Joe Namath Once Sent Me Flowers

And I never forgave him

BY KATHY WEYER

I WAS 17, GOING TO SCHOOL IN BOSTON. It was 1972. I suspect the short dresses helped. My skin was tight, my boobs were front and center, there was no flapping going on, the energy level was off the charts and I could see perfectly without correction. My hair was cut short—Twiggy-style—and polyester was the fabric of choice, along with platform shoes that made us all at least 4 inches taller.

These shoes with the jingly buckles announced my, and everyone else’s, entrance (clump jingle, clump jingle). The jewelry was huge, plastic and smelled funny. We wore Charlie perfume and lots of makeup. We were going for the natural look. We were babes.

We lived on Beacon Hill in what was once a large ornate manse, now sectioned into separate quarters. The center of the floor was used as a study area. We each claimed a station where we put our rented IBM Selectrics. We walked countless stairs and checked the mail boxes several times a day. Fireplaces were in every room, but we weren’t allowed to use them. If you were lucky you had a telephone. The common one in the hallway rang all the time, but never more than one ring, as we were all so anxious to find out who was calling and for whom.

There was one bathroom for the entire floor. It was ordered pandemonium.

Our dorm was across the street from the world-famous Boston Commons. Watching the trees change four times a year was a complete revelation to me, coming from Southern California, where there are no seasons. We used to bundle up, clump down the stairs (clump jingle, clump, jingle), and meet a date under a special tree or statue. The experience of dry leaves crunching under my feet was something new to me, and the eye-popping autumn colors were enough to make me swoon.

On this particular day in October, we had finished our classes and felt we needed a treat. So four of us took our fake IDs down to the local pub. Who knew that was the day my life would change forever?

As we slid into the red leather booth, the long-haired, mustachioed bartender came over to take our order of Pink Squirrels, Singapore Slings and Whiskey Sours. We were so sophisticated.

We were deep into making plans for the weekend when we felt a presence in the bar….and there he was, in all his glory. Tall, thick, strong and graceful, Broadway Joe was passing through from the back of the bar toward the front door. Dressed in a long black leather trench coat, he had just stepped off the cover of Cosmo. He stopped to chat with the bartender quickly and turned around to see four post-pubescent females gaping at him. We were completely, utterly, indescribably flummoxed. There’s just no other way to describe it.

He sauntered over to us with a grin, knowing exactly the effect he was having on us. “So, ladies, what are we celebrating?” he asked as he looked at each of us individually, then as a group. (It’s now clear, 40 years later, he was evaluating each of us one at a time “yes, no, and maybe if I’d been drinking”…whatever.)

My mouth was dry, my hands were clammy and my brain was frozen. All I could come up with was, “umm….my birthday’s next week,” just loud enough for me to hear.

“Hey, Joe, drinks are on me,” he yelled over his shoulder. “We’ve got a birthday over here!” And at that, he turned and went out the door, black leather flying behind him.

For a moment there was complete silence, then four seconds later I don’t remember anything but the sound of our very shrill, very high-pitched voices and clasping hands and jumping up and down in the leather booth. “Did that just happen?” “I can’t belieeeeeeve it!” We were absolutely beside ourselves. It took the next hour for us to calm down.

We went back to the dorm with our story, and every time we told it, it got more and more exaggerated. By the time the story came back to me, one of us had actually gone back to Joe’s apartment and slept with him.

The following Wednesday was my birthday. I got back to the dorm to find a dozen yellow roses had shown up with my name on the box. The card said, “Love, Joe #12.”

I was ecstatic. I put the flowers on my dresser and pulled the tag. I showed it to everyone. And I mean everyone. That very nice Broadway Joe sent me flowers! He remembered it was my birthday and took the time to send them to me. Aren’t I special?

For three weeks it was all I could talk about. g