Off Topic Superb Owl

Touch down Patriots 15-12 missed extra point

 

It was primitivo this evening. Brisk walk with the dog livened me up a bit.

This is a good game, bit unorthodox, and the time is going fast. Chapman irritates me but I like the two ex players he has with him. But the idea of Timberlake and a long half time will be too much.

TD Patriots, and another missed extra point.

 

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Story and photos by Ted Jackson
One foot in front of the other, the hulking old man trudged up the ramp to the Pontchartrain Expressway. A cold wind stiffened his face, so he bundled tighter and kept walking. His decision was made. A life full of accolades and praise meant nothing to him now. A man who was once the pride of his New Orleans hometown, his St. Augustine alma mater and his 7th Ward family and friends was undone. He was on his way to die.
The man was tired. In his 63 years, he had run with the gods and slept with the devil. Living low and getting high had become as routine as taking a breath. A hideous disease was eating his insides. He was an alcoholic, and he also craved crack cocaine. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of playing the game.
He crossed the last exit ramp and continued walking the pavement toward the top of the bridge. He dodged cars as they took the ramp. No one seemed to notice the ragged man walking to his suicide. If they did notice, they didn’t stop to help.
Only a half-mile more and it would all be over. One hundred and 50 feet below, the powerful currents of the Mississippi River would swallow his soul and his wretched life. He dodged another car. But why did it matter? Getting hit by a car would serve his purposes just as well as jumping.
How did it come to this? This was long after Jackie had turned his life around, or so we both thought.

I’ve worked as a photojournalist for more than 35 years. During that time, serendipity has been my muse. In my experience, great journalism follows trails and doors left ajar, and the next big thing is usually just around the corner. My job is to be patient and pay attention.
Case in point: a hot New Orleans afternoon in June 1990. My photo editor at the time, Kurt Mutchler, had recently noticed a homeless camp beneath the Interstate 10 overpass near South Carrollton Avenue. From the interstate ramp heading west, he had caught a glimpse of a living room of sorts, with men resting on ragged couches and old easy chairs circled around a camp stove and rickety tables.
My mind’s eye shifted into overdrive. I needed little more to coax me out the door to see this makeshift community of tattered comfort and surrogate family for myself.
I parked along the back streets, then hiked the remaining hundred yards or so. While commerce and civilization raced noisily overhead, another world emerged beneath the bridge. I picked my way through dense weeds and steel supports along a worn path, pointing my way past rusted shells of forgotten cars and smashed debris, much like the broken lives I expected to find beyond.
I practiced how I would approach the men — what I would say and how I would say it. I prepared my mind for honest compassion and understanding. This world is so different from mine, I reminded myself. My cameras were prepared for whatever might happen. I’d experienced this rush of uneasiness many times before. Some of my most meaningful photographs have been made while treading similarly unpredictable terrain.
As I turned the corner, my previsualized episode evaporated. The sofa was overturned. The tables were smashed. It was as if marauders had ravaged it.
No worries. There’s always the next story, I told myself.
I meandered a bit as I returned to my car, wondering what possibly could have wrecked the scene. I was not prepared for what I saw next: a half-naked man sleeping on a rusty box spring.
I couldn’t have been more startled if he had been an alligator. His bed was overlaid with cardboard and tucked into a cleft of piers and brush. He was covered in a sheet of thick, clear plastic. His head rested on a wadded yellow jacket, also wrapped in plastic. Alongside the bed lay two discarded automotive floor mats, a five-gallon bucket for bathing, a pair of neatly-arranged sneakers, a clean set of clothes, a jug of water and a carefully folded copy of The Times-Picayune. He slept in the fetal position in only his briefs and undershirt.
I climbed the pier with my camera and made a few frames of the scene, then climbed down and woke him. He wasn’t startled in the least. I guess when you sleep under bridges, you learn to expect the unexpected.
He sat up slowly and cleared his head. I asked him if he knew anything about the homeless camp — if he knew what happened to the men.
“Yeah,” he said. “Teens driving by started shooting their guns at them, so they decided there had to be a safer place to live. Why do you ask?”
We talked for a minute or two, about my editor’s idea and journalism in general. After a brief pause, he said, “You ought to do a story about me.”

I’ve heard this line many times before, and many more since.
“And why would I want to do that?” I said.
“Because,” he said, “I’ve played in three Super Bowls.”

I wasn't sure if I’d heard right, but he certainly had my attention.
He reached for his copy of the newspaper. “Do you see this series y’all are doing, ‘The Real Life — Surviving after the NFL?’ You ought to do a story about me,” he said again.
Looking back, as surprised as I was, I was probably even more skeptical. “So what’s your name?”
He carefully unfolded a plastic bag from some hidden spot and produced a ragged ID card. Jackie Wallace, it read.
The name meant nothing to me, but I didn’t tell him that. We talked a little and I shot a few more frames, then thanked him for his time. I headed back to the newspaper office. More specifically, I rushed over to the sports department.
There were probably two dozen sports writers pounding out daily stories when I walked up. “Has anyone ever heard of a guy named Jackie Wallace?” I said.
Every head turned. An editor spoke first. “Of course,” he said. “He was a star at St. Aug, played for University of Arizona, and played for the Vikings, Colts and the Rams.”
And, sure enough, he had played in the Super Bowl — twice, not three times, as Wallace had told me, but that slight exaggeration mattered little to me.
“Once he was released from the Rams,” the sports editor said, “he dropped off the map. Nobody knows where he is now.”
I couldn’t hold my grin. “Well, I think I know.”

Sports reporter Jimmy Smith, the author of the NFL series, hurried back to the bridge with me. Wallace was right where I’d left him.
Jimmy interviewed Wallace, and I became his shadow. I photographed him under the bridge and while he washed his clothes. I watched for an hour as he entertained two Jehovah’s Witnesses in Palmer Park. He led me along Carrollton Avenue as he searched for jobs, which I’m pretty sure was mostly for the camera’s benefit.
His T-shirt read, “On the road of life,” and with tiny letters added, “you need training wheels.”

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Jimmy's story and my photos led the front page of The Times-Picayune on July 6, 1990. The public response was immediate and glorious.
Burton Burns, Jackie's St. Aug teammate and an assistant coach at the time, set out immediately to find him and pulled him from his squalor. That night he slept in a room at the school.
Within days, the school’s alumni association had arranged for him to be admitted into rehab at Baltimore’s Tuerk House. It was a great ending to a serendipitous moment. I had never been more satisfied with a story’s outcome. I patted myself on the back. Jimmy was just as thrilled.
But the best was yet to come. Three years later, I sat working at my desk writing photo captions for some run-of-the-mill story. Above my desk, a large glass wall separated the photo lab from the newsroom. As I worked, I was startled by a sharp rap on the glass. I looked up to see Jackie Wallace’s 6-foot, 3-inch frame towering over me, dressed in a three-piece suit with his arms stretched as wide as he was tall.
Beaming with his gap-tooth grin, he exclaimed, “Do you believe in miracles?”
What a sight! He was about to bust with his news. Since I had last seen him under the bridge, he had flourished in the 12-step program. By May of 1991, he had moved into his own apartment and found work as an “operational specialist” on the change-over crew at the Baltimore Arena.
But the real reason he had talked his way into the newsroom was to invite Jimmy and me to his wedding. On Dec. 5, 1992, Jackie Wallace and Deborah Williams, an executive secretary, became husband and wife.

Jimmy and I weren’t able to attend the wedding, but we looked forward to a follow-up trip. In the summer of 1995, we flew to Maryland and met the happy couple at their house, a two story, four-bedroom beauty on a half-acre of land in a suburb in northeast Baltimore.
After a tour of the house, we headed to the arena, where Jackie showed us off to his co-workers and gave us a tour, the centerpiece of which was the employee locker room. Inside Locker 47 was a blue folder labeled “Bridge Pictures, July 6, 1990.” Inside were clippings from his turning point, a shocking reminder of his former life.
Jackie told me how important it was for him to see the photos every morning, to touch them and to remember.
“It only takes one slip,” he said, “and I’ll end up right back where you found me. That picture you took, in the fetal position … I’m being born again.”
It was one of the proudest moments of my journalism career. This is why I got into this business — to unleash the awesome transformational power of photography.
The photos and the story had an even broader effect. A year after the story broke, the NFL addressed the issue of post-career trauma head-on and named John Wooten as their creator/director of player programs to help former athletes with their finances and adjustment to life after football.

But it was the personal connection that felt so gratifying. For years, on Thanksgiving, Jimmy and I would receive a phone call from Jackie Wallace. Just a simple hello and thank you from a humble, sweet soul. It was part of what made the holiday real for me.
For 10 years, Jackie and Deborah lived “happily ever after.” Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of him as the subject of a story. He had become my good friend Jackie.
But on Thanksgiving Day 2002, the phone didn’t ring.

I didn’t give it much thought at the time. Things change and people move on. But eventually, I began to wonder. I called Jimmy, and we soon learned that Jackie had gone missing. He and Deborah had argued, and he had disappeared.
It was hard for me to comprehend that he could crash so hard, so fast. But it was the lesson he had tried to teach me in the locker room.
Jimmy and I assumed he was back in New Orleans, so I started watching, looking and paying attention on the streets. Jimmy learned he had visited the Ozanam Inn homeless shelter, but that tip led nowhere.
He was never too far from my mind. How far would he drop? Over the passing years, I’d scan the faces in every homeless camp, every man holding a cardboard sign. I’d mention his name to shelter staffers, but no one remembered seeing him.
In 2007, I spent a long night in the dorm at Ozanam for an unrelated story and asked around for clues. No one knew him. Administrator Deacon Biaggio DiGiovanni told me Jackie had come in a few nights over the winter, but the last he’d heard, he was in Orleans Parish Prison. I tried to search records but I couldn’t find any proof. To me, he was simply lost.
In my regular speaking engagements at conventions, churches and universities, I would always show my photos of Jackie and relate the triumphant moment in the newsroom. But now the story ended in heartbreak. Jackie’s phoenix moment had dissolved back to ash. His life was once again in ruin — or worse — I feared.
In 2014, 12 years beyond Jackie’s disappearance, writer Richard Webster and I worked together on a story about the New Orleans Mission. To get a realistic understanding, we went through the humiliating process of checking in, the same as the homeless people would, eating the same food and sleeping in the dormitory bunks.
Once again, I used the opportunity to search for clues and any connections to Jackie, but there were none. It was that night, sleeping in that bed with my camera clutched tightly under my pillow, that I decided it was time for a serious effort.
It was more than just wanting to find Jackie. I needed to find him.
I scoured the usual haunts, walked the streets and knocked on doors. My search for him felt like a maze, every turn a dead end. But even a dead man leaves a trace. Right?

I returned to the Ozanam Inn, where I’d gotten my last trace a decade before. I arrived before dinner, when I knew the courtyard would be full. I talked to a handful of men, who were talkative but had no useful information.
DiGiovanni was helping with clothing requests in the yard when I ambled over. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jackie, but he introduced me to Joe Banks, a homeless man sitting on the bench who had been coming to Ozanam long enough to have crossed paths with him.
“I saw him a few weeks ago,” he said. “He looked good.”
What? This was my first inkling in more than 10 years that Jackie might be alive. But looking good? That didn’t seem possible. What did that mean?
“I saw him in the store getting his shrimp loaf,” he said, “at the seafood shop at Broad and Banks. He seemed happy, energetic, moving around. He looked like Jackie. I was real glad to see him.” He said he thought he was staying with a relative or a friend in Mid-City.
Joe remembered the day he met Jackie, during a program at the shelter.
“We hit it off and talked, and he’d tell me about his football days, and you know, just trying to encourage me, and tell me to get me to get my life back right,” he said. “He’s a real good dude. He’s real sincere — from the heart. That’s what I like about him.”
I said that’s what I liked about him too.
“It’s a possibility you could run into him at that store,” he said.

At the seafood shop, I passed Jackie’s photo around, but if the cooks and the owner recognized him, they held back. Men loitering on the corner outside said he looked familiar, and promised to call the number on my business card if they saw him.
I wished I was better at this. Movie cops make it look so easy.
With this vague bit of information and a reported sighting, I asked crime reporter Jonathan Bullington for a database search. Jackie’s name returned with an unlikely address in Harvey. His age seemed logical, but the item was four years out of date. I figured Jackie may have used a friend’s mailbox to get mail. It was worth a drive for a possible scrap of new information.
The address led me to a row of identical quadplexes. When I drove up, I found a man sitting alone in a plastic chair, doing nothing in particular.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for a friend. I’m hoping you might know him.”
“Yeah? Who is that?” the man said. His eyes were fixed on something beyond me.
I watched his eyes carefully. If he recognized the name, I expected at least a twitch.
“His name is Jackie Wallace. Do you know him?”
He twitched.
I felt a sudden rush. He looked me in the eye, looked me over, and then to my disbelief, he casually motioned to the door on the right. Almost on cue, the door cracked open and a big man appeared.
“What are you telling that man about me?” he said.
It was unmistakable. The voice, the face. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was halfway to the door and breaking into a grin. “Are you Jackie Wallace?” I said.
“Who wants to know?” His large frame overwhelmed the space.
“When I tell you, you’re going to smile,” I said, approaching within arm’s length. “I’m Ted Jackson.”
His wrinkled brow immediately broke and his eyes lightened. Jackie shoved the door aside and engulfed me in a massive bear hug.

He was 39 when I found him under the bridge. That would have made him 63 or 64 when I found him again. His black hair was gray, his face a little broader. But his eyes were clear and sharp. His grin was just as gap-toothed as I remembered.
We felt no awkwardness, immediately lost in questions and stories. He showed me around his apartment, proudly explaining it was part of an addiction recovery program. He introduced me to his housemate. Within 15 minutes Jackie and I had hugged five times. I told him I couldn’t stay long but that we really needed to sit and talk for a few minutes. He was eager to sit.
He led me down the hallway to his bedroom with a labored limp, swinging wildly from side to side, touching the wall for stability. It was painful to watch. Seven years in the NFL can do that to a body. He moaned as he lowered himself into a desk chair. Every square foot of wall space was covered in posters and inspirational quotes. This room was his private sanctuary.
A framed team photo of the 1974 Minnesota Vikings seemed out of place on a plywood desktop set across milk crates. The desk was neatly arranged with a Bible, a heavily marked calendar, a set of colored markers and reminder memos. A 1969 newspaper clipping of a young St. Aug senior bookmarked pages in a collection of devotionals.
It was great to see him. But I couldn’t stay long. I had another assignment to get to. I promised to return soon. I told him that I needed to know everything.
He said he needed something from me, too. He’d lost his only copy of the photo of him sleeping under the bridge. “How big of a print do you want?” I asked. He smiled. “About like this,” he said, his hands spread far apart. A FEW days later, we had a chance to talk seriously. “So what happened?” I asked.

Jackie took a deep breath and began, but his thoughts rambled. He jumped from one scene to another. Some details and significant dates in his life were hard to remember.
“Let’s start with football,” I said, and he suddenly became a living, breathing statistics machine.
After a brilliant career at St. Aug High School, Jackie received a scholarship from the University of Arizona, churning out an All-American career as a cornerback and kick-return specialist, setting a conference record with 20 career interceptions, three in one game.
In 1974, he was drafted in the second round by the Minnesota Vikings. He was on the taxi squad for Super Bowl VIII. The next year he returned to New Orleans a hometown hero as a starter in Super Bowl IX. “That was fun,” he said. His eyes were now sparkling.
His career took him to the Baltimore Colts, and then to the Los Angeles Rams in 1977. The next season, he led the NFL in punt returns (52) and punt return yardage (618).
In 1980, as the Rams took the field against the Pittsburgh Steelers in Super Bowl XIV, Jackie was supercharged. But the game didn’t progress as he had envisioned

“I had practiced all week with the nickel defense,” he said. But when the situations came up, “they didn’t put me in.” By halftime, the Rams held a slim lead over the Steelers, 13-10. But then Terry Bradshaw threw two long touchdown passes, one to Lynn Swann for 47 yards and another to John Stallworth for 73. The Steelers won the game, 31-19.
No one will ever know if the outcome would have been different had Jackie Wallace been on the field. But Jackie’s competitive fire was raging in the postgame locker room. He unloaded on his coach, telling him he “could just kiss his ass,” Jackie told me. “I just blurted it out.”
During the offseason, a team representative called to say that Jackie’s Super Bowl ring would soon arrive in the mail. He told him there was no need for him to attend the team’s ring party.
Stunned, Jackie realized he’d been cut. His career was over. “Nobody wanted me after that,” he said. “It’s a tough moment when you realize you’re done.”
In the 1970s, an NFL contract didn’t create instant millionaires as it does now. In 1974, Wallace played for $27,500 a year and a $25,000 signing bonus. In his seven years in the league, he estimated, he made between $325,000 and $400,000, including bonuses for playoff appearances and the Super Bowls. That was good money in the ’70s, but like so many players of his era, Wallace never saved or invested a share of his earnings.
With no money to fall back on, Jackie struggled to adjust to regular life. For a while, he worked as a Class B gauger on an oil production platform. He said his yearly pay matched that of a year in football, but without the structure and discipline that a team sport imposes, Wallace’s attraction to alcohol began to take a toll.

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The BBC seem to have hired the cheapest commentary box in the USA. It’s literally a box, not even little stools to sit on.

They have form on this. At Stade de France they have to sit outside, all wrapped up.

****ing great hand offs by Clement on that run.

 

Half time is my bedtime

Pity as its a good game

Enjoy lads

 

Ha! Foles did a Brady!

 

Half time, night night.

 

probably still be on when you get up

 

Nines requested no spoilers Beth.....

........and don’t kid us that retirees don’t spend all day dozing anyway. That’s my plan.

 

Sorry too tired to notice.... hopefully gone now...
Most retirees don't live with my husband. Doesn't watch sport and gets up at 6

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Amazing game and terrific result.
Game run to the wire and as a previous New Jersey/New York resident very pleased with the outcome.
Not used to such end-to-end skill, excellent tactics and excitement.

 

Just caught up on second half. Nice to see a sack on Brady effectively win it for the Eagles. Great game.

 

Where’s the end of the story, Kiwi? Though it looks as if it will be a sad one.

 

I never got to see any of it, mate. A surfeit of Guinness watching the rugby followed by Liverpool v Spurs in the pub, and then compounded with a bottle of Malbec with/after dinner made me crash out before the start. Sounds like I would have enjoyed the game, particularly as I had a small wager on Philadelphia.