It was magical, wasn’t it? A fingertip grab. A quarterback buried deep in his own territory. An almost futile lob down the field to the sideline. The game getting late. The score against them. Some kind of tiny miracle required. No, a huge miracle. Something fitting of a Super Bowl. That’s what Eli Manning and the Giants needed. That’s what they got when he connected with Mario Cunningham on the most incredible, perfect, I-just-wet-my-pants catch. Even if you don’t care a lick about football, you had to be impressed. If you were like me — there for the commercials about dogs and aliens driving sports cars — you still marveled at it. Dreamed about it. Wondered why in the heck you couldn’t snag a ball like that. Couldn’t come close. Because even in my dreams I would drop that ball. Even … in … my … DREAMS! It’s the stuff that fills the slumbering heads of all men, and especially little boys. Sadly, though, my skills were never catching those leather bombs. No, instead I had perfected the art … yes, let’s call it like it is … the ART of dropping them. And I could do it with as much finesse, with as much raw beauty and skill as those who could pull them in. That was always my gift as a kid. Dysfunction on a grand scale. Beauty of the bumbling. I had the coordination of a 3-minute-old giraffe — all gangly and threatening to topple over endless … Continue reading The art of dropping a ball