9001040554
DETROIT FREE PRESS
900128
Sunday, January 28, 1990
METRO FINAL
1E
Photo DAVID LONGSTREATH and ROBERT DEUTSCH
Associated Press
:
From left, Anne Paddock, Mickey Visman, and Marcella Watts
have pre-Super Bowl fun in New Orleans' French Quarter last
week.
Ann Johnwell, an avid San Francisco 49ers fan of Union City,
Calif., shows Daniel Lefevre, a Denver Bronco's fan from
Thornton, Colo., what her team is going to do his today in the
Super Bowl.
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1990, Detroit Free Press
SLIP-SLIDING -- CHIK-CHIK -- INTO SUPER SUNDAY
NEW ORLEANS -- A-hem. If we can have your attention, please. We are about
to begin the slide show entitled "Our Week At The Super Bowl" or "Get That
Cigar Out Of My Face You Ugly Denver Mutant." This is a close-up view of the
life of a sports writer, and should not be confused with the TV show "Wild
Kingdom," although parts may look the same.
Chik-chik. Ah. Here we are Monday morning, arriving at the New Orleans
airport. And here we are Monday evening, still waiting at baggage claim. Here
is the airline worker who promises our bags will be found by the end of the
month, if not later. And here we are boarding the bus to our Official Super
Bowl hotel, where, unless we want to walk around naked all week, we will go to
the gift shop and buy two T-shirts and a pair of sweat pants for $837.56 or,
with socks, a flat $2,000, which the newspaper will pay for. Next month the
newspaper will announce no raises this year.
Chik-chik. Here we are checking into the hotel. "What," says the bellman,
"no luggage?" Chik-chik. Here we are, passing ex-NFL star Walter Payton in the
lobby. "Hey, Walter," we say. He looks at us as if we had dripped on his
carpet.
Here we are picking up press credentials and IMPORTANT MEDIA INFORMATION.
This is an envelope that weighs 34 pounds and contains brochures on the
countless parties being thrown this week by people who still live on
plantations. A good sports writer, of course, will attend every one of these
parties, not because he knows these people, but because he is bound by Super
Bowl Rule No. 1: NEVER PAY FOR YOUR OWN FOOD.
Latest line: 49ers by an ocean liner.
Chik-chik.
Tuesday Here we are at the First Official Media-Player Interview Session,
where this question will actually be asked: "Bubba, if you could be any tree
in the world, what would it be?" By the way -- chik-chik -- the players are
the 40 tall, muscular men who have no necks. The journalists are the 900 other
lunatics, bumming cigarettes.
U.S. media: crowded around the quarterback.
International media: crowded around the place kickers.
We are all looking for A HOT STORY. Luckily, we have plenty of time to
make one up. Were this a normal NFL game, we might arrive an hour before
kickoff. But because this is the Super Bowl, we arrive six days before
kickoff, to cover the really important news events, such as Jerry Rice coming
out of a restaurant.
Normally, NFL players can look forward to three days a week without
reporters, during which time, it is believed, they walk around smoking pipes
and reading Nietzsche. When the press shows up, they hide the books and say
things such as, "I kick that sumwhat upside the head, bo, ye-say?"
But during Super Bowl week, alas, the players must actually be in the same
room as the press for a whole hour a day! This is why, the NFL explains, we
should understand when a player occasionally loses his temper and impales a
sports writer on a tripod. This is merely "pre-game jitters," and probably
means the player will score two touchdowns on Sunday.
There is, however, another problem. Many writers at the Super Bowl come
from magazines such as Sleek Weekly, which has pulled them off the Paris
fashion piece for a cutesy feature on America's Biggest Sporting Event. These
writers wouldn't know Roger Craig from Lillian Gish and so -- chik-chik -- as
you see, the NFL makes the players stand under signs bearing their names.
"RONNIE LOTT." "BOBBY HUMPHREY." Sometimes, just for fun, three players will
stand under the same sign and say things such as: "My name is Keena Turner. My
name is Keena Turner. My name is Keena Turner."
We could solve this problem if we just found Ike Turner. But who knows
where he is?
Oops. Here we are on Bourbon Street, with those little drink umbrellas
stuck up our noses. How did that get in there?
Chik-chik.
Wednesday By now, we are in the thick of Super Bowl week, which means we
begin asking the really tough questions, like what the players had for
breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast, perhaps you would like to hear the typical sports
writer's schedule:
7:15 a.m. Wake-up call.
7:16 a.m. Go back to sleep.
2:30 p.m. Wake up.
4 p.m. Meet other sports writers in lobby and ask them what happened.
7 p.m. File story.
It is a terribly grueling routine and that is why one day, someone came up
with the completely insane idea of a big room with couches where they actually
serve beer for free. It is called -- chik-chik -- the press lounge.
Chik-chik. Here we are in the press lounge talking about how overpaid
Vance Johnson is. Chik-chik. Here we are in the press lounge talking about
how overpaid Brent Musburger is. Chik-chik. Here we are sleeping on the couch,
next to a bowl of cheeseballs.
But enough work. Did we show you the French Quarter? Chik- chik. The
French Quarter is the colorful section of New Orleans where thousands of happy
fans gather for a festive night of public vomiting. Here is a picture of The
Old N'Awlins Cafe and Trough. Here is The Old N'Awlins Shot Glass And Punch
Out The Bartender Saloon. Here is The Old N'Awlins Dance On Your Table
Semi-Naked Family Style Grill. Chik-chik.
Oooh. Here is Bourbon Street, a famous New Orleans landmark where some
saloons are loud, screaming, fall-down drunk places, but others are really
wild. Bourbon Street has great Super Bowl tradition. It is where legendary
carousers such as John Matuszak and Jim McMahon came every night to urinate.
Chik-chik. And here's a picture of a typical Super Bowl fan. Note the
half-closed eyes and the silly smile. Also note the official sweatshirt of
his favorite team ($57.95) and -- chik-chik -- the official belt of his
favorite team ($39.95) and -- chik-chik -- the official fluorescent sunglasses
that blink the colors of his favorite team ($28.95). All this so that, just
in case he runs into one of his favorite players on Bourbon Street, the guy
will look at him fondly and say: "Get lost."
Latest line: 49ers by a shopping mall and two condos.
Chik-chik.
Thursday Well, it has been a quiet week so naturally it is time for A
MAJOR CONTROVERSY in which SEVERAL KEY PLAYERS will be embroiled in A REALLY
IMPORTANT ISSUE. A few years ago, the issue was whether Jim McMahon mooned a
helicopter. We never did get a straight answer on that.
This week, suddenly, it is a drug scandal, which is about as new to sports
as ace bandages. The buzz is that three white quarterbacks failed their drug
tests. At least that's the rumor. Actually, someone in the lobby might have
been telling a friend, "I have these three white quarter horses, and their
tails were in a bug nest," and a reporter, who just got up at 3 p.m. and
therefore missed the IMPORTANT PRESS CONFERENCES, stumbles past and says
"What? Three white quarterbacks failed their drug tests?" And another reporter
says "What? Joe Montana is going to prison?"
This is what we call a hot tip.
So now everyone is racing around the room, sticking microphones into faces
and saying "Are you a white quarterback? And if so, when will you be
paroled?" The players, who by this point in the week, don't forget, have spent
two whole hours with the media, and therefore are ready to do something truly
desperate, like watch PBS, can sense that something is up. The interviews have
changed.
Pre-controversy: "Joe, what type of dental floss do you use?"
Controversy: "Joe, what will you miss most about the outside world? And
what type of dental floss do you use?"
Joe thinks for a minute, then gives a thoughtful answer. "I believe if we
can split their cornerbacks, we can win this ball game."
We rush to the telephones.
Chik-chik.
Friday By now the MAJOR CONTROVERSY has swelled to HUGE proportions, and
for all we know, half the NFL could be in a Turkish prison by kickoff.
Unfortunately, we can't be bothered with such details because Friday is THE
NIGHT OF THE BIG PARTY. This is the party for which sports writers wait all
year, because it usually features at least 4,000 pounds of shrimp, 3,000
cases of vodka, 2,000 chocolate creme pies and 1,500 really pretty women in
low-cut dresses who are hoping to meet Bubba or Skipper or one of those
football player types.
THE BIG PARTY was invented by former commissioner Pete Rozelle, who
figured if he got all the journalists blotter- faced drunk, they might not
notice that NFL ticket prices had gone up to $875, for bleacher seats.
Chik-chik. Ooh, look. Here we are on the lobster line. Chik- chik. Here we
are on the conga line. Chik-chik. Here we are, kissing the bartender.
Chik-chik. Here we are sleeping on the couches in the press lounge, next to a
bowl of cheeseballs. What a party! (By the way, the commissioner and his VIP
guests -- including your Owners, your Corporate Sponsors and your occasional
Diana Ross or Bruce Willis -- do actually attend the party, but are sectioned
off from the rest of the 2,700 riff-raff guests, so that they don't have to
touch the dreaded REGULAR PEOPLE and catch God knows what.)
By Saturday morning, the CONTROVERSY has been forgotten.
And room service is out of aspirin.
Chik-chik.
Saturday We are now down to SERIOUS BUSINESS. The players no longer meet
with the media, because, with just 24 hours to kickoff, they have to do some
really important things, such as giving those women in low-cut dresses back to
their husbands.
Meanwhile, as you can see -- chik-chik -- no one in the press hotel is
going anywhere because the lobby is now stuffed with cigar-smoking,
aftershave-soaked, beer-bellied creatures from another planet, many of whom
need tickets. No one knows where these creatures come from. But if you try to
squeeze through them, you will surely be found dead by morning, and these will
be the last words you hear: "Anybody got two, I need two--YO! BOBBY! YOU NO
GOO--buses leaving at--Mendez! Donde esta el stanzo--EEEYOOOHEE!!--need two,
got two--so he'll take 10 percent off the gross, but only--NINERS! AWWRIGHT!
WHOO!--don't have the credit cards, so how can I --Texi?--WHLZLMYP!--need
two, got two . . ."
The smart person finds shelter from this until game time, or, failing that
-- chik-chik -- a sports writer's room. Here you see the 23 room service
trays. Normally the cleaning people pick these up, but the cleaning people
have stopped coming since we put that note on the door: "The next person who
knocks before 2 p.m. will be killed by my rottweiler." This also explains why
the sheets are now the color of chili sauce. Notice the feet sticking out from
under that pile of newspapers? Heh-heh. Hee. Yeah. We have no idea who that
is.
Chik-chik.
This is the night before the Super Bowl on Bourbon Street, which, as you
can see, looks like a revolution in Bogota. And here -- chik-chik -- is Sunday
morning on Bourbon Street, where a big truck scoops up all the bodies and
drops them at the Marriott lost-and-found.
Which brings us to the present, with the BIG GAME just hours away. Wow.
How about that? And while it was truly a whirlwind week, it was certainly
worthwhile, because we can now honestly say this: We have no idea who will win
this game. We only hope we didn't leave our press pass on the barbecue grill.
By the way, there is strong sentiment to make New Orleans the permanent
home of the Super Bowl. Good idea. By the time we come back, they may have
found our luggage.
Chik-chik.
SUPER BOWL; COLUMN