Friends of Dave #321: joe montana was here
Appreciating the tradition of the Super Bowl
What are you doing for the Super Bowl?
I will bet that just about every American FoD (and a few non American subscribers) has either been asked this question or have asked someone else this question over the past few days.
I was thinking about this on my flight this week to Phoenix, where I will be during this year’s Super Bowl game.
You see, for me, the Super Bowl has been a major part of my life as far back as I can remember. It has essentially served as the holiday in late January/early February that follows Thanksgiving and Christmas on the calendar and comes before Easter .
Growing up, my mom always made a big deal about the Big Game. It didn’t matter who was playing. I’d like to believe it was fueled by her own deep rooted love for the sport, but I think it was really just a prime opportunity to have a non-denominational party, make a ton of food and entertain family and friends.
I will never forget my parents, two younger sisters and I gathering to watch Super Bowl XIII (funny how an event can be so pretentious and majestic that only Roman numerals would be acceptable enough to mark the etching of each year’s new chapter in the annals of history, right?). That year I had brazenly made a bet of 35 cents (a full week’s allowance) with my playground nemesis at the time, David Cappadonna, that the Steelers would beat the Cowboys.
For what it is worth, the news of the bet was not well received. My parents made it clear that they had absolutely no interest in fostering the next generation Jimmy the Greek in their house. And being the dutiful oldest child and mortified at the thought of disappointing my elders, I vowed never, EVER, to bet on a Super Bowl again. My mom put out a spread on our round folding card table right in front of the TV and I nervously munched away as the Steelers pulled out the victory. And, FYI, that little d-bag never paid me on that 35 cents I was owed….
Fast forward a few years to Super Bowl XVI. We are now living in a suburb of Detroit and the game was being held nearby at our very own Pontiac Silverdome. Truth be told my Brooklyn born mom now recounts those years out in the Midwest with a similar disdain to that Jerry Seinfeld had for Kramer’s buddy Newman. You know, like “Hello….Farmington Hills…” But, it was a local Super Bowl — you betcha we HAD to have a party.
Now, at the time, a cold weather Super Bowl was a novelty. And like a Little Caesar’s Pizza Guy, that year’s Detroit Winter delivered. It snowed a ton just before the game. It snowed so much there was concern that the teams would not make it to the stadium in time for the game (as well as Vice President O.G. George Bush’s limo would get get stuck). More importantly, my mom made all this food and would our friends and their families make it to our house for the game.
It all came together. I invited some friends and their parents to our house. People showed up, the food was eaten and the game was played. That was the same year the sports loving world was introduced to the greatness of Joe Montana.
We moved from Michigan a few years later and the Super Bowl party tradition came with us. For the better part of a decade our house was the place for the annual soiree, with a core group of families joining us along with a rotating cast of plus ones and new invites to fill the room. My mom, with now dozens of people to entertain and feed, would gleefully start planning for it the day after New Years.
Early on our good family friend Paul, apparently with no prior knowledge of the near cataclysmic 35 cent wager placed on Super Bowl XIII, corrupted proceedings by introducing us all to the Super Bowl Betting Squares pool. What chump would be excited by a single 35 cent bet on the outcome of the game when you could bet $1, randomly select a square on a board and potentially win money based on the outcome of each quarter played?
These were the golden years of Super Bowl partying. In my mind it plays out like a montage from a movie — lots of laughs, cheering and debauchery. Even when I went off to college, where I remember wildly celebrating the Giants victory in Super Bowl XXV (that was the one where Whitney Houston performed the best version of the Star Spangled Banner ever sung) by running through the halls of our dorm and hugging random dudes after the Bills missed their last minute field goal, I would call back home to check in on the proceedings, place my bet on a square, and see how everyone was doing.
This even carried over into my first job out of college. My mom had convinced me to interview with a great company that was headquartered 30 minutes from where they lived, so once I got the job, of course I had to initiate my new co-workers to my parents' Super Bowl proceedings.
When I think back, I was like a pimp for my mom, bringing her innocent, new, unsuspecting young people to fuel her need to entertain and feed people around the big game. More suckers for her wings, dip, chili and 3 foot long American Hero. More suckers to fund the Super Bowl Squares.
That first year out of college, in my parents’ family room, a bunch of my co-workers and I met and conspired to hire a friend of a friend to join our company. He was coming to the office to interview with us THE DAY AFTER Super Bowl XXVIII and my co-worker asked if he could join us at the party. We all clicked with him right away, essentially gave him the answers to “the test,” and the rest, as they say, is history. T remains one of my most cherished friends (and a Friend of Dave) to this day.
It all started to change the next year.
That was when our old family friend Paul came to the party not quite himself. Once larger than life, Chief Corrupter and the omnipotent ruler of the Super Bowl Squares pool, Paul was now in the late stages of battling cancer. I’ll never forget how he quietly watched Super Bowl XXIX on my parents’ couch and struggled to half heartedly contribute to the fun like he once had. It was gut wrenching to witness. I gave him a hug good bye at the end of the night — he weighed so much less than I did. That was the last time I saw him.
My parents soon after moved a few hours away. My sisters and I got on with being adults and raising our own families in different parts of the Northeast. Sure we’d go to Super Bowl parties with our little ones, but between chasing them around to make sure they stayed out of trouble and early bedtimes, it usually meant early exits at halftime. My parents, now empty nesters, found new groups of friends to feed and entertain and bring into the Super Bowl party mix. I was a pimp no longer.
We didn’t watch a Big Game together again for about 20 years. Then, just before Super Bowl LI, my mother’s father passed away. My mom was an only child and her own mother had died from cancer when she was young. So while my grandfather’s passing in his mid-nineties was not unexpected, it was still understandably a tough time. Both my parents and my grandfather were spending winters in Arizona at that point, so my sisters and I decided to fly in to be with my mom to watch the Super Bowl.
That was the year the Patriots (my parents’ team) came from behind in a thriller and beat the Atlanta Falcons in the first overtime Super Bowl game ever. As usual, my mom fed and entertained us. We spent some quality family time together, just my parents and their kids, and enjoyed watching what was maybe one of the craziest games of all time.
So fast forward to this weekend and my flight to Phoenix.
The Philadelphia Eagles are playing the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII in Glendale, AZ. My wife, who is from the Philadelphia area, grew up going to Eagles games with her Dad. Our youngest son, now 12, is a rabid football fan — some of the long standing FoDs will remember that, for about an 18 month stretch, he wore a different NFL team’s football jersey to school EVERY DAY. My parents are spending the winter in Scottsdale….
You can do the math….my mom, now getting older but always looking for a fix to her need to feed and entertain people, suggests that the stars are aligned and that the three of us come out for a long weekend visit. We could take our son to the NFL Experience and my wife could revel with the other Eagles fans down in the warm weather. She’d go to Costco and pick up some wings and party food no problem. It would be another Super Bowl party for the books.
And just like that, over a half century old, I’m both a kid and a pimp once again….
How could I deny her?
XOXO
Dave
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