By Bob Markus

Christmas brings memories. Memories of childhood and sleepless nights, waiting for Santa. Memories of fatherhood, anticipating the looks on the childrens' faces when they found the gifts piled all around the tree. And for a sports writer who was there, memories of one of the greatest games in National Football League history. It was Christmas day, 1971, and instead of watching my kids open their presents, I was sitting in the press box in Kansas City's old ball park, watching what was, at the time, the longest game in football history. The game had everything: The Chiefs' Ed Podolak producing an individual tour de force that should have been enough to produce a victory; Chiefs' kicker Jan Stenerud, a future Hall of Famer, missing the chip shot field goal that should have won the game in regulation time; and, finally, Garo Yepremian, a balding, 27-year-old Cypriot who had never even seen a football game until five years earlier, kicking the game-winner for Miami 8 minutes into the second overtime.

The game was swaddled in controversy before it was even played, because it was also the first NFL game played on Christmas day. Commissioner Pete Rozelle was roundly criticized for scheduling the game on one of organized religion's two most sacred holidays. He was either Scrooge or The Grinch, take your pick. I didn't see it that way. In a column I wrote before boarding a plane on Christmas Eve day, I pointed out most of the criticism was coming from fans in the two cities involved--the NFC playoffs were opening in Minneapolis the same day--and that nobody was water boarding them to force them to attend the games. The only ones who had no choice were the teams, the officials, and the media. As a member of the last-named group I couldn't find it in my heart to complain. I pointed out there were worse places one could wake up on Christmas morning. Viet Nam, for instance.

Although this was the first year I can recall missing Christmas Day itself with the family, in most years we'd have our gift opening in the morning, have a festive midafternoon meal, and I'd be on a plane to the Rose Bowl or an NFL playoff by Christmas night. Once, in the days when The Tribune not only allowed but mandated that its employees fly first class, I was the only passenger in the front section on a Christmas night flight to Baltimore.

Missing out on holidays is an occupational quid pro quo for a sports writer. I almost never was at home on New Year's Eve. I can recall Thanksgivings in Dallas, covering the Cowboys, and in College Station, covering Texas at Texas A M. , and in Norman, Okla., covering the 1 vs. 2 showdown between Nebraska and Oklahoma. That was especially bitter sweet, because while the game was one for the ages, it came during a week when my wife's beloved aunt Grace died and I barely made it home for the funeral.

When my wife's alma mater, Illinois, went to the Rose bowl after the 1983 season, the whole family flew out to Pasadena. I went early, arriving a few hours after the Illini landed at the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. After reaching the team's hotel I immediately got into a screaming match with an assistant athletic director, who turned down my request for an interview with Head Coach Mike White on grounds that he had given a mass interview at the airport. White happened by in the middle of the ruckus and, obviously upset, grumbled, "Hey, we've got a big ball game coming up here." He eventually agreed to meet with me a few hours later, but the tension he displayed was not a good omen. Illinois, which had won its last 10 games after an opening game loss to Missouri, was a heavy favorite against a UCLA team that went into the game with a 6-4-1 record. What everyone overlooked was the fact that the Bruins, after an 0-3-1 start, had won six of their last seven games. No one expected them to even be in the Rose Bowl game, let alone win it. In fact, on the final week-end of the Pac 10 season, with Illinois having already clinched the Big 10 title, I had gone to Seattle to interview several Husky players for a special Rose Bowl section. After arch-rival Washington State produced a shocking upset on Saturday, I threw away my interview notes, placed a call to UCLA's athletic department and advised them I'd be in Westwood by Monday morning to interview some of their players.

Because New Year's day was a Sunday, the 1984 Rose Bowl was played on Jan.2, a date that will live in infamy in Champaign-Urbana. Illinois was never in the game. In a complete reversal from the 1947 Rose bowl when Illinois (7-2) had dismantled an unbeaten UCLA team that had lobbied to play Army (of Blanchard and Davis fame) instead, the Bruins returned the favor. They tore apart a young Illinois secondary in a 45-9 spanking that gave me the once in a lifetime chance to write: "Illinois has seen 1984 and it is more horrible than anything George Orwell could have imagined."

It's been many years since I last left hearth and home for Christmas. But it's also been many years since the entire family has celebrated the holiday together. I miss the old days. Still, I have my memories. I imagine you do, too. Merry Christmas, everyone.