I have always felt you can judge a man’s character by how he treats his mother. On rare occasion I get to measure a man by how he treats MY mother. I was almost moved to tears to find how incredibly sweet Vinny Testaverde was to my mother.

They were born in the same town, though decades apart, Elmont, NY. As a growing crowd gathered to get his autograph at a Super Bowl event my parents were attending, Vinny gave my mother his undivided attention for quite some time and spoke to my mother as if she were an old family friend from “the neighborhood”. Now, if you know my mother, you know that once she gets started, you are in for a long haul of a conversation. However, aside from just being polite, Vinny listened, and asked questions and genuinely seemed to enjoy a little of the old fashioned “ New York Italian” gab (much to the chagrin of the back log of autograph seekers vying for his attention). He was so kind in fact, that my father was actually lead to feeling remorse about all the times he yelled at #16 from his Lazy Boy, for throwing an unfortunate pick or two when Vinny was QB for his 5th team, my Dad’s team, the Cowboys. Now if you know my father, you know that he rarely feels badly about anything. He feels his 76 years give him the right to have an opinion and that 76 years also mean that opinion is RIGHT. For over two decades, my lack of moderation in Testaverde admiration has been the butt of a few jokes in my family. (The classic is, “Bren has the biggest collection of Vinny Testaverde memorabilia in existence…wait it’s the ONLY collection of Vinny Testaverde memorabilia in existence). I suppose that is why I am still in disbelief that upon parting, my father shook Vinny’s hand and said, “We miss you in Dallas, looks like we could have used you this year”.

Working in sports for almost “too” long, it is hard to have heroes who are athletes (as so many “normies” do). When sports becomes business and teams and athletes become clients, somehow things change. You learn that sometimes knowing what happens in the front office, or when a man takes off his cleats and heads out for a night on the town, is a bit like watching a hot dog get made ( something you should never do if you ever plan on eating one again). It is easy to lose sight of what makes the games we love to watch so great. It is hard to have the faith to let your son have an athlete as a hero, as you know what can happen, what seems to have happened too many times of late. You hope with the choice of that quarterback, or receiver, or pitcher, or power forward, that the fragility of innocence will survive but logic dictates the odds are against it.

Almost miraculously though, at just the right time, there are those things that remind you that perhaps there is something transcendent about sports. There are those who remind you that although they are only human, they possess a type a humanity that is rare, that is more. They embody the tradition of the truly great who have come before them and they will be remembered as something more. More than the total of their TD passes, the number of yards they have thrown for, their completions, and even their Heisman. More.

I count myself lucky to have such an eloquent reminder.