Super Bowl Birthday

The Super Bowl is turning 44 today. I’ll do the same in about six weeks.

Being inexplicably linked, I’ve made a point to honor this annual event with the same zeal shared by most red-blooded American males. Sorry ladies, but while there are exceptions, most women consider the Super Bowl a reason to gather socially with friends and discuss the merits of a new pair of shoes.

Men, on the other hand, always find a reason to like one team or dislike the other becoming impassioned enough about the outcome to throw popcorn and chicken wings at the television.

Being a man and a fanatic sports fan, it is encumbered upon me to remember all of the great games, which I have done faithfully.

I began with Super Bowl One which took place as my first year on earth was drawing to a close. Bart Starr, of Alabama Crimson Tide fame, threw seven completions to Max McGee, two for touchdowns, as the Green Bay Packers drubbed Buck “The Hammer” Buchanan and the Kansas City Chiefs 35-10. The game was called the NFL-AFL Championship and drew a sparse crowd of 61,000 people to the LA Coliseum. The place had enough seats for 101,000 butts.

McGee was in the latter stages of a productive career, but had caught only four passes the entire season. Word is he was hung-over on game day from staying out the night before. When first-string receiver Boyd Dowler separated his should and duty called, Max borrowed a teammate’s helmet because he didn’t bring his from the locker room. Starr was named the game’s most valuable player, but McGee became the hit of the day.

I always felt a kinship with ole Max McGee because on the same day in 1967 we both were staggering around and trying to keep from hitting our head as we played with a ball in front of a less than capacity crowd. McGee was avoiding the Chief's defenders while I was trying to keep from being popped by my older sister who had littler tolerance for me cooking the heads of her dolls inside of an Easy-Bake oven.

I’m told that I was so thrilled by Max’s exploits that I exuberantly threw both my bottle and pacifier at the black and white image of him racing across our television screen.

I paid little attention to the next several games as the Packers topped the Raiders the following season and Willie Joe Namath, another ‘Bama protégé, called an upset of the mighty Colts that his Jets famously pulled off.

I glanced in during 1970 to see Lenny Dawson and the Chiefs secure the AFL’s legitimacy by overtaking Minnesota’s Purple People Eating Vikings 23-7. Later, I was unimpressed when Jimmy O’Brien ended the 1971 contest with a field goal and a 16-13 Colt victory over Dallas’ Cowboys. My recollection of these games is very weak as I chose instead to ride my choo-choo train through the house and review the outcomes several years later after I learned to read.

As the years progressed, I somehow always knew who won the big game in spite of never sitting still long enough to watch much of it. There was Roger Staubach leading the Cowboys to a lopsided win over the Dolphins; and the Dolphins back-to-back victories with a No-Name Defense that helped record the only undefeated season in 1973.

I started paying close attention after becoming a fan of Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, Lynn Swann and the Steel Curtain as Pittsburgh won back-to-back trophies in the mid-seventies. I hated it for Fran Tarkenton and the Vikings in 1977 when they dropped their third title game in four years to the Raiders, but loved the those same Raiders when they won the title in 1982 and again in ’84.

I pulled for the Cowboys under Roger Staubach, but happily waived a Steeler Terrible Towel when the Cowboys lost to Pittsburgh in 1980. I hitched my wagon to the 49ers, Bears and Giants during the eighties and early nineties, but wrongly rooted for the Bills, Chargers, Steelers and Falcons over the nest eight years.

Choosing the Falcons and former Georgia Tech coach Bobby Ross’ Chargers were cases of sentiment besting common sense, but games of passion do call require occasionally listening to the heart. Twice during the nineties, I sided with Brett Favre and the Packers who’s two-game split almost salvaged a decade of lost Super Bowls.

Since the century turned over, I’ve been a fan of the Patriots, Buccaneers, Colts, Rams (but only in 2000) and, of course, the Steelers. I rooted for the Giants when they lost and against them when they won, so I’m thankful they aren’t on the big stage this season.

2010 presents a dilemma the likes of which I can’t recall. I’m a Peyton Manning fan, but have always had a soft spot for the Saints and the dozen or more volunteer jazz bands that populate their stands. It’s hard not to root for a perennial loser such as the Saints.

That being the case, I placed my annual $20 wager with my buddy Peanut Groves that the Saints will take the game. However, I bet the same twenty dollars with his uncle Bud that the Colts will be victorious. Both of them gave me more points than the betting line so there is a possibility that I could win both bets, but no chance that I will actually lose money. I am fond of using hedging strategies.

I haven’t figured out exactly who I will end up rooting for. As is often the case when I am in doubt, I will most likely be a fan for the team that is ahead, that is, until they get behind. As you can surmise, I love nostalgia, but hate to loose.

Force me to choose and I’ll tell you that my heart picks the Saints, but practicality tells me to go with the Colts. Practical decisions usually produce the best results.

If I am fortunate enough to become old, feeble and somewhat forgetful, I have little doubt that I will still be able to name all of our country’s presidents, the World Series champions, each Heisman Trophy winner during my lifetime, and all of the Super Bowl winners. The last one is the easiest since we’re the same age.

Enjoy the game.