I remember, as a child, watching in amazement when Billy “White Shoes” Johnson reached the end zone. I could have cared less about the Oilers, who the tiny receiver and punt returner played for, but if they were on the tube it was must-see TV. Because when Johnson hit paydirt, his legs would start wobbling back and forth, a giant grin on his face, and he would start doing a dance known as the “Funky Chicken.” He would then reach the ball behind his head, as if he was going to launch it into the crowd. He would bring his arm forward, but instead of throwing the ball into the stands, he would bounce the ball off the back of his helmet and catch it in his other hand, located at the base of his back. Finally, he would drop down on the ground, do a split, and spike the ball. It was great theater, and as an 8-year-old, I regularly copied that dance when playing backyard football. Even now, on the rare occasions I still play backyard football, and on the even rarer occasions I make it into the end zone, I do the dance. It pisses off my friends and opponents, and delights any of my friends’ kids who happen to be watching a bunch of old men try desperately to relive their childhoods.