#327 - Pardon Me if I Appear Underwhelmed by the Super Bowl

This year’s Super Bowl is being played just 30 miles from my home and I couldn’t care less. Does anybody actually ENJOY attending the Super Bowl? From my limited first- and second-hand experience, it’s an experience not so much enjoyed as endured. I base this on two stories.

CHOKE JOB

My one and only in-person brush with the Super Bowl was in January 1982, when the 49ers and Bengals played for the championship at the Pontiac Silverdome. Jo Anne and I had just married and were law students living in Ann Arbor. Dangled before me were a pair of opportunities I now regard as the harbingers of my personal Super Bowl Curse.

The first opportunity came from my friend Daryl. Daryl and my dad owned a store selling sports memorabilia and logo merchandise in the Detroit area. Through a number of intermediaries, Daryl landed the chance to sell stuff at the hotel housing the Cincinnati Bengals (and, more important, their fans). Business was brisk and there was a chance he might be able to get me in to help hawk the merchandise. Because Jo Anne and I were penniless and living in an apartment so small you had to open the door to crack your knuckles, the prospect of a couple hundred dollars was huge.

The second opportunity came from my Dad. As I mentioned in my New Year’s Day post, my Dad has had Lions season-tickets in his family since 1950. He didn’t seem especially interested in attending the game himself – as a family shibboleth while attending sporting events, “beat the traffic” surpassed “beat the Packers” or “beat the Yankees” – but he mentioned that he might have a chance to get tickets.

I admit that I did not make a big deal about wanting to see the game. But I made it clear that I’d like to go if he could get tickets.

I’ll skip the byzantine details but Daryl wasn’t able to get me on to the team selling Bengals crap to Cincinnatians. Because my Dad HEARD about this possibility, however, (and because he was helping support our no-income lifestyle) he gave his Super Bowl tickets away, figuring I’d be too busy earning money to care about some game.

All I got from the whole lousy deal was a pullover hoodie Super Bowl sweatshirt from Daryl that felt like it was choking me whenever I wore it. Still, like ashes and sackcloth, I donned the sweatshirt for the next several Super Bowls, though it disappeared when we moved to Chicago in 1974 and I have not worn a pullover sweatshirt since.

RANDY’S CHOICE

My first-hand experience on attending a Super Bowl, therefore, has to be cobbled from second-hand sources. Julie, my friend from high school with whom I still keep in touch, visited from Virginia several years ago with her husband Randy. Randy attended the 1997 Super Bowl game between the Packers and the Patriots, hosted by the fine city of New Orleans.

Randy told it something like this. While reading the newspaper he came across the announcement of the Super Bowl ticket lottery. On a whim, he enclosed a check and requested tickets. Miracle of miracle, he received two tickets to the game. He offered his oldest son, who was 12, an opportunity to join him; they would make a father-son weekend of it. What the son REALLY wanted was the new Nintendo game system, but he liked football and it was a chance to spend time together. His son accepted.

Flights to New Orleans and hotels proved impossible or ridiculously expensive so they flew to a neighboring city, stayed over Saturday night in a motel, and drove to New Orleans on Sunday morning. Randy parked near Bourbon Street and figured he’d spend a few hours showing his son the French Quarter.

Less than a minute after getting out of the car, standing at a stop-light, they saw a man run up to a woman and smack her in the face. This happened five feet from them.

When they later got to the Superdome, they were besieged by offers to sell their tickets. As they neared the gate, the offers rose to several thousand dollars. Randy took his son aside just outside the entrance. “I got these tickets so we could spend time together and watch the Super Bowl. It’s been a great time and I still want to see the game with you. But if you want, we can sell these tickets, go back to the motel and eat anything you want for dinner and watch it there. And I can buy you the new Nintendo with some of the money tomorrow.”

The boy thought about it and said, “Dad, I really want to see the game.”

That was fine with Randy. They went inside and took their seats. The Packers scored on the second play, intercepted Drew Bledsoe and quickly scored again. The crowd sat back, as if everyone in the stadium had the same thought at the same moment: This is going to be a route.

A moment later, Randy heard his son ask, “Dad, is it too late to choose Nintendo?”

HOT DOG

“People who love sausage or respect justice should never watch either being made.”

I thought Oliver Wendell Holmes said that but I must be mistaken because I can’t find a reference confirming that. I did, however, find that the quote has been variously attributed to Otto von Bismark and Mark Twain. Nineteenth century Germans knew their sausages so I’m inclined to give Bismark the credit, but what’s the point in quibbling about the provenance of a truism.

I enjoy football – I even enjoy the Super Bowl – but I have no interest in attending in person. I like hot dogs but that doesn’t mean I want to see them up-close either. Come to think of it, the analogy itself may be as suspect as the origin of the quote. One of my favorite places for lunch when my law office was in Chicago was the Vienna factory lunchroom. So I guess if you are offering me a free Super Bowl ticket, I’ll take it. I’ll even spring for the hot dogs at the stadium.