There was a period of my childhood when the Super Bowl meant the world to me. Immersed in my football-card collection, I knew all the players’ vital statistics — height, weight, college, hobbies, interceptions, receptions, rushing yards, and everything else. It was just then that the Miami Dolphins under coach Don Shula had their triumph in Super Bowl VIII, and I became the team’s most ardent Northern California fan.
That game, unfortunately, marked the end of the Dolphins’ dynasty — they haven’t won a league championship since — but I have crystal-clear memories of the Super Bowls that followed: Lynn Swann’s four miraculous catches, totaling 161 yards, to deflate the Dallas Cowboys in 1976; the Minnesota Vikings player hit so hard the next year his head appeared to fly from his body (it was only his helmet that took flight); and the pass dropped by veteran Jackie Smith in the end zone two years later that probably lost the game for the Cowboys.
Most of the games since then, I’m afraid, are something of a blur. The Cowboys beat the Steelers three years ago? News to me. But last week’s game in Miami will remain etched in my memory: The 74,803 people in the stadium included my father and me.
Sports Illustrated says every sports fan should attend at least one Super Bowl. I would amend this slightly: Every sports fan should attend at least one Super Bowl in Miami. Why? Because, as William Jennings Bryan presciently put it, “Miami is the only city in the world where you can tell a lie at breakfast that will come true by evening.” The bacchanal that is the Super Bowl is unimaginable in, say, Minneapolis.
To see what I mean, consider past Miami Super Bowls: In 1969, a brash young quarterback named Joe Namath delivered on his promise that the Jets — 19-point underdogs — would defeat the Baltimore Colts. Twenty years later, race riots erupted days before the game, threatening its cancellation, and Stanley Wilson of the Cincinnati Bengals missed the game because of a crack binge. Miami has another advantage over most Super Bowl cities: It’s a football town. So gaga are its residents about the game they named a main thoroughfare the Don Shula Expressway.
When I arrived in Miami two days before the game, the media were making the most of some petty squabbles between the coaches and the Broncos’ superhuman quarterback, John Elway. I started to worry that this Miami Super Bowl might fall short. I certainly wasn’t expecting any hijinks at the prayer breakfast we went to with friends on Saturday morning. The only memorable speaker was a Falcons defensive back named Eugene Robinson, who kept choking up as he explained how “humbled” he was to be receiving the Bart Starr Award for community involvement.
Twelve hours later, the media had their story: Robinson was nabbed in the heart of Miami’s red-light district offering an undercover policewoman $ 40 for a service the local newscasters (with all due respect to the president) called “sex.” Reporters banged out their “Miami Vice” articles, seizing on the claim in the game program that Robinson’s “poise and savvy have brought stability to a secondary that still is striving for maturity.”
For me, the best part of the feeding frenzy that followed was rediscovering a part of the sports culture I had forgotten: football pundits. On game day, I listened to Terry Bradshaw and Mike Lupica — football’s rough equivalents of James Carville and Howard Fineman — alternately debate the finer points of Robinson’s arrest and the effect it would have on the outcome of the Super Bowl. Wondering how they could get so animated over something so silly, I realized most Americans probably have the same thought when they hear political talking heads debate President Clinton’s legal strategy and Ken Starr’s leaks.
As for the game, it was good by Super Bowl standards, not so good by normal standards (the teams did set a Super Bowl record by scoring 30 points in the fourth quarter). This hardly mattered, though, as there was nearly as much to observe off the field as on. With beach balls being bopped around in the stands, fans mugging for the cameras, Cher lip-synching the national anthem, and ’70s rock legends Kiss staging a pregame performance, the scene epitomized Miami kitsch.
As my father and I shuffled out of the stadium after the game, someone offered me $ 20 for my ticket stub. At first it seemed like an obvious sale, but then I pulled back. I may never attend another Super Bowl, whether in Miami or Minneapolis, and I realized I wanted some token to remind me of the fun we’d had at this one. I told the ticket buyer to get lost, and was happy I did.
MATTHEW REES
