The Baltimore Colts played in their first NFL championship game on Sunday, Dec. 28, 1958. The game took place in Yankee Stadium in New York and the Colts fans in my house planned to watch the game on television. I recall that my older brother, as a Christmas gag gift, gave our father what seemed like two tickets to the game, but, in fact, he had cut them out from a photo in the Baltimore News-Post.

My mother was one of eight sisters and they had seven husbands among them. My maiden aunt Kate had no interest or need for a husband. On the day of the big game, a watch party for the brothers-in-law had been planned to be held at Uncle Jack’s house.

There is a lot I remember and a lot I don’t from that day. I must have begged my father to take me to Uncle Jack’s house to watch the game — the fact that it was obviously meant to be a brothers-in-law stag affair without children invited went way over my head. I was determined to go to Uncle Jack’s to see the game with my dad. I may have convinced my father to take me due to my established bona fides — I knew all the players and all their numbers, and that was part of his explanation to the other uncles when I accompanied him through the door. They wouldn’t need a scorecard because I knew all the players’ numbers as only an obsessed eight-year-old could.

I took my spot on the living room floor in front of the black and white TV, belly down, head supported by my hands on my chin, and commenced to watch the game.

The uncles sat in a semi-circle behind me, some in recliners, some in parlor furniture and maybe one or two on kitchen chairs summoned for the purpose. The uncles playfully tested me as the game commenced, “Who caught that pass?”

“Raymond Berry. Number 82.”

“Who made that tackle?’

“Eugene ‘Big Daddy’ Lipscomb!”

The uncles got a kick out of me and were more than good-natured with me. As an interloper, I couldn’t have been more welcomed. I did sneak out to the dining room to see a halftime buffet arranged, in advance, by Aunt Betty. I sampled a big potato chip and went back to my position. I’m sure the gentlemen had a National Bohemian or two. I probably had a Coke.

I remember watching the halftime show, which involved a marching band and female cheerleaders. I distinctly remember that the cheerleaders wore Santa-type tops with white fur trim with their long legs exposed to the elements. The uncles gave out some “ooh la la” comments at the sight of the cheerleaders, but I knew just to stare straight ahead and not acknowledge them, as I shouldn’t know about such things.

Late in the game, #63 of the Baltimore Colts threw a great block that impeded two of the Giants defenders to spring Alan Ameche (#35) for a long gain.

“Who’s number 63? Who threw that block?”

I had no answer. If I knew, I had forgotten. The uncles playfully chided me. Nowadays they would have said, “You had ONE job!” It was all in good fun, but I got ribbed pretty good. About three plays later the answer came to me, “Art Spinney!” But the moment had passed, and the contest got tighter, and the uncles had moved on to complaining about the referees and the obvious uncalled fouls that would have benefited the Colts. But I never forgot that obscure left guard’s name and number again.

The television broadcast lost its signal in the final two minutes of the game. I can almost remember Uncle Jack scrambling for a radio and listening to a staticky sound that was ostensibly the game. When I thought about this piece of my memory of the day, I mindlessly thought I should call Uncle Arthur and see if he remembered the details. But I couldn’t. From that glorious afternoon in Uncle Jack’s living room, I am the only one living.

All I can do is remember the kind and fun uncles of that day and the drive home with my dad in the gathering December dark.

Drew Carberry is a retired nonprofit organization leader in the Baltimore area. He can be reached at drewcarberry@yahoo.com.