Every dog has his day — mine will be at my funeral

James Henry Smith has just fulfilled the American Dream.

No, not Manifest Destiny or the… James Henry Smith has just fulfilled the American Dream.

No, not Manifest Destiny or the equal-opportunity nation that will yield a prosperous life for all. Smith, a die-hard Steelers fan who died this summer of prostate cancer, took advantage of the slow-moving disease to make arrangements for exactly the kind of funeral he wanted.

The Samuel E. Coston Funeral Home set up a room to look like Smith’s living room on a Sunday afternoon. They set up a television, and then laid the deceased out in an easy chair, legs crossed, in black and gold pajamas. A pack of cigarettes and a beer flanked his body while a remote control kept silent vigil nearby. A tape of Steelers highlights looped on the television.

I’d be lying if I said this didn’t absolutely thrill me. Nothing bothers me more than hearing, “Didn’t he look like himself?” at funerals in which the guest of honor is laid out like a wax dummy, stiff as a two-by-four. This guy not only looked just like himself, but like America. He did what every sports fan always says he’s going to do, lay himself to rest in his team’s colors.

It got me thinking about what I want my own room to look like once I go. I figure I’ve got a good 60 years left if I play my cards right, but one can never start planning soon enough. So for starters, I want a guy outside the room I’m being kept in with one of the big signs from the Masters that says, “Quiet!” It’s a funeral home, after all. To get into the room, I want people to have to walk through a turnstile from Ebbets’ Field or Polo Grounds. I know it’s a stretch, but there has to be one left somewhere.

Next, I’ll need a sofa and a television. Not a huge TV, but one big enough that I can set bobble heads of each Phillies Hall of Famer across the top. (That includes broadcaster Harry Kalas.) On the tube, I want a loop of the “Miracle on Ice” playing. But, it can’t end with “Do you believe in miracles???” at the end of the game. Instead, it has to run all the way to the players all cramming themselves onto the one tiny podium. Then it can loop back.

The television will be against one wall, while the sofa will sit against the opposite wall. I want to be laid out in kind of a sprawled position, with a big picture of Muhammad Ali standing over me in the follow-through of his knockout of Sonny Liston. (That’s right – first round, first minute.) That way, it’ll look like The Greatest knocked me into the next life. While I’m lying there, I want to be in a Lou Gehrig jersey, a plain, pinstriped number. The Iron Horse faced a worse end to his life than man could imagine, but faced it with more courage than a soldier. I can only hope that when I go, I do so with as much dignity and character.

However, I’m not a beer fan, and I don’t smoke. So on one side of me, I’ll take Turkey Hill iced tea. (You’d have to be local to get that one.) On the other, I’ll need a cell phone instead of the cigarettes. Dad and I are both really close even though I’m on the other side of the Keystone State, so “watching” games together requires a cell phone. Every event features at least a dozen 15-second calls of, “Didja see that? Awesome, huh? Okay, bye!”

Also, I want a fireplace on one wall. In the fireplace, I want a fire that burns purely on fuel provided by the torching of scorecards from game six of the 1993 World Series. Above the fireplace, I want a picture of the 1999 U.S. Ryder Cup team celebrating their amazing victory. Across the front of the mantel, I want a replica of the Notre Dame “play like a champion today” banner. I can’t stand Notre Dame, but hey, it’s a great saying.

The top of the mantel needs a few things, too. First and foremost, I need a ball with its cover blown off, just like the ball Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez hits in “The Sandlot.” It’ll remind people of that movie, make them remember how nice it was to be a kid and hopefully help them remember to have fun, just like the film always does for me. Also, I want two cleats. One will come from Pele. I don’t care which foot the cleat comes from. I just want to have a piece of the soccer player who wasn’t quite a god, but was definitely more than human. The other will be one of the ones Diego Maradona wore during the victory over England in the ’86 World Cup. In the very middle of the mantel, of course, will stand my favorite picture, Dad with his hand on my 12-year-old shoulder in a shot from Little League.

The final wall will be covered in pictures. I want a shot of Carlton Fisk waving his ball fair. I want the picture of the Brooklyn Dodgers from the cover of Roger Kahn’s “The Boys of Summer,” showing the first truly integrated team. I want Jordan over Ehlo, His Airness hanging infinitely just above his defender’s outstretched fingertips in what truly began the legend. I want Lance staring down Jan Ullrich in the Alps. I want Tyson fumbling for his mouthpiece after Buster Douglas floored him. I want Flutie in midair, celebrating his Hail Mary against Miami. I want Willie, Mickey and the Duke in pictures right next to each other. I want Joe Namath running off the field after Super Bowl III.

Sure, it’ll probably take me my remaining decades to get my hands on this stuff. But I think in the end, it’ll be worth it.

Brian Weaver is the assistant sports editor for The Pitt News. E-mail him at bweaves_pittnews@hotmail.com.