The nice woman led me backstage to a new motorhome and indicated that I should go inside.
“This is our green room,” she said with a smile. “Make yourself at home. Somebody will come get you when it’s time.”
I thanked her, stepped up, and opened the door to find Terry Bradshaw alone, sitting behind a small laminated table with two prescription pill bottles in front of him.
Yes, that Terry Bradshaw: four-time Super Bowl champion quarterback with the Pittsburgh Steelers, two-time Super Bowl MVP, Pro Football Hall of Fame inductee, and the only NFL player with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
His blazer lay folded neatly on the seat next to him. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and tie. He looked up and flashed a polite, though barely sincere, smile.
“Hey, how are ya?”
“Fine, thanks. I’m Dave Williams. I’m your emcee. They told me I should wait here until it’s time.”
I did not offer him my hand because I was a social dork, and he was Terry Bradshaw holding a prescription pill bottle.
“It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you,” I added impetuously.
“Thanks. Same here.”
As I sat on the RV sofa opposite him, Terry twisted open an orange plastic Rx bottle, shook out a couple of tablets, and swallowed them with a swig of water from a plastic bottle.
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I didn’t.
We didn’t have mobile phones in the late 90s. I couldn’t look down, pretending to be engaged in some serious business matter, and neither could he. But Terry finally broke the silence when he tossed back another pill from the other bottle.
“I have a pounding headache,” he explained.
I think I told him I was sorry, but I’m not sure. And there we sat, total strangers with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other.
Looking back on it, I would like to think he was pleased that I didn’t start peppering him with lame football fan questions. I might have if I had been a serious football fan, but to this day, I can’t watch a game without wondering why it takes 22 guys banging into each other to advance or stop the ball. Wouldn’t three guys on each side work just as well? Maybe I should have asked him that.
Terry took a stack of index cards from his jacket pocket and started looking them over. I assumed he was studying his speech, which was a great idea. I took out my one index card with my prepared introduction and studied its three sentences.
There was a tap at the door. Being closest to it and not being a famous athlete and TV star, I stood and opened it to find John Major, the most recent former British Prime Minister, standing on the step below with a pip-pip-cheerio smile on his Time magazine face.
I was literally looking down at him.
“Might I come in?”
He did offer me his hand, and I took it.
“John Major,” he said.
I honestly don’t remember what I said, but I think it was something like, “Yes, of course, Mr. Prime Minister. I’m a local radio star, and I’ll be introducing you.”
On second thought, I hope I didn’t actually say, “I’m a local radio star.”
Whatever I said, the PM made his way in. He and Terry shook hands and exchanged a few effusively gracious words, as is the practiced habit of famous people when they first meet.
I was the fly on the wall.
I am dying to tell you about the fascinating conversation the three of us had over the next half hour, but there’s nothing to tell. As hard as I try, I can’t recall or even imagine anything that we would have said to each other.
I was eventually called to the stage and introduced Terry to the large, expensive lunch crowd. They loved him. He was charming and funny; that’s all I remember.
I did not go back to the Winnebago to shoot the shit with former PM Major. I’m pretty sure I walked to the no-host bar in the back of the room and asked for a beer.
