On December 15th, 1935, in the shadow of the Great Depression, a weary nation huddled around their radios to hear an important broadcast. It wasn’t a pep talk from Roosevelt; it was the NFL championship game between the Detroit Lions and the New York Giants; a chance for Americans to forget their troubles, to root for a winner, while the country was losing jobs and losing hope.

Josh Sanders heard the game that day. He was twelve that year, a kid who never missed a broadcast, knew every player’s name and position, and thought football was the best thing ever; though he’d never been to a game, never had a football of his own.

But he was built for the sport. Tall for his age, he had broad shoulders, muscular arms, hands that were soft and padded, made to catch a football. 

Josh was in the kitchen, his ear glued to the radio, when his father came in carrying the daily newspaper. “Who’s winning the big game?”

“The Lions are killing ‘em,” replied Josh. “Buddy Parker just scored the fourth touchdown.”

“Good for him…at least he has a job.”  Jim Sanders, a big, ruddy-faced Irishman, veteran of the Great War, threw the newspaper on the table and sat down. Josh could hear the tension, the frustration in his father’s voice, a reminder that he’d been out of work for months. His wife Susan poured coffee as he looked through the help wanted ads. Josh gave his father a pat on the back. “Listen to the game, Dad. It’ll cheer you up.” 

His father tossed the paper aside. “I’m not interested in football. The country’s going down the drain; ten million people are out of work. Two months ago, the WPA promised a thousand new jobs right here in San Francisco. All I can say is they better come through, and soon.” Jim Sanders downed his coffee and stood up. “I’ll be back,” he said, walking toward the door.

Josh lowered the volume on the radio and looked at his mother. Her eyes were closed as she said a brief prayer; something she did each time his father left, hoping to find a good job. A modest woman, devoted to God and family, the depression weighed heavily on her. She’d lost a good deal of weight; her cheeks were drawn in; her auburn hair showed streaks of gray.  

They lived on the top floor of an old building a few blocks south of Market Street. The apartment had been neglected; floor boards were broken, there was dry rot in the ceiling beams; the red-brick walls were scarred with streaks of black soot, remnants from the damage caused by the 1906 earthquake and fire that nearly destroyed the city.

Josh pushed his chair back against the wall and got up. The football game was over; the Lions had won. As he listened to the roar of the crowd, Josh imagined himself down on the field, hearing people cheer for him as they cheered for the Lions.

When the cheering stopped, he went outside to sit on the fire escape. He thought about his father and heard again the anger in his voice. Moments later his mother appeared and sat down beside him. They remained silent for a few moments, looking at the crowd of tenement buildings that made up their neighborhood.

“Your father isn’t mad at you, Josh; he’s mad at what’s happened to the country,” said his mother. “He’s a proud man, and he doesn’t have a job.”

“Dad’s a good carpenter; why can’t there be more jobs like that?”

“He goes out every morning, looking...but there aren’t enough jobs to go around. President Roosevelt is doing his best to help people; he created the WPA to provide jobs for people like your father.” She put her arm around Josh to reassure him. “Have faith, dear; your father will find something soon. God is looking out for us.” 

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Josh smiled and nodded, but he didn’t pay much attention to God outside of church, and didn’t have much faith in God’s power to fix whatever was wrong with the country. He knew his parents weren’t to blame; he loved them but hated what the depression had done to them.  

They couldn’t afford a Christmas tree that year; the money that was left went for food and rent. At school kids were talking about their wish list, and though Josh knew what he wanted he didn’t want to ask for it.

But when he awoke on Christmas morning he found a small package on his night stand. Inside was a football; and a note from his father: “For the game you love. Merry Christmas.”

That day marked a new beginning. In the months that followed Josh practiced throwing and catching the football with his father. He took the trolley out to the beach to run wind sprints; he started lifting weights, running up and down the city hills to further strengthen his legs and lungs. After more than a year, in the summer of 1937, Josh entered high school and went to try-out for the team. His dedication paid off; he was the only freshman to make varsity that year, as a wide receiver. It didn’t take long before he established himself; when his team needed a big catch, they threw the ball to Josh.

But life at home remained difficult. Road repair, one of the first WPA projects in the city, kept his father employed for six months, but after that jobs were scarce, lasting only two or three weeks. Some days he’d be gone from morning until night, looking for work, then waiting in line at the church for a free meal when money was tight. Josh’s mother did a little sewing for some of the women in the building, and those she knew from church, but it paid little, and she was often despondent.  

One night, when his father didn’t come home, Josh went looking for him.  In the street he saw the scars of the Great Depression etched on the faces of destitute men in tattered clothes, their hands outstretched, proud men who couldn’t find work, the homeless and the hungry, exhausted and defeated.    

 At the corner of 9th and Mission, as the night fog rolled in, Josh paused to look through the window of a small café. A handful of men were seated at a bar, some at tables, drinking beer and whisky. Near the entrance his father sat alone at a table, his head bowed, staring into an empty glass.

Josh didn’t hesitate; he pushed through the door and went into the bar. Startled, his father shouted, “Josh, what are you doing here?!  You can’t come in here!”

Josh would hear none of it. “Mom’s worried sick.  You have to come home.”

“I’ll come home soon. Tell your mother not to worry.”

Josh noticed his father’s bloodshot eyes.  On instinct, he picked up the empty glass and took a whiff.  “This isn’t right, Dad.  This is for people who have nowhere to go.  You still have a home.”

His father raised his weary head and focused his bloodshot eyes on his son.  “Josh, if something ever happens to me…you take care of your mother.”

The bartender, a husky bald-headed man, came over and pointed at Josh.  “You can’t be in here, son.  You’re not old enough.”

Josh took a last look at his father, then he went outside…and waited.

An hour later his father came stumbling out of the bar. Josh put his arm around his father’s waist to steady him.  “Come on Dad…it’s time for you to go home.”

Jim Sanders squinted at his son through half closed eyes. “Don’t tell your mother I’ve been drinking.  She doesn’t approve of this sort of thing.”

“She’ll smell it on your breath, but she’ll forgive you…because she knows God will forgive you.” 

His father began to smile, but as they walked toward home Josh felt a wave of pity for a man who fought in the Great War and wanted only to work and raise a family…never knowing it would be so hard.