There are precious few things that would prompt the local coroner/undertaker to tell my potentially grieving family members “we’ve tried everything and we just can’t get the smile off his face.”

Oh my God Martha, what is he talking about now and how does it relate to sports?

Among those “few things” is having an “ex” think she is providing “proper incentive” (wink, wink) to get you to do a chore you really don’t like doing.

Another smile freezer, for me anyway, is the knowledge that the chore in question had been bugging me to the max for some time and today was the day I couldn’t take it any more and was going to take care of it without the need for “proper incentive.”

Yet another is “proper incentive” itself, but I digress.

For this sports fanatic, who would equate another Bobcat national football championship with the feel of a thousand new puppy ears, the ultimate “proper incentive” may very well be the game of football itself.

To wit: somewhere in the middle of the Friday night game I attended in Alberton this past week, I could swear I heard a Metallica guitar solo wafting across the stadium, the equivalent to most folks hearing sweet harp music.

I could swear angels were circling the field wearing those funny nose/plastic glasses.

I was smiling so big I couldn’t blink due to the stretching of skin around my “kisser”.

There I was, in small town America/Montana, grinning like an 8-year-old unwrapping Christmas presents.

That smile, I imagined, would be almost impossible for even the most skilled coroner to extract from my face, so as to present a “proper, dignified” display as folks walked by my open casket.

Some would no doubt be thinking “that old Norwegian finally bought the lefsa.” That could be their frozen smile moment.

But for me, I was standing on the grassy field where Alberton’s Panthers were doing battle with the Red Devils from Noxon. The irony was inescapable.

It was a timeout and the teams were gathered around their coaches, hearing the latest twist in the game’s battle plan.

Off in the distance, a long-line of folks was waiting patiently for their turn at the concession window. Yeah, the popcorn in Alberton is that good.

Seemingly the majority of the small town in the picturesque village among the pine tree carpeted mountains lying beneath clear blue skies above, was at that field.

The temperature was one I wish could be maintained 24/7, although I would miss the change of seasons.

These young athletes were experiencing the joy folks like me call football.

Gone for the next six months were the days I refer to as the Dark Ages, those days when football is out of season.

It was my euphoric moment. The same as some people say the first snowfall is for them, or beef-eaters claim is the grin producing moment that occurs when a “tomahawk” steak is placed on the table before them.

Yup, my sport was back in session. Padded Panthers and Red Devils were duking it out on real grass. It was a shining moment when all the world’s problems were back in Pandora’s box.

Football, dear friends, was being played.

Remove your hats and bow your heads for a minute or two.

And realize, the smile on that guy’s face who was standing there looking like he was happier than a laundry owner who found the proverbial missing sock, was going to be hard to remove some day.

Especially if that smile was between late August and the final whistle of the Super Bowl.