It’s January. Once again, time to prepare for that blessed event known as the Super Bowl. I can remember when we watched the Super Bowl in January, not prepped for it. I guess now the powers that be need those extra two weeks to line up the inexpensive commercials and understated halftime shows.
Actually, I can remember the first Super Bowl, along with the Ice Bowl on the Frozen Tundra of Lambeau Field that led up to it. I can still see Bart Starr’s quarterback sneak, and I can remember Dandy Don Meredith uttering that he was going to “eat that dat-gumbed ball.” (Spell check, please.)
Heck, I can remember when there was no Super Bowl, and the AFL was a new institution and a league all its own. I remember the men for whom the Lamar Hunt, George Halas, and Vince Lombardi trophies are named. In my experience, I don’t know that winning is the only thing, but losing is a lousy substitute; Lombardi knew what he was talking about. Gotta love those Fordham Blocks of Granite.
I remember rumor had it that Bud Grant refused to let his Vikings wear long underwear in Minnesota…before the days of the dreaded dome…ah, when men were men. Fran Tarkenton and tighty-whities notwithstanding, they still lost the Super Bowl four times.
And I remember that the Packers didn’t.
OK; it’s established: I’m an old fan of the pigskin and gridiron. True to my womanhood, I shun “old” in favor of “seasoned.”
As a child of the sixties in Wisconsin, it was mandatory to learn your football basics regardless of gender. I have two brothers, but I recall it was my sister who explained the concept of a first down to me when I was six. She’s nine years my senior, and thereby had a head start on the indoctrination.
Perhaps more frightening than her being my dialect coach, I recall Football-ese making perfect sense to me. I mean, I could have asked why one didn’t get four “ups” versus “downs,” but the question just never entered my mind. Clearly I was born to embrace this game.
Aside from learning the rules, one had to learn proper telecast etiquette. My father was a fairly civilized fan; his major outburst usually came after a fumble or an interception, and consisted of, “Aw, Packers; you fell on your head.” I repeat this at least once per game to honor his memory and strengthen my football core.
My mother was the antithesis of civilized; must have been the Irish and French boiling over when confronted with a sea of green or something. She didn’t break furniture, and always ranted with a Betty Boop-esque flair, but she was hardly demure. Time has failed miserably on the mellowing front; her dismay is as demonstrative as ever. She must be my inspiration: I, too, have yet to break a chair over a failed 3rd-and-long, but it’s probably just a matter of time.
My fancy for football was fed by regular Sunday exposure to the Packers, Bears, Vikings, Lions, and Chiefs. Who could forget Hank Stram at Arrowhead, the GQ Cover Boy of the sidelines, sporting jacket, vest, and tie? It sometimes made me wonder if this was a football field or the Four Seasons, but I must admit Coach Belichick might consider taking a page from Hank’s haute couture playbook.
In addition to the conference games, we were always graced with a double header, and I soon learned the major players on the West Coast: John Hadl, Daryl Lamonica, John Brode, and my hurler of all hurlers, Roman Gabriel. Yes, I did own—and even read—that immortal work, “Great Quarterbacks of the NFL.”
That book listed several, but there was no man for me but Gabriel: tall and lean, No. 18. The smile, that hair…forgive me, Dick Enberg, but “OH MY,” what a crush I had on Roman. John Wayne made a lot of movies with a lot of co-stars, but only “The Undefeated” did I watch ad infinitum.
In fifth grade, I brainwashed some girlfriends into co-conspiracy, and we formed our own little Rams club—each with a fave player: Jack Snow, Lance Rentzel, and…the gray cells abandon me on the last one. Maybe it was Rosie Grier or some other member of the Fearsome Foursome. Probably one that didn’t needlepoint. I know it’s sexist, but we were ten—only four years into our training. Needlepoint probably did for face-masking what ballet did for foot speed and cutting; we just hadn’t learned that yet.
Back to the double-header afternoons.
Without any concern for what it would do to my hair, I even begged for a Rams helmet for my 11th Christmas, and thanks to my mother (who always did the shopping), I actually got one. There I sat the whole next season for each double-header: helmet in place, trying to watch the game and see through the face mask to do my math homework. Forget that he graduated Berkeley; it was at this point that I decided Joe Kapp’s true genius was in donning that single bar.
Let the record show that mine was a bona fide blue-and-white Rams helmet—none of this blue-and-gold business of the New NFL. And these Rams were in Los Angeles, not St. Louis—which will always be the home of the Cardinals to any real fan. (OK, OK…the real fans know the Cardinals actually began in Racine, with sandlot roots as the “Normals” on Chicago’s south side, but let’s not quibble. Bottom line: St. Louis would never have adopted the Rams if some loose cannon hadn’t flown the Cards to Arizona in the middle of the night and upset everything.)
Watch yourselves, you reformist zealots; we purists have you in our sights. I don’t care if the actual city of Atlanta is nowhere near the West coast; the Falcons started in the NFC West, and they should have stayed there. Logic is overrated. I need a geographically correct football conference like my pre-teen daughter needs an anatomically correct Ken Doll.
My love of the game went beyond my grammar school years, and came with me to every high-school contest I attended. Thursday nights, under the lights…it was a beautiful sight. I recall commenting that one kickoff had taken a Wilson High bounce, and overhearing a guy behind me saying, “Holy cow…she really knows her…stuff.” Such incredulity offends me; he probably couldn’t even define the strong side.
In college I chose the season football tickets over the hockey ones every year. Funny that I later worked for a hockey franchise after graduation; maybe if I’d have taken the hockey tickets, I’d have ended up in the NFL’s league office and would still be in New York.
I digress.
The Badgers were somewhat in the cellar my undergraduate years, but the opponents always played decent ball. Besides, it was the overall spectacle that mattered when it came to Big 10 college football. There was a purpose to every aspect of the Badger home game experience:
*The Surefire Hangover Remedy: the Bucky Wagon screeching past your dorm room Saturday morning blaring “On Wisconsin”
*The Surefire Cure for Fear of Heights: getting body-passed among the less-than-lucid crowd, hoping they dropped you to the bleachers before you went over the top of the stadium; injury was preferable to death
*The Ultimate Passing Drill: cup fights between sections O and P (full cups, of course…soda, ice, and anything distilled)
*The Ultimate Footwork Drill: staying ON the bleachers while dancing the polka to “Bud” in the 5th quarter, led by the most entertaining college band ever to grace the hash marks
The Rose Bowl was but a distant dream of Badger fans in those years, but later on, our loyalty was rewarded—times 3! Same can be said for tried-and-true of the Gold and Green. What a joy it was to watch The Pack be back and win another Super Bowl. Again, I threw hair caution to the wind and sported my cheese hat for both contests—a plate of curds beside me for good luck.
I won’t elaborate on the next Super Bowl the Pack lost, except to say that one should NEVER abandon one’s running game; all pass and no run makes your QB a blitz magnet. Even John Elway earned the Super Bowl Loss Hat Trick sans a Terrell Davis behind him. The quick draw, the option, the Sacred Packer Sweep…all of these are the stuff of which history is made.
Just ask my friend Claire. This is a woman with whom a Monday morning phone conversation would naturally turn to a critique of Sunday’s games. I recall her going over a Jets/Giants game… “I could have cared less that Brett the Jet didn’t win; Eli (that’s Manning to you neophytes) was working the field so well, I couldn’t help but cheer for him.”
What woman says this but me?? Andrea Kremer? Pam Oliver? My big sister? I had found another kindred football spirit among the females.
It must be in the roots. Though we met in New Jersey, I instantly knew Claire was midwestern when she kept mentioning football and used the word “supper.” Non-midwesterners might recognize “supper” to be a noun, but it doesn’t mean an evening meal; it means “one who sups.” And to the non-football fanatic, “working the field” is something akin to bringing in the sheaves.
This will be my umpteenth Super Bowl, and as I write, I don’t even know who’ll be in it. No matter; I’ll soak it up with all its splendor as I have every year since I was six. Between the football and the ads, it’s a win-win for me: I was a marketing major.
My daughter is likely to be watching it with me, though she’s still learning her basics and honing her love of the game. She is already, though, exhibiting Feminine Football Fanaticism in its purest form: like Claire and her mom who loved the ‘60’s Rams because of their helmets, my daughter is partial to the Jets because their jerseys are just the right shade of green.
That’s my girl.
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Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.
