<?xml version="1.0" encoding="ISO-8859-1"?>
<BODY.CONTENT>
<UID>
8601030910
</UID>
<PUBLICATION>
DETROIT FREE PRESS
</PUBLICATION>
<DATE>
860121
</DATE>
<TDATE>
Tuesday, January 21, 1986
</TDATE>
<EDITION>
METRO FINAL
</EDITION>
<SECTION>
SPT
</SECTION>
<PAGE>
1D
</PAGE>
<ILLUSTRATION>

</ILLUSTRATION>
<CAPTION>

</CAPTION>
<BYLINE>
MITCH ALBOM
</BYLINE>
<AFFILIATION>

</AFFILIATION>
<MEMO>

</MEMO>
<COPYRIGHT>
Copyright (c) 1986, Detroit Free Press
</COPYRIGHT>
<HEADLINE>
A BOWLFUL OF NEWCOMERS CAN BE SUPER CONFUSING
</HEADLINE>
<SUBHEAD>

</SUBHEAD>
<CORRECTION>

</CORRECTION>
<BODY>
NEW ORLEANS -- It is all familiar. I have been here before. NFL banners
hang  from the rafters, and Dixieland music plays all day long. Fans are
swarming through the lobby. Someone wants to sell  me a T-shirt for $20. I say
no, and head for the house phone. I have been here before. 

  "Can I help you?" the hotel operator says.

  "Don Shula's room, please."
  "I'm sorry," she says, "we have  no Don Shula listed here."
  I am patient. These things happen. Especially on Super Bowl week. I have
been here before.
  "Please check again," I say.
  I wait.
  "I'm sorry," she says."He's  not here."
  "Walsh," I interrupt. "Try Bill Walsh. Shula must be at another hotel. Try
Bill Walsh,  please. San Francisco 49ers."
  "I'm sorry," she says. "No Bill Walsh."
  "Well then, check  under Landry, please. Yes. Tom Landry."
  One of them must be here. This is the Super Bowl. Isn't it the Super Bowl?
Yes. It says so on my little press pin, which is shaped like a football. I
have  been here before. Every January, the sports writers go someplace for the
Big Game, and there are always people in funny hats and bands playing loud
music in the hotel lobby while you're trying to sleep.  And of course, there
are the teams, Dallas, or Miami or San Francisco, or Washington or Pittsburgh
or maybe the Raiders. Always. I have been here before. Every January.
  "Sorry," the operator says,  "no Landry."
Deja vu, with new faces 
  Very strange. I wander through the press room. There are hundreds of
typewriters. A phone for every chair. I have been here before.
  "When do the teams arrive?"  I ask a colleague.
  "They got here today," he says.
  "Good. I want to catch Marino early."'
  "Marino?" he says.
  "Yes. Or maybe Marcus Allen. Or Dwight Clark."
  My colleague leaves quickly,  with his hand covering his mouth. 
  I wander through the coffee shop. There are muffins shaped like helmets.
Celery stacked up like goalposts. I have been here before. A waiter is wearing
an oversized  T-shirt with No. 72 on it.
  "You're a John Matuszak fan?" I ask.
  "Who?" he asks.
  "Tooz. You know. No. 72."
  He walks away, with his hand covering his mouth. 
  I wander to the hotel entrance.  The buses are unloading. I have been here
before. I look for high rollers from Texas in their cowboy hats. I look for
Miami beachniks, with their shirts open to the navel and their white shoes. I
look  for some California people, maybe. I ease alongside a woman in a mink
coat. Why is she wearing a mink coat? Is it that cold in Miami?
  "Go Bears," she says.
  What?
  "Go Bears."
  "Where should  they go?" I ask.
  "All the way," she says. "Super Bowl champs."
  The Bears are in the Super Bowl? The Bears? Don't they have some lame-duck
quarterback? Aren't they just Walter Payton and 21 guys  who sew their thumbs
on backward? The Bears?
  The woman walks away, with her hand covering her mouth. 
  Another bus unloads. The people are ruddy-cheeked, wearing down jackets
and mittens. Some  of them have backpacks and sweatshirts that say "Harvard."
One guy is dressed like Paul Revere, complete with leggings and a three-corner
hat.
  "Go Patriots," he whispers.
  Patriots? The Patriots  are in the Super Bowl? Come on. the Patriots never
get out of their own division. The Patriots would stumble just taking out the
garbage. The Patriots? Where's Landry? Where's Shula? Where is everybody?
Montana  is out of state 
  It is late, and I am walking through the French Quarter. I am looking for a
Montana. A Theismann. I will take a Randy White. Lyle Alzado. Ray Wersching. I
will settle for a Nat Moore  or a Ray Guy. But I am getting Lippetts and
Tippetts and first names like Garin and Lin and Emery. I am getting nervous.
Something is going on here.
  I am looking for Dallas or Washington, or maybe  Oakland, places where they
know about football. But I am getting Chicago, the "Hog Butcher to the World."
I am getting New England, which isn't even a city. It's a, no, it isn't a
state either. It's, uh, what is it, anyway?
  I am looking for Steel Curtains and Killer Bees and Too- Talls, but I am
getting Refrigerators. There is talk of a video. A video?
  I am not sure what is going on, but the  league better look into it. Real
fast. I have been here before.
  But I don't think anyone else here has.
</BODY>
<DISCLAIMER>

</DISCLAIMER>
<KEYWORDS>
COLUMN;FOOTBALL
</KEYWORDS>
</BODY.CONTENT>
