For me, New England’s victory over Philadelphia in this
year’s Super Bowl marks one end of a twenty-five year arc
that’s transformed me from young sports junkie to jaded
adult. Gone are the days when the two weeks between
the Conference Championships and the Super Bowl seemed like
two months, with sleepless nights spent guessing how Joe
Montana or Jerry Rice would make Northern California proud.
Even in the 49erless years, I’d savor the camaraderie forged
over gelatinous American cheese dips and clever commercials,
but I can barely remember how that felt anymore, in the
same way I can’t remember what it was like to hear “cool
chick” or “homo” without cringing.
Twenty-five
years ago, I spent Super Bowl Sunday glued to the TV, from
the pregame to the postgame show. At that time, I
was blossoming into a certified fanatic—on Saturdays, I
was seldom content to watch only a few hours of sports programming,
so if there wasn’t a college game after the Wide World of
Sports, I’d settle for the Pro Bowlers Tour, even though
it made me feel guilty—almost unclean. Even
a ten-year-old knows that two wasted hours watching Earl
Anthony counts against you when the Reckoning comes.
I don’t know whether it was St. Peter, some mystic high
on a mountain with deep insight but poor posture, or a trim
man with graying temples in the bowels of the Pentagon,
but there was someone out there with a clipboard, tsk-tsking
and shaking his head as he checked the “Yes” box next to
“Has propensity for watching bowling.” The sins of
a child are still sins.
Apart
from a few highlights that I’ve rewatched since, all I remember
of the 1980 Super Bowl (Pittsburgh 31, LA 19) was a profile
piece in the pregame show on Rams’ quarterback Vince Ferragamo.
Actually, I remember very little of the profile, other than
the outdated phrase “Taxi Squad,” which described the status
of players who didn’t make the active roster (the NFL now
uses the term “Practice Squad”). I had visions of
Vince Ferragamo, during his stint on the Taxi Squad earlier
in the season, being forced to drive his teammates to the
airport, choking back tears as he carried QB Pat Haden’s
luggage to the curb, his only solace being a few sympathetic
tips from a couple of offensive linemen.
This
year, as the groundskeepers were putting the finishing touches
on the field down in Jacksonville, Lynn and I were groggily
preparing for a predawn bird watching excursion to the Sacramento
River National Wildlife Refuge. The inspiration for
this was a personal boycott of Fox’s coverage, due to their
decision prior to the 2004 Super Bowl not to air an ad that
was critical of the Bush administration. A day spent
searching for bald eagles seemed like a good alternative,
and as an added bonus, the Super Bowl would curb the traffic
in the congested I-80 corridor between Sacramento and the
Bay Area.
I
don’t know what I’ll be doing for the Super Bowl in twenty-five
years—maybe fretting over my personal Social Security account—but
I hope I’ll be able to reflect on at least a few memorable
Super Bowl Sundays in the interim. Here are a few
of mine from the past quarter century.
1982,
Carmel, CA. Super Bowl XVI: San Francisco 26,
Cincinnati 21
The
Lewis Boys went bonkers when Dwight Clark seemingly appeared
out of nowhere to make The Catch and propel the 49ers to
the Super Bowl. My dad’s forty years of waiting for
a 49ers championship had rubbed off on his three sons.
We spent the rest of the weekend breaking into celebratory
jigs and tackling each other á la Mean Fred Dean.
I didn’t think that euphoria could be exceeded, but an improbable
goal-line stand late in the game by the underrated 49er
defense gave us a jolt of happiness that reverberates in
the bones of the Lewis Family to this day.
1985,
Augsburg, Germany. Super Bowl XIX: San Francisco
38, Miami 16
From
an early age, I bought into the theory that my parents knew
best, which they do, so when they wouldn’t let me stay up
until 4 am on a school night to watch the game on the Armed
Forces Network, I wasn’t too disappointed—at least I don’t
remember being upset. Watching the game on a grainy
VCR tape wasn’t as satisfying as watching it live, but I
hadn’t been as attached to the team as I was in 1982.
Plus, it’s hard to be upset at much when the dollar is strong
and you get to eat schnitzel a couple of times a week.
1989,
San Diego, CA. Super Bowl XXIII: San Francisco
20, Cincinnati 16
This
was my first Super Bowl away from my family. I watched
the game in a messy dorm room with a few fellow Northern
Californians, huddled around a TV with a dodgy antenna,
eating delivery pizza and neglecting homework. When
the game cut to commercial—after Cincinnati went up 16-13
with 3:10 left—we all sat silently as if in prayer, worrying
about the final result, but knowing deep down that Joe Montana
wouldn’t let them lose.
1993,
San Diego, CA. Super Bowl XXVII: Dallas 52,
Buffalo 17
A
well-run Super Bowl pool sure can add interest to a blowout.
I’d drawn D2-B7 from a hat, so if the game ended with Dallas
scoring 2, 12, 22, etc. and Buffalo scoring 7, 17, 27, etc.,
I was in line to win $50—good money for me in those days.
At 52-17 late in the game, I was counting the money until
the much-maligned Leon Lett picked up a fumble and returned
it 64 yards for an apparent touchdown. Just as he
was about to cross the line, the hustling Don Beebe stripped
the ball away and secured the $50 for me. When blind
luck comes your way, embrace it.
1995,
Sheffield, England. Super Bowl XXIX: San Francisco
49, San Diego 26
There
are very few trivial things worse than watching your favorite
team with a roomful of people avidly rooting against them.
Therefore, in order to enjoy this final 49er victory—likely
the last for quite some time—I shunned my fellow American
students and searched for somewhere to watch the game in
peace. Luckily, I found a TV room in our dormitory
that was empty, save for a Malaysian student who was napping
in front of a Murphy Brown rerun.
Side
Note: Martell and our friend Erik sent me a shirt
from the game with the cryptic slogan: “Humphries Seau Means
We’ll Be Back!” It took a long time to explain the
meaning to my wife—I’ll let you figure it out for yourself
if you don’t know—but to this day, she’ll occasionally end
lulls in conversation with a heartfelt, “Humphries Seau
Means We’ll Be Back!” If I end up living as one of
those mystics with deep thoughts and poor posture—I’m on
my way, just need a mountain and a little more depth—that’ll
be my mantra, unless, of course, I opt for “Hey now, you’re
an All Star, get your game on, go play.” I haven’t
fully committed to either one, yet.
1996,
Whittier, CA. Super Bowl XXX: Dallas 27, Pittsburgh
17
This
was supposed to be an opportunity for my friend Kathleen
to set me up with one of her girlfriends, but I didn’t go
to sleep the night before and when we got to Kathleen’s
place, she had this heavy-gravity couch. I spent the
entire game sucked into one corner of the couch, and only
have a vague recollection of my friend Rich yelling, “Whooooo!”
from time to time, while waving his rally rag. As
for the girlfriend, I think she had shoulder length hair
and was wearing tights and a sweatshirt. Allegedly
she sat next to me for much of the game, but I wouldn’t
know.
Not
too long after my Super Bowl XXX slumber, I met my future
wife, who favors figure skating over football. Consequently,
I now know far more about ice dancing than about the current
state of affairs in pro football, other than the fact that
the beloved 49ers might be losers long enough for the cycle
to begin anew, so that I’ll be the long suffering fan sharing
sweet victory with my future children.
Copyright,
Jeff Lewis, 2005.
Jeff
can be reached at jeff@babblog.com. |
