SuperBlog XLI
(all photos taken by me, except the SI cover)
My brother Ed and I were fortunate enough to have access to Super Bowl tickets at face value. As they say in the trade... it's not who you know. It's who we know. We prepared for our once-in-a-lifetime trip by carefully scoring great travel deals, researching the event, and making sure our Bears jerseys were in good shape (Ed wears the throwback All-Century commemorative Dick Butkus; I don the throwback Gary Fencik). As the trip approached...
Champ was ready. The City of Broad Shoulders was ready.
Saturday - we miss our flight due to a 90-minute shutdown on I-5. In the airport, a punctured blood vessel in my left nostril springs a leak and I bleed for over an hour while the Fire Dept. hooks me up with ice packs and gauze. The trip is not exactly getting off to a smooth start. Once we begin flying the friendly skies, things get better. We connect in Philly, where the airport cheesesteak is better than those which you'll find in any other town. Ed and I are cheesesteak appreciators, so this is good. Finally, we land in Ft. Lauderdale at 9pm, pick up our Bears-orange, brand new Mustang convertible from Avis and drive to the condo on North Miami Beach where we'll stay for 2 nights, a 2-bedrooom, 2.5-bath palace into which the elevator directly opens, complete with balconies overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and Biscayne Bay. The digs resemble a place where Diddy or Snoop might stay while in town. Check out the living room and Atlantic view.
After settling into the condo, we head out to South Beach with our Chicago friends, Mike and Butch. We'd always had an image of South Beach as an urbane, cosmopolitan place - at least that's what people say, and that's what the E! channel makes it look like. The South Beach we experience is the cheesiest, filthiest sinkhole this side of Bourbon Street. The nice clubs are hosting parties promoted by such opportunistic celebrities as Jennie McCarthy, John Travolta, Jennifer Lopez and Ludacris with cover charges ranging from $200-2,500. After paying $40 to park the car we spend a couple early-AM hours walking the streets full of hookers, sleazy women dressed like hookers, garbage, and tight shirt-wearing club-going knuckleheads straight out of Night at the Roxbury. We go into one touristy beachfront Irish pub for a beer, get a slice a pizza from a joint where the women look like crackwhores, the black men look like Usher and the white dudes look like Vanilla Ice. Finally, we cruise back to the condo in Da Bearsmobile and crash at 5am.
Super Bowl Sunday. We rise at 11 and depart at noon, giving us plenty time to take advantage of the day leading into the 6:20pm kickoff time. The rain is heavier than anything we see in Seattle, yet it dawns on us that we've just flown diaganolly across the U.S., possibly the greatest distance between any two major cities in the Lower Forty-Eight, to get rained on just like we do at home in Seattle 200+ days a year. Mike is meeting up with some friends and Butch will casually peruse the stadium perimeter for a reas
onably-priced scalper (these magnificent bastards flew in from Chicago without tickets, without the expectation of getting tickets, but with the pipedream of acquiring tickets that wouldn't compromise such things as mortgages and college funds). Butch winds up befriending a stranger and watching the game at the Hard Rock and Mike watches at a houseparty. Ed and I drive 3 miles to a shuttle that will take us 9.5 miles to the stadium. The bus, like the stadium we'd enter in a few hours, is full of Bears fans. (above)Arrival
dwagon bust out all their cheesy power-ballad, arena-rock favorites. The audience comprises approximately 80% Bears fans. Between songs, the crowd repeats chants of "Let's go Bears!" Rocking out to such classics as "Can't Fight This Feeling," "Keep On Runnin', "Time For Me To Fly," "Keep On Loving You" and the undeniable showstopper "Ridin' the Storm Out" puts us in the mood for football in a strange way that can only be understood by those in attendance. Don't try to understand it. Mock it, if you must, but please, for the love of Brian Piccolo, do not try to understand it. Once REO is done doing whatever Dude. Speedwagon. (above) is that they do, we head toward the stadium.
It's raining like a bastard, so we pick up a pair of five-dollar ponchos on the way into the stadium. (more on the ponchos later).
Entering the building is easy as cheese. Tickets are scanned and bags are searched more rapidly than any sporting or concert event since the Stones at Altamont. We barely break stride making our way through security. Airport TSA screeners from across the land should be here to observe and take notes. We get inside and look around like a couple of Catholics in the Sixteenth Chapel. Bears fans everywhere greet one another with quick verbal spurts of "Bearss" accentuated by swift nods issued with a clear and respectful gameface conviction. We're giddy like a couple of Swedish schoolgirls on a snow day! 
Prior to going to our seats, we scope out the lay of the land with great delight. Dolphin Stadium rocks. Concessions, food, beer and bathrooms are found at every aisle. Leary as we are about Coors Lite being the NFL's official beer, it warms our hearts to find a Corona stand right outside our section. We get to our seats to find that (a) we're 24 rows from the field on the Bears side, and (2) each seat comes equipped with a SBXLI seat cushion and X-Box game, compliments of Pepsi. I don't play video games, so if you want my PocketBike Racer starring the Burger King guy, give me a call and it's all yours. We barely catch the end of the Cirque de Soleil pre-game show (above), but have enough time to get settled in anticipation of the game. The pre-game music begins with a tasteful performance by the U.S. Marine Corps that is actually respected by the silent crowd, followed by "The Star Spangled Banner" sung by famous drunk driver Billy Joel. The guy behind us sets his stop watch to time the performance, as he's got a hundo in Vegas riding on the Under (the over-under line on the Anthem is a minute and sixteen seconds).
Below: the Marines class up the joint (left) and Billy Joel is wheeled off the field following the Anthem (right)
Once the Piano Man is finished butchering the Anthem, Ed makes a break for the Corona stand. According to the stadium clock, he has five minutes to complete the mission before kickoff. Alas, the moment of truth arrives. Gametime. The ESPN darling Indianapolis Colts are announced and take the field to a blistering storm of boos almost as heavy as the rain that has been dumping on Miami since early morning. Then the Bears are announced and the place is up for grabs. Between the crowd's thunderous ovation and the energetic entrance of the Monsters of the Midway, the allegedly neutral site feels more like a Bears home game than any of the games that were played in downstate Champaign while Soldier Field was under construction a few years ago. Miami Dolphins Hall of Fame QB Dan Marino - you might know him by his new nickname, "Skinny" - conducts the coin toss and our friend Dave, an admirably shameless Marino fan, sends a text message that reads "quality coin toss." The teams line up for kickoff and Ed isn't back yet. Oh well, what can ya do? The tension is amazing. With the Co
lts kicking off to the Bears, I'm just hoping for a formidable return, a respectable opening drive, and a good punt that would pin the Colts and their powerful offense deep in their own territory to let the Bears tenacious defense do something exciting. Instead... Devin Hester takes the kick, he takes it up the gut, he slides up into the wedge, then swings out right... Oh! He's got some running room! He's picking up steam! He might bring it to mid-field! Hester has an angle and he might beat the Colts to the sideline! Oh my God! Here he comes! He's running right at us! He! Could! Go! All! The! Way!!! It's a touchdown! Touchdown, Chicago Bears! Oh My God, this place is going crazy! I feel like Johnny Most when Havilcek stole the ball, screaming, fists in the air... pure euphoric frenzy. I become dizzy and disoriented for a few seconds there. Then the people sitting next to me ask, "Hey, where's your brother?" Yeah! Where is Ed? I don't know where he is, but I know where Devin Hester is: he's in the end zone, baby! Okay, now I'm tapping into my wading pool of mental faculties and trying to calm down. My brain is split into two halves. One half is wondering if Ed is in trouble, if he fell down and cracked his squash on the cee-ment, if he lost all sense of fortuitous timing and unscrupulously decided to walk the perimeter of the stadium concourse just to see what was what... the other half is all focus. Now the Bears are kicking off to the Colts. The Colts have the ball; they're moving the sticks at a good clip. They're approaching mid-field. Soon, they'll be in field goal range, which for Adam Vinatieri means anywhere in the same zip 
code. Peyton Manning drops back (this always makes me nervous), he throws to the right sideline... it's intercepted! Controlled euphoria. The lady next to me asks again, "Where's your brother?" I don't know, but I know where the Bears offense is - they're on the field! The Bears go three-and-out, punt into a touchback, and the Colts have the ball again. Manning throws to Reggie Wayne, who couldn't see the nearest Bears defender with a pair of opera glasses, and scores a 53-yard touchdown. The Colts fumble the extra point and the Bears are up 7-6. The Bears fumble the ensuing kickoff and the Colts recover near mid-field. [sarcasm] Great. I'm happy now. [/sarcasm] Momentum has shifted in favor of the Colts. Manning fumbles the first snap and the Bears recover! I shout, "Look at that! The Good Guys got the ball back!" Semi-controlled euphoria. And then, in a manner uncharacteristic of Rex Grossman & Co., Da Bears march down the field executing the kind of drive you might find in a How-To manual, anchored by a 50+ yard run by Thomas Jones. Finally, the Bears line
up at the five, Muhsin Muhammad goes in motion, Rex takes a quick drop back, fires to #87 and Muhs grabs the rock in the end zone for another Bears touchdown!
At this point, Ed is back with a couple Coronas. Apparently, his beer-run ATM visit did not go so well. Having used his bank card in Portland, Seattle, and Philly during the last few days, some kind of automated theft protection mechanism rejected his withdrawal. When he called the bank to find out what the dillyo, explain his travels and confirm his recent transactions, the customer service dude asked him, "Did you call to let us know you'd be traveling?" To which the ever-diplomatic Ed replied, "What are you, my wife? I'm at the Super Bowl, the crowd's goin' crazy, I definitely missed somethin' good, and if you're interested I can definitely tell you how much each minute of this conversation is costin' me!" The bank guy reasonably replied with something along the lines of, "You're at the Super Bowl? Dang. My bad. Hey man, just hit me with your mom's maiden name and you're good to go, bro."
The first half ends on a semi-good note. Although the teams head for the locker rooms with the Bears down 16-14, the half ends with Vinatieri going wide right on a botched field goal attempt from 36 yards out. Now we shift our excitement to The Halftime Show. I'm a big Prince fan, and aside from the natural elation associated with the entertainment not being some cornball teen idol or decrepit old classic rocker, I am excited to see what The Artist will do with his mini-concert. Ed noted, "The rain's really comin' down. Prince might get electrocuted." As I sensed a certain disturbing hopefulness in my brother's remark, I involuntarily replied, "You're a sick bastard, but yeah, that'd be kinda cool, I mean, it might also suck because they might cancel the second half - " and without introduction or fanfare, the lights go down and we hear His Purpleness declare...
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called Life..."
Dolphin Stadium is instantly converted into a Prince concert, if only for 10-12 minutes. We rock out and dance to a delightfully high-powered medley of "Let's Go Crazy," "Baby I'm a Star," covers of Bob Dylan's "All Along the 
Watchtower," Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Proud Mary," the Foo Fighters' "Best of You," and arguably the greatest closer in history... amid heavy downpouring and purple lights... that's right, you guessed it, it too obvious but too great to deny... "Purple Rain." During the coda, Ed and I were squealing along like Ned Beatty in Deliverance. 
After the halftime show, things don't go so well on the field. Much like they'd done against the Patriots in the AFC title game two weeks prior, the Colts come out like a different team. A championship team. And the Bears just can't keep up. The score remains close, yet despite being dominated in the trenches all day, until the final couple minutes the Bears are in position to win. They force a turnover early in the 4th quarter, the crowd erupts and things appear hopeful. Until they fumble and give the ball back to the Colts on the very next play. The Colts win by a final score of 29-17 and I spend most of the 4th quarter playing the role of surly loudmouth, openly challenging the lack of defensive pass interference calls on every Bears pass play. At one point, after Bears receiver Bernard Berrian trips and falls on what would otherwise have been a complete pass for a first down in the red zone, I shamelessly blurt, "Come on! Where's the flag? He practically got mugged down there!" and a guy turns toward me and says, "Get serious." I pause and reply, "I think it's fairly obvious the man was tripped. What game are you watchin'?" The guy r
epeats, "Get serious." To which I can only say, "Hey, I'm just gettin' my money's worth. You're probably a pretty all right guy, though" and tip my hat. Game off. Bears lose. We're sad about that, but still happy to be here. And so, we linger. We watch the masses head for the exits while the Colts receive their Lombardi trophy, Tony Dungy gives God credit for the victory (like the Man Upstairs doesn't have better things to do than manipulate the outcome of a football game) and Peyton Manning raises the hardware like an excitable boy who just won the ring toss in the Special Olympics. We were in fact the last fans to leave the stadium.
(a
bove) to the victors go the spoil
The photo to our left recalls my favorite recurring incident of Super Bowl Sunday. Picture this happening at least a half-dozen times: amidst a relentless flurry of Ed calling me a revolving collection of derogatory names that challenge various aspects of my masculinity, orientation, and fraternal connection to him (Corona: self esteem in a bottle) over the matter of my choice to wear the hood of my poncho in the Miami monsoon, Mr. Ed did choose to use his hood on a handful of occasions when the rain got heavier throughout the game. However, each time my stupid brother did this, it failed to occur to him that his hood had filled with some amount of rain since his last hood-friendly moment, and so while his efforts did result in the prevention of future rain, they also resulted in the re-visitation of past rain in an all-at-once kind of way that douses his melon while also running down his back. These delightful incidents never failed to yield the expected "F**k! What the f**k? F**kin' rain!" Pure joy for me.
Stories of Ed nearly getting into a fight with a pair of Jets fans remain unconfirmed. No further information is available at press time.
Back to the 
present. We leave the stadium, get on the shuttle back to North Beach, meet back up with Mike and Butch at the condo and order a pizza. Super Bowl Sunday is officially over. Monday, we miss our flight and get re-booked for Tuesday. We decide to brainstorm over boneless wings at the Chili's airport bar among some similarly down Bears fans, a scruffy fellow fresh off a cruise ship, a Fresno State co-ed spending hours 18-20 of her 24-hour showerless layover back to mid-terms, the middle-aged guy whose tab she is clearly riding on and who's hitting on her and pulling out such stops as showing wallet photos of his kids with Paul McCartney and Sting. A sketchy guy from St. Charles, Illinois walks over to a Colts fan in a SBXLI Champions hat and asked, "Would you mind taking that off, pal? I'm trying to eat over here." We wind up staying at a Ft. Lauderdale hotel, going to a 5-star Italian restaurant followed by a trip to a schlocky Spring Break-friendly bar featuring a one-man band res
embling what Springsteen might look like if he gained 130 lbs., became a beach bum and assumed a career playing guitar and singing over such karaoke tracks as "Louie Louie" and "Sweet Caroline" with the music beds fueled by his on-stage laptop. Ultimately, we find a pirate bar where we enjoyed the perks of being the only customers nearly as much as we enjoyed the house grog, a drink called The Wench consisting of limes muddled with sugar and four shots of sake. A few of those and suddenly it's late Tuesday morning. Time to head back to Seattle. For me, that is. As for Ed, once he's finished cleaning up his vomit in the hotel room and telling housekeeping I did it (he will deny this. believe what you wish), he realizes his cell phone is MIA. As a good brother and a true team player, I leave him in Ft. Lauderdale and head to the airport. I get home Tuesday night, Ed eventually finds his phone, gets back Wednesday night, and we both live to tell the tale.