Mike and his daughters Rachel and Hannah.

My cousin Bobby, who drove in from North Carolina.

Jimmy Melnyk, my mom, Peggy Kostelnik, and Jimmy’s wife Margie.

The whole darn family. My dad, and his mom and dad, would have been absolutely thrilled by the turnout.

My mom holding a beautiful commemorative plaque the school gave her.

My mom gave a sweet, spontaneous little speech.

My mom, my dad’s retired jersey and Central Cambria County Assistant Athletic Director Stephen Gironda.

Nick Asashon, a high school friend of my dad, restored this cool picture of him and brought it to the ceremony.

My siblings and me behind the bar at Sisti’s in Colver. That is Lido, a 91-year old bar tender. Our pap used to frequent this bar and there’s a big picture of our dad on the wall.

Stephen Gironda, my mom and Red Devil football coach Bill Corrente.

We took a stroll down 20 Row before the big game.

Uncle George, a retired New York City police officer, lives in Maryland now. He knew pretty much everyone in the gym.

My dad’s brother George and his sister Martha. As the evening wound down, Martha kindly shared old stories and pictures. Those are posts for another day.

The summer before he died, my dad spent all of his free time chopping a walking path along the Oconto River.

He’d emerge after spending hours in the woods, dirty, sweaty, all scratched up from tree branches and wild blackberry bushes, and grinning like an eight-year old on the first day of summer vacation.

The project began with a simple sickle and an axe, but became more sophisticated with every chop. Eventually, he enlisted friends and family to ferry wood pieces via a small river boat to designated drop off points. He’d emerge from the woods to the river’s edge, gather the two-by-fours, and disappear again into the depths.

That summer he built nine bridges along the mile-long path and, sweetly, marked the end of the route by carving two wood chairs out of fallen trees for his grandchildren, five-year old Charlie and three-year old Katherine.

On Friday, we took a lovely spring tramp along the route my dad carved more than 23 years ago. We had our doubts, but the bridges held our weight, though they’d languished untended all this time.

We marveled as we crunched through the knee-deep snow — at the freshness of the air, the stillness of the woods, the promise of new life under all that frozen ground, and, mostly, at my dad’s profound legacy.

We intend to resurrect “Peggy’s Bridle Path,” which is what my dad called his summer project, and we’re deeply grateful for the opportunity to do so. We’re not particularly handy, but we know that’s okay.

We’ll make our way slowly, gratefully accept advice from our talented friends, and follow the generous path my dad carved for us so enthusiastically during the hot summer of 1992.

My dad built this deck too and we’ve made good use of it through the years. We enter the bridle path just to the left of it.

I thought this bridge looked beautiful though, I must confess, I was not the first in our little tramping party to brave crossing it.

The river was uncharacteristically still on Friday, owing to deep waters and very little wind.

This poor bridge looked a little less sturdy, but it held up under all of us. Whew!

I just like this picture of Molly, her shadow and her reflection in the pond next to another bridge my dad built.

And I liked the pattern of snow on this tall evergreen.

We paused every now and then in our tramping to enjoy the day’s beauty.

The little chair I’m sitting on and the giant blaze orange snow suit I’m wearing are both legacies from my dad. Molly refused to wear the blaze orange but, I’m telling you, I stayed warm and dry on that two hour tramp. This is one of the chairs my dad carved for his grandchildren.

I also love this picture of Molly dancing through the woods. We never take for granted the unique ability to make our own tracks through these beautiful woods.

My friend Amy recently requested that her Facebook friends post their favorite football pictures.

I haven’t respond yet because I’m still sorting through all those glorious images, both among my files and in my mind.

I love football, and I wish I would have played it in high school. I love it as a recreational player, as a fan, and, especially, as a mom.

I love the swagger those jerseys inspire, and the teamwork they represent. I admire the Biblical lessons the sport teaches about rising, literally and figuratively, from a fall. My son Charlie played on a team whose motto was “11 as one”. They finished 11-1 after a perfect regular season. I joked that they should have included a couple of coaches in their motto. Fourteen as one would have earned them a state title.

I understand the increasing concerns about hits football players take to the head, and I am grateful for the excellent coaching and state-of-the-art helmets that protected my sons. But, when I think about football, I like to think about what goes on inside those precious heads.

During their runs as high school football players, my sons learned how to rely on their fellow lineman, how to throw an excellent block, how to distinguish between the kind of pain you play through and the kind that requires a doctor’s repair, how to take criticism and use it to better your game, and how to celebrate with class.

Those lessons, of cooperation, generosity, drive, humility and grace have served them just as well off the field.

I have, on occasion, had to correct people who make the absurd assumption that football players lack intellect. I can say without reservation that some of the brightest people I know play or played football. I believe this misconception stems from an ironic ignorance of the game’s nuances.

Most people can’t even  understand the Erhardt-Perkins system, much less try to run it. There are 22 moving parts to every single football play and each athlete has to both hit the mark and anticipate the opponent.

Student athletes must memorize and understand their playbook, even as they work to maintain a required GPA despite an often rigorous academic schedule. When they aren’t studying or practicing, they’re watching game film.

My favorite football picture?

It’s the exhausted, smelly, grimy player with clumps of grass stuck to his helmet and muddy sweat streaking his face who hoists his littlest sister and biggest fan on his shoulder because he and his teammates have just played a game better than any of them ever thought they could.

It’s the four captains linking hands as they walk to the center of the field.

It’s that one fiery player pacing the sidelines and then gathering his teammates to deliver an eloquent and passionate third quarter pep talk.

It’s a beaming Reggie White hoisting the Lombardi Trophy and carrying it around the perimeter of the Superdome to share it with Packer fans.

It’s Chuck Cecil and the scab he wore on the bridge of his nose like a red badge of courage.

It’s the many, many teammates of my dad’s who showed up on a cold day in February to honor him by serving as pallbearers.

I’ll tell you something else about the football players I know. They’re loyal for life.

This picture makes me laugh because just after I took it Molly jumped down and said, “Eeew. He’s all sweaty!”
Our high school football years were filled with stinky clothes, tense games, injuries, titles, position battles and a whole lot of fun. Our boys learned to accept criticism, encourage teammates, appreciate discipline, rise early and work hard.

Here’s another of my favorite football pictures. This is the national anthem before an Appleton North football game, sung by members of the Varsity Men’s Choir. I love that this choir is made up of football team members, band members and student fans. Football players can sing.

I like this picture of my nephew Guy (no. 66) and his Racine St. Catherine’s teammates just after they spotted me and my camera. The Angels take on Cedar Grove-Belgium tonight in the WIAA playoffs. Go Angels! I can’t wait to see what Guy, the Bumpus twins and the rest of that team put together.

You’d be amazed at the collective intellect shared by this Super Bowl championship defensive line.