By a very lovely Texas lady named Lana.
Reverend Mosley surveyed the restless crowd. Grown men fidgeting in their seats like five-year-old boys, their wives sliding them mean glances here and there. Mrs. Hooper was seated at the organ across from Mrs. Smith at the piano ready for a duel. I preferred the deep organ chords, and they way they took the music and built it into a crescendo battle, of sorts. It was five minutes until twelve noon on Superbowl Sunday, 1979 on the day that the Dallas Cowboys played the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Even as the choir bellowed, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” we saw the look in the Reverend’s eyes. It was a comin’ to Jesus meeting in the making. Somehow I knew staring at the back of Alice White’s shapely curls, that the fried chicken was gonna be cold that day and that the time for kickoff was rapidly approaching. I looked nervously at Benny and…
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