I nearly get my long-awaited apology from Joe Montana.
By Hannah Wallace


Hey Joe, I've got your precious trophy. Where's your form letter now?

When I was 13 years old, I wrote a letter to Joe Montana asking him not to leave the San Francisco 49ers for Kansas City. The reply—a form letter—arrived two weeks later. On Kansas City Chiefs stationary.
This weekend, 16 years later, Joe met me in Tampa to apologize at long last for his betrayal. Our feud has ended.

Ok, well, not quite. But our Tampa staycation this weekend was all it promised and more. First, our Thursday-night return to the NFL Experience—now with extra precipitation!—left us giddy and sopping wet, enjoying an up-close look at the Lombardi Trophy and an evening spent reveling in the realization that rain, in fact, does not hurt. (It does make your jeans really, really heavy, though.)



CCB pretends his Coors Light is the real Lombardi Trophy, 

which is actually right behind us.


The next morning, we went to Ybor City. We’d only planned a little shopping at Urban Outfitters, some people-watching on Seventh Avenue and some zombie-killing at Gameworks. But we stumbled into the filming of The Best Damn Sports Show Period, which was interesting enough. When we wandered away from the gathering crowd to get some nachos, we happened upon the highlight of the weekend: The back end of Centro Ybor’s upstairs restaurant looked directly across at the restaurant being used as the show’s staging area. There, 20 feet away, was Joe Montana. Eating some melon.


Stalking Joe from Hannah Wallace on Vimeo.

Now, the crowd, by far, was most excited about seeing the Steelers’ Fast Willie Parker. But I admit, I damn near came to tears seeing my childhood idol in the flesh (um, through a window). I didn’t think I had that kind of Beatles-on-Sullivan celebrity worship in me. I guess it just depends on who you run into.

Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing my Steve Young jersey. Can you imagine? Joe Montana would’ve been pissed.

Are there any celebrities who could bring you to tears? Have you ever run into them around Sarasota? (Jerry Springer follows me everywhere. He doesn’t make me cry, though.)