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When
Men and Mountains Meet
A
Super Bowl Diary in Five Parts
by Ron Jacobs
Part Three
(Read
"Part
1" - "Part II")
“Great things are done when men and mountains meet;
This is not done by jostling in the street.”
William Blake, circa 1775 |
We roll past
deserted buildings and forlorn sidewalks, overtaking “civilian”
busses, vans, trucks, cars and motorcycles, all of which seem
headed for Palo Alto. G.W. chews ti leaves and points out
enemy vehicles to The Claw. Every pro-Miami bogy we roar past is
blasted with insults over the outboard speakers.
Unbelievable: no traffic hassles. This is the only way to fly. I
figure I’ve been to over 100 Ram games at the L.A. Coliseum but
there was only one with easy parking; the 1965 game played
during the Watts riots. It resembled a swap meet more than a
football game, what with all the discount merchandise for sale.
Excitement mounts by
the minute as Norm follows the freeway southward. Overwrought by
everything happening I try to imagine what Russell is doing now,
with the kickoff just three hours away.
I remember the time back when Russ was with the Patriots, when
he called my house from the Foxborough locker room after a
Monday night game. He was, of course, trying to freak me out. I
picked up the phone and was greeted with a “Howzit.” I replied,
“They’re ready to kick off, the game is on delay. It’s just
started on TV. It’s a delayed game, Russell, call me back
later.” Click.
Francis once phoned me from the Winner’s Circle at the Kentucky
Derby to check out the weather at Waikiki.
As
far back as the last century, Stanford was a hotbed
of football ... from Brodie to Plunkett to Elway ...
all have enhanced the Cardinal tradition.
The school’s first coach, in 1892, was Walter Camp,
the “Father of football.”
Beau Riffenburgh, Super Bowl XIX Game Program |
Norm, the driver,
says something over his shoulder to The Claw who announces that
we’re just minutes away from “The Farm.” He sounds like a
piercing mix of Yma Sumac and Blind Lemon Jefferson.
My pulse rate climbs
by the second. Have I ever been this turned on by a sporting
event? Not as much as a World Series in Dodger Stadium.
(Centerfielder Willie Davis dropped three balls in that same
game!) Not watching Bill Russell and his Boston Celtics whip the
Los Angeles Lakers in the seventh game of the NBA Championship
in the Fabulous Forum. And certainly not when I attended a few
49ers’ games in old Kezar in the early 1960’s. The only 49er
game I ever saw at Candlestick Park was all downhill after
Sister Sledge sang the Star Spangled Banner.
Meanwhile, if I don’t get off this bus I’ll jump out of my skin.
G.W. seems to be doing just that with a weird-looking Indian
tribal dance up and down the aisle.
The “Theme from Rocky” throbs through my brain while I flash on
other highlights of hysteria. Like witnessing and broadcasting
Keo Nakama finish his record-breaking Molokai to Oahu swim in
1961 before a crowd of 10,000 people at Haunama Bay. What an
astounding rush in 1957 when I introduced Elvis Presley at the
old Honolulu Stadium.
It was the largest
crowd ever gathered in Hawaii to watch a performer. And nothing
topped the ’57 Elvis. Appearing in his famous gold lame jacket,
backed by his original trio, The King triggered (riotous)
screams like I’d never witness again, at concerts by the
Beatles, Rolling Stones, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix and scores of
other rock giants
“Statisticians should be required to join the air
traffic
controllers’ union before they are allowed to keep
track
of what happens in this Super Bowl.”
Frank Cooney, San
Francisco Examiner, January 20, 1985 |
Norm wheels onto
Galvez Street and aims #18 towards the bus parking lot. Traffic
is slow. Seemingly every limousine in Northern California crawls
ahead of us. Captain George stands at the front door, peering
out at Stanford Stadium. The bus grinds to a surprise stop.
George *(army officer) wants off right now to shoot pictures of
Russ during the 49er pre-game warm-up. Everyone else opts to
stay aboard, the better to know where to find the bus after the
game. Feverish, I jump off with Captain George, United States
Army.
We walk as fast as you can, almost running. Past the Corporate
Hospitality Area on Campus Drive. It’s a Roman Circus, glitzy,
gaudy - greed personified. Imua, past people selling everything
ever registered with the United States Post Office. Korea, the
Philippines, Pakistan, Mexico and Taiwan are also well
represented. Scalpers scalp, hawkers hawk, vendors vend. It’s
the Super Bowl of Schlock. America’s entire supply of red, white
and blue ink has been drained dry, now appearing on Super Bowl
XIX logo merchandise.
The sound of program sellers, the sight of the ABC-TV “Monday
Night Football” trucks, the smell of Mainland hot dogs, the
forty-nine-degree temperature, a rare taste of beer in a cup
they all remind me that watching a pro football game in person
is the ultimate for the hardcore pigskin junkie. And for that
game to be the Super Bowl –– with your buddy starting for the
home team –– we’re talking friggin’ euphoria.
“Ideally, if I can catch the ball a few times in a
game
and block a lot, I’d be very happy. In my mind, that
is how
the tight end position is supposed to be played.”
Russ
Francis, Who’s Who in Super Bowls, 1985 |
We enter the stadium
and it’s almost too much to absorb: Two blimps; the immaculate,
monogrammed, Bermuda grass; giant, inflated helmets representing
each NFL team; huge helium-filled “footballs” stuffed with
balloons in the teams’ colors. They spent $1.5 million getting
it ready for us. Spectacle City! Captain George bounds down to
the edge of the field while I locate our seats on the 45-
yard-line, halfway up. Shady side of the field. Perfect.
After a moment I realize that every seat in Stanford Stadium is
covered with a white plastic cushion held down by a Velcro
strap. Courtesy of Macintosh Computers, whose “Lemmings”
commercial will air during the game telecast. (Full-page Apple
newspaper ads had proclaimed, "If you go to the bathroom during
the fourth quarter, you'll be sorry.") Meanwhile, we won’t feel
the splinter-laden wooden benches for five hours. We’re 84,059
souls not knowing what to expect but positively ready for
anything.
I unsnap the well-traveled case, pull out the Bushnell Safari
Masters and focus them on Francis. Wearing sinister-looking,
black scuba-diving gloves, #81 lobs the ball back and forth with
Dwight Clark #87. What is my buddy thinking? Is he out to prove
something today?
“As
good as Francis is, there are some who think he can
be even better.”
Larry Fox, The New England Patriots, 1979 |
Every seat is taken.
Time accelerates. The pre-game celebration combines a children’s
choir with balloons; marching units; skydivers and a mammoth,
fluttering American flag almost covering the field. During the
national anthem, peering at Russ and Joe Montana next to him, my
mind focuses on people watching this on TV back in Hawaii.
Wesley in Maunawili. Joy in Kalihi. Bobby in Makiki. Eric in
Kahala. Earl in Kaimuki. Harris in Kapahulu. Dave downtown.
Julian in Nanakuli. Gus in Kaneohe. Uncle Tom in Nuuanu. Cosmio
on Mt. Tantalus. I focus on Russell through the binoculars. Who
is he thinking about?
“We
were roommates together for three or four years. We
did a lot of things together. We always had a great
time
on the road. He was a very gifted receiver, very
gifted
athlete and, more important, a very decent human
being. On that particular instant when he was hit,
we had
to run complementary routes. Daryl Stingley was a
very,
very major part of my life, and a major part of my
profession.”
Russ Francis, 1981 |
A sacrament,
involving a ceremonial coin and TV satellites, with Ronald
Reagan and Hugh McElhenny performing the rites, determines that
the Miami Dolphins will kick off to the San Francisco 49ers.
Scanning the field, I see the players bouncing with excitement.
Through the Bushnell Safari Masters I spot Miami’s Bob
Brudzinski #59 and, on our side of the field, San Francisco’s
Jack Reynolds #64, both former Ram linebackers. I see the Niners’
Dana McLemore #43 and remember the UH - BYU game that Russ and I
watched from the press box at Aloha Stadium. The binoculars are
fogging.
A palpable rush vibrates through the place. It feels powerful
enough to thrust all of us into orbit. Yes, man’s need to battle
in this fashion, at this place and time, brews euphoria that
neither chemical nor vegetable can create. High on pigskin. We
reunite to worship the gods of strength, speed and strategy, to
pray for the good guys and bedevil the opponent. The
interminable hype is over.
Sunday is about to
be Super.
“Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the
weather,
And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,
There are worse things in life than a tumble on
heather,
And life is itself but a game at football.”
Sir Walter Scott, circa 1800 |
Miami’s kickoff is
bobbled out of bounds. Onto the field sprints the 49er offense,
led by Montana. I test my lungs with a “Throw it to Francis!!!
Throw it to Francis!!!”
The 49ers start by running the ball mostly. Jittery, they stall
and are forced to punt. Miami’s defense has done their job.
Quickly, the Dolphin offense produces a field goal, good by
1/32nd of an inch. Terror mutes the crowd. Are these people as
fickle as Rams fans? I look down the row at Gentleman Ed Francis
and, still smiling, he winks up at me.
“There is nothing more fair
than to pluck a long forward pass from the air
on a field of grass, except perhaps
to have thrown the pass.”
“Passing Fair,” Lillian
Morrison, 1977 |
Back in possession,
quarterback Joe Montana #16 displays the moves that
sportswriters will later describe as, “brilliant, awesome and
outstanding.” His play-action fakes and improvised forays would
earn him his second Super Bowl MVP award. Montana maneuvers the
Niners on a 78-yard drive, climaxed with a 33-yard touchdown
pass to Carl Monroe #32. It heralds the blowout to follow.
Finally, the crowd shows it’s ready to make some serious noise.
Uh-oh! Before we can relish the lead, the Dolphins score again.
It’s their only touchdown of the day, but we don’t know that.
The 49er fans turn timid and sour again. Who was the
chauvinistic philosopher who said, “A crowd like a woman”?
End of first quarter, Miami 10, San Francisco 7.
(To be continued...)
Next Sunday January
22, 2006: Part Three
Featuring Gypsy Boots, Hieronymus Bosch & Frank Gifford
Exclusively on RonJacobsOnline.com via RDN CENTRAL at
RadioDailyNews.com
Hauoli Makahiki Hou!
Copyright 1987 - 2006 Ron Jacobs
|
In Memory of Jack
Snow #84
1943 - 2006
“Never caught from behind” |
|
 |
 |
|
Star Receiver, Los Angeles Rams |
Radio
Broadcaster, St. Louis Rams |
"I
don't know of any person who loved the Rams
organization more than Jack did."
Former Rams head coach Mike Martz |
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Parts
"Part
1"
"Part
II" |
