I'm going to be honest with you right off the bat. Pat Beach and I had a falling out a few years ago in the living room of one Barry, who is best known for his contributions to the team profiles. In my Indianapolis Colts Profile, you will notice that both Barry and I made reference to this particular story, so you know that it is important. It was the day a legend died.
For years, Pat Beach was unquestionably the studliest tight end programmed into the game. Between his excited grin and unfailingly slow feet, he was a beacon of hope in a bleak time. More than one dejected gamer went into a game controlling Indianapolis buoyed by the knowledge that with Pat Beach on their squad, they just might get close to picking up a first down in the middle of the 50-0 piss-pounding that was sure to ensue. My brother dubbed George to Beach "The Unstoppable Combination" while Barry has declared that any game involving Indianapolis is always decided by one Pat Beach. In reality, any game involving Indianapolis is already decided when some masochist tags the "man" label next to the Colts.
This made it all the more bitter when Pat Beach dug around in his helmet and found a switchblade hidden somewhere behind the horseshoe and then buried it deep within my spinal region.
The story: It was one of those rare games where the Colts had a chance. While neither of us remember who the mighty men of Indy were playing that day, it's a fair assumption that not only were all 22-men of the opposition plus the kicker drunk while they played the game, the punter was naked on the sidelines with pom poms and the mascot was calling the plays. From the parking lot.
Finally Indy had a chance!...........well, maybe. The game was tight throughout, with the Colts reducing their ratio of "terrible plays to plays that totally blow" to an unbelievable 3 to 32. This included two deep passes to Jessie Hester, where he was streaking down the sidelines and had the opportunity to pick up major yardage, the first such time this has happened since Johnny Unitas found a way to play all 11 positions by himself back in the Baltimore days.
On each of these two deep passes, Hester had a chance to go to paydirt if only he could dodge the completely-inebriated free safety who was in danger of passing out on Jessie and hauling him down. Jessie was still unable to elude his pursuer, but there was one man who could still save the day:
Mr. Pat Beach.
Unfortunately, on each of these plays Pat ran to engage the safety but was unable to deter him from hauling Hester to the ground and back to reality. The game continued on and Indianapolis continued to struggle to stay even as more pallets full of Heineken continued to be forklift-delivered to the opposing sideline. All told, it looked like the game was over. The Colts were down by less than a touchdown, but there was time left for just one more play. It was down to the spectator-endangering arm of Jeff George to bring them to their first victory of the decade.
George drops back to pass. George stands in the pocket. George fires to Jessie Hester....CAUGHT! Hester is racing for the end zone, he has one man to beat!
"Hester is to the twenty! He's to the fifteen! He's going to need to get by Duff Man at the ten to get to the end zone! Pat Beach and.....WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING! Hester just got smeared! It's all over! We still suck! Somebody call my wife, because I just slit my wrists!.................this game has been brought to you by Long's Doughnuts, proud sponsor of *thud*"
Fo reasons that dozens of scientists and rabbis have been unable to determine to this day, Beach didn't even engage the safety. Instead, Pat put the blinders on and sprinted for the end zone as if he had the ball himself. If I didn't know better, I think he might actually have had to step out of the way to avoid the safety. The screen cut away after the tackle, but I heard that Pat finally stopped after he ran into a camera man, the stadium wall, and then finally one of those "Cool Zone" machines which deservingly sliced his nose off.
Needless to say, I was outraged. "SON OF A BITCH, BEACH!" was the only exclamation that I could muster. It currently stands as the third-most heartfelt sentence spoken in United States history, behind the Preamble to the Constitution and "Hang out with yourself and have a crazy party, hey you, lets party, have a killer party and party!" from the incomparable wordsmith, Andrew WK.
So Pat, I'm sorry, but we can't be friends anymore. You can come over and get your CD's and basketball from my house, but when we're in school I'm going to have to aim at your crotch during dodge ball and make fun of your older sister's acne.
Real Life Pat:
According to the link below, Pat Beach, and you're never going to believe this, never finished in the top ten in any major category NOR in the all-time top 50 in any major category. If they hadn't run out of bandwith, they were also going to say that no military press machine has ever flown to the moon and that the chances of a manatee becoming a four-star general are "improbable."
But friends, NFL Pat has nothing, and I mean NOTHING on Deep-Sea Pat. All I can say is that if you have just one click left in your lifetime, you wouldn't go wrong if you used it on this:
It seems that when Pat hung up his cleats he traded them in for some flippers. And for the skeptics out there, I found out what his current occupation was on a "Where are they Now?" Colts page, so I swear to all that is good in the eyes of Bob Nelson that this is the same guy.
The site for his diving operation is pretty unimpressive, including not even listing that he is a former football player and eternal Tecmo embarassment. But what kills me is the caption underneath the picture that linked to this page:
Ohhhhhhhh man. Look, football players don't have "special moments." Divers don't have "special moments." Only figure skaters, high school prom couples, and the Tanner Family on Full House have "special moments" in the context of that caption. Poor Pat looks like a genuinely nice guy and is probably still pretty physically chiseled, but you just reduced his masculinity to that of Bob Saget. I hope whoever wrote that caption feels good about him or herself.
Pat Beach is pretty happy in this picture, but this was before he got publicly humiliated on his own company's website.
Running Speed- 25
For the sharp readers out there, this is the same running speed that Harry Galbreath possesses. Therefore, since I speculated that crippled children might be able to beat Harry in a race, where does this leave Beach? Three-toed-sloth? That big-ass machine that moves the space shuttle? A medium-paced glacier?
Rushing Power- 69
Just like in Galbreath's profile, the Japanese once again decided to randomly throw 69 in as his rushing power. I don't know what to say other than that I am appalled, embarassed, and more than a little intrigued as to what was occurring in the Tecmo offices at the time.
Maximum Speed- 25
Basically what they are saying is that you could take Pat's speed in miles per hour during the 100 meter dash, 40-yard sprint, or while taking a nap and it would all be the same number.
Hitting Power- 50
I don't know what this number means and Pat is never going to let us find out, since he has shown us in the past that he is way more into having "special moments" than he is into "blocking."
Ball Control- 50
Unfortunately you have to catch the ball for this to register, so this value was originally "HA HA! HE NEVER CATCH BALL YANKEE DEVIL!" but was unfortunately changed before the game went gold.
Embedded in the Tecmo code is a certain set of numbers that ensures that in all copies of the game distributed, Pat will only have 38 career receptions on all of them combined. If you are one of the few lucky ones who has a cartridge that exhibited one of the rare Beach grabs, you'll know that this was accomplished only after the referee screened the linebacker who was guarding him and the ball got lodged in his face mask.