My father, like a lot of Houston firefighters, often could obtain access to sporting events, with some half-ass reason of official business. On the occasion of the Super Bowl in Houston between Miami and Minnesota, I was standing next to him outside of one of the Rice Stadium turnstiles when up walked one Howard Cosell (this was at Cosell's high water mark with MNF). The attendant, a salty old guy with the obligatory Pall Mall hanging out of his mouth asked Mr. Cosell for his ticket, to which he stated, "Why, I'm Howard Cosell." His reply was one of those that my dad and I talked about until the day he died last year: "I don't give a good goddamn who you are-- you ain't gittin in without no ticket."
I kind of miss those old guys lighting up their Camels or Pall Malls or Chesterfields (all no filter, of course) with a quick close of the Zippo.
