Sept. 7, 2011:  The phone rang a few evenings ago while I was studying for my Florida continuing education real estate exam.  If you know my history with studying and exams, any distraction short of a direct hit from a meteorite is welcome.

"Max, Boomer"--it was my annual call from Bob "Boomer" Cover ('61), which I always receive with great excitement.  It's a compliment to hear from this rascal because very few have that privilege.  I also know this is a two- to three-hour review of the last sixty years with present updates.  Once we hang up, there is no need to talk again until next year.  The sixty years of shared history have been successfully rewritten and filed.

"Boomer" is a legend--an extremely bright Renaissance miscreant who was rebuilding carburetors at age six rather than his educational resume to attend an Ivy League university.

Boomer could be described as the character known as "D-Day" in Animal House, with a ZZ Top flair.  He would never have made it at Harvard or Yale.  There had to be rules about driving Harleys and dragsters into the dorm for re-engineering.  Don't get the wrong impression.  If he had wanted, he would have excelled at either university academically.

Boomer is a farmer--yup, Old MacDonald/"EE-I-EE-I-O."  His farm is close to Gettysburg and has been in the family since King George granted the property two hundred-plus years ago.  He gets up before the rooster to milk the cows.  I have no words other than "yikes."

The point I'm stressing here is that I have known this good man for more than sixty years.  He is my friend.  I know his background, am aware of his joys and woes.  He is a tight member of the crew that flowed between classes, purposely not recognizing the hierarchy of grade divisions.  If you were a straight shooter, had raucous dash, and were not a snob, you were OK in Boomer's book.

After we discussed the newest ailment, the current joint problems, and the last root canal, we chuckled over aiding one another up the steps of the departed Girl Scout cabin at the last reunion due to sticky knees.

The phone conversation always comes back to the dust bowl, those days wrapped in glory.

I'm sharing this with you current Bronco football players.  These are the days that you will never forget:  the smells, hurts, plays, mistakes, comradeship, rushes of victory--they are now with you forever.  With age you will be able to reach out, hauling in a memory as if you were back there, remembering every day of it.  These captured memories are solace in times of stress, a source of happiness, or just part of daydreams on a train ride.  They are the man cave of undisturbed reflection.  They are yours, a gift of youth that you gift-wrapped for yourself.

Boomer fondly remembered games and touchdowns.  We told player stories of Tony Morrell, Tom Hinkel, Duncan Hale, Bogus Burt, Burg Hackenburg, and Rocket Fouch, basically the '61-'62 Broncos team, and recalled the amusing tirades of Coach Fearon.

Even for the guys who didn't always get in a game, they were respected by their teammates for the weekly trails and snares of practice.  I'm sure they took the same memories of good and bad away with them as well.

Regardless of the outcome of the season, you put in the effort and showed up prepared to meet head-on the punishment and joys of the greatest sport ever invented.  Football is sixty minutes of life's reality.  Contributing to it is better any day than sitting on the couch playing a video game.

I shared with you gunslingers what two old geezers talk about in their sixties.  We talked about the important aspects, the highlight reel of our fondest memories.  The ever-reverberating theme is the uniqueness of the village, football, and the friends in the BHS hallways we have shared life with for sixty years.

Broncos, remember every day.  For most of you this will be the last time you have the privilege of wearing a football uniform.

P.S.  Winning makes better memories!  Go for it!