10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5... Blanda!

10, 9, 8, 7, 6 .... Blanda! Man, I was just a wee whippersnapper the year George Blanda played last-minute hero as kicker and quarterback in at least five games. He won them all in the final seconds, and he was 43 years old. He was a middle-aged precursor to Kenny Stabler, and the notion that my team would find a way to win was impressed upon me at an age when hope ought to be handled with care. Blanda was an old-fashioned toe kicker and had the range of a high school soccer star today, but his dying quails would just clear the uprights and even my father would shake his head in disbelief. "He's ten years older than I am," he would mutter, which is about as excited as he ever got. Blanda died the other day at 83, and the memories came flooding back. Raider nostalgia ain't hard to find- hell, every trip to Tahoe used to mean a quick stop at Jim Otto's Burger King; HBO put together a terrific documentary of the A's and Raiders of the 70s, and now the Chronicle brings weekly stories of George Atkinson Jr., running crazy across high school football fields all over the Bay Area. Damn, I just remembered that Jack Tatum died recently; his collision with Earl Campbell at the goal line has to be one of the greatest meeting of badasses in NFL history. But Blanda was a folk hero when I was too young to know how special such seasons were. I vaguely remember thinking that those greying lambchops and that thinning hair made him look like somebody's granddad, but the respect in my father's eyes and voice suggested something grander. Pictures of Blanda from that time now look like posters from another world, before steroids and red zones and Mel Kiper Jr. Thanks, George, for bringing some magic into our living rooms- maybe Jason Campbell should look at some of your game films.