Jan. 12, 1969: Joe Namath’s New York Jets defeat Johnny Unitas’s Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III.

Young people, this was an “8” on the football Richter Scale. AFL teams–the Chiefs and the Raiders–had been humiliated by the NFL’s Green Bay Packers in the first two Super Bowls, in the olden days, before the leagues merged.

Now it was the NFL’s Baltimore Colts’ turn to humiliate the upstart AFL team, the New York Jets.

The Colts were led by Johnny Unitas, so old-school that he still wore high-top cleats (this pair sold for $6,000). If they had a Mr Rushmore (Perish the thought. Leave the Black Hills alone!) for quarterbacks, Johnny U. would be on it.

The Jets were led by a kid who’d played ball at Alabama for Bear Bryant–Forrest Gump’s coach– but had left all that behind for the Bright Lights and Big City. Willie Joe Namath liked New York City, liked to party.

His Jets were 19 1/2 point underdogs.

Namath predicted that they would beat Johnny U and the Colts. Guffaws followed.

But he was right. Final score: Jets 16, Colts 7.

You might think: What about the Jets’ defense? But if you look at the statistics, the two teams are nearly identical in offensive stats, from yards gained to first downs to time of possession.

The stat that stands out to me, admittedly no expert? Average yards gained per pass: Unitas’ was 4.4 yards. Namath’s average was 7.1 yards.

Namath threw the ball like a dart thrower. Shallow windup, violent downswing and–zip!–a spiral that resembled a 30.06 bullet exiting its rifle barrel. (Kenny Stabler and John Elway had similar deliveries.)

He was throwing darts that day.

He was throwing darts on this day in history, on January 12, 1969.

Joe, as was his right, became a superstar. He grew a Fu Manchu mustache and shaved it off for $10,000 for a TV commercial. He posed with Ann-Margaret for a motorcycle flick. (He wasn’t a very good actor.) He had a thing for fur coats. Still does.

Today he’s a grandfather of six and kind of a parody because of those those Social Security spots (those people are sharks, by the way). But I can’t help but look, during those ads, at how his fingers are bent and arthritic and I remember, in his last years, as a Ram, that watching him enter and exit the field was a visual ordeal.

Football had destroyed his body.

But here’s the thing: That cheerful guy you see on those stupid commercials? I think that’s the way he is in real life. He is now a six-times-over grandfather, and my hunch is that he gets down on the floor to play with those kids even though it takes him forever to get back up.

Party animal, sex symbol, TV huckster, all of that’s true. None of it captures him. Throwing darts at Emerson Boozer out of the backfield or playing video games with his grandkids are truer pictures.

Hall of Famer. That might be the truest of all. But his Hall of Fame bust takes second place to this plaque in his hometown, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, pop. 8,900 in 2023, near oilfields like the ones my mother’s Irish ancestors worked during their time in Pennsylvania in the 1870s.

We had only about ten weeks left, in 1969, after that game, before we lost Mom.

But Super Bowl III was about hope, not loss. Something happened that only happened consistently in Frank Capra movies: the underdogs won.

That must be why I’m a fan.