A poignant reminder of this often cruel fact of life hit me hard last weekend.

We were visiting our daughters at Salisbury University, and I suggested that we go to a sports bar for dinner and college football Saturday. We step inside to a cacophony of hoots and hollers mixing with the clanging of plates and glasses. We're surrounded by multiple flat-screen TVs and chattering sports fans living in the moment. This is the fall spectacle -- and where I want to be.

We enjoy our overpriced burgers and Buffalo wings. Near the end of our meal, in walks a middle-aged woman wearing an Ocean City T-shirt. She settled into a seat in front of the Florida-Tennessee game. Oddly enough, people around her disappeared rather suddenly, but I didn't notice it at the time.

So I'm mopping up the last onion ring in the special sauce. Alabama is staging a miraculous comeback against Arkansas. C'mon, Razorbacks! Roll Tide! Jacked-up sports fans are everywhere with noisemakers -- the place is rocking with adrenaline and beer.

My eyes pan to the Florida-Tennessee game and I see the middle-aged woman squeezing a lime wedge into a Corona with her bare feet ... because she has no arms. Feet propped on the table, she expertly squeezed the lime with her toes and neatly fit the rind into the neck of the bottle. She didn't spill a drop.

As I came to realize later, other football fans had moved to other parts of the restaurant to keep themselves from staring. So she made her area a prime front-row seat in front of the big screen. She did this again with her feet, moving two tables and six chairs. No one came near her area. She sat there alone, enjoying her brew and creating a cheering section all her own.

I've been disabled for 32 years ... I've made accommodations. I'm fortunate to have my family, a beautiful wife and gorgeous daughters (no thanks to me). They did not know me before I was disabled. In moments of personal deflation over my physical losses, I ask myself: "Why me?"

Why am I cursed with an arm and leg that don't work? The humble part of me whispers a line from somewhere: "I was sad because I had no shoes ... until I met a man who had no feet." It is what it is.

On my way to the men's room, I pass her solo cheering section and give her a smile. She smiles back broadly. Alabama had just won the game, unfortunately, and I said to her: "I sure hope your Gators open up a can of whip-ass next weekend in Tuscaloosa."

"I dunno," she answers between sips, "'Bama looks good on both sides of the football, but I think my Gators will give 'em a run. Depends on which Gator team shows up." We both laugh.

As I leave the tavern, I'm hearing folk singer Joe South: "Yeah, before you accuse, criticize and abuse, walk a mile in my shoes."

If I could play back the weekend, I would've had a Corona with her.

... in times like these ...

Hardy R. Stone Jr.

writes from Walkersville.

(Bluepoint1@comcast.net)