Grandpa Beefcake
But continue thou in
the things
which thou hast
learned
and hast been assured
of,
knowing of whom thou
hast learned them.
—
2 Timothy 3:14
I have this darling friend named
Jeannie. She was a high-school cheerleader who played the tuba in the band.
Always a show-stopper, that one.
One day, she was at the University
of Nebraska-Lincoln band camp, hauling her tuba around, when here came this
great, big, hairy, handsome hunk. He was also at the band camp. I think he
played the piccolo or something. He took one look at her pretty face and that
big tuba, and it was . . . well, it was destiny.
"May I carry your tuba?" he asked.
He's been carrying it ever since, through a stellar career as a Cornhusker
quarterback, marriage, kids, and many years in business.
Fast-forward several decades.
They're our neighbors. Jeannie's always seeing me through crises, like when I
gave birth at the age of 102 to our tail-ender, Maddy, now almost 7.
Naturally, Maddy adores her. She
took a shine to her husband, too. She calls him:
"Mr. Jeannie."
This great, big, handsome hunk -
still hairy, but now of the silver-fox variety - loves the girly-man nickname.
But now Steve Runty has one he likes even more: he has been presented with a
granddaughter. So now he's "Grandpa."
It's a little offbeat, seeing that
little papoose Jaci Jean high up in a backpack on the immense shoulders of her
. . . grandpa?!? You just don't see a muscular gramps very often. Most geezers get
roly-poly or schlumpy. But Mr. Jeannie is still manly and muscular. He has been
amazingly faithful to his fitness routine through the decades. He's a long way
from that rocking chair.
But a guy still wonders. I'm a
grandpa now. Getting old. If I had to, could I still cut it, physically? Could
I still run with the big dogs?
It has to be a guy thing. Don't you
suppose? I, for one, have never wasted one brain cell on worrying over whether
I can still dance the funky chicken the way I did back in the groovy 1970s. And
believe me, it's a good thing that I don't even try. I mean, we're talking
Elevated Terror Alert type funky chicken dancing.
But for guys, it's different. And
for a former Husker quarterback, whose athleticism has defined him lifelong,
it's even more so.
Well, one day not long ago, Mr.
Jeannie got a chance to find out. It seems a friend of his was quarterback for
a very good flag football team, but got injured. He couldn't play in the big
regional championships in Texas, against 140 teams with some of the fastest,
fleetest 20-somethings around.
Could Steve quarterback the team?
Sure! With some Dentu-Creme to keep
his mouthguard in, and a little Geritol in the Gatorade. . . .
Steve is #13, and
that's his son Jay in the shades.
He had only a couple of weeks to
prepare, and no idea what to expect. A couple of other seasoned veterans were
on the team with some flat-bellied young'uns. So they got down there and gave
it a ride.
Much to Steve's surprise, this
motley crew won, and won again, and kept winning. His old arm came through. All
the 20-somethings were, like, "Holy smokes! Look at that old guy! He can still
throw!"
Jeannie gave this sports report: "He
decided to show a little razzle-dazzle, so he threw one where, you know, you
look one way and throw it the other, and everybody was, like, whoa."
They made it all the way to the
championship game. It went into a tie-breaker. All they had to make was one
yard, and they'd win. But what'd they run? A long bomb! Touchdown! Touchdown!
Touchdown!
Geezer beefcakes got style, don't
you know?
What a payback for all those years
of self-discipline and self-denial. The way he's kept himself in great shape is
a strong testimony to his real quarterback, Jesus Christ. Physical fitness is a
big part of Steve's Christian walk.
Uh . . . about that last part.
"I tell you what," Jeannie reports.
"He could hardly walk for a week." †
