I have been in mourning since the big game, and have not had the mental strength to post. But life must go on, and besides, my subscribers turn into ravenous wolves when they don’t get new material. So, to placate the drooling beasts, I am posting my column that appeared on Super Bowl Sunday in The Indiana Gazette. Plus, I’ve got some fresh meat coming this weekend: an article about the absurdities of raising teenagers, which will include a hilarious video of my son. Stay tuned….
From the landing of our old staircase, I watched the scene in the living room below.
My mother had ordered me to go upstairs and get ready for bed, but I didn’t want to miss the biggest party my parents had ever thrown. A “Superbowl Party,” they called it.
The television had been blaring nothing but football for the last four hours, and the screen flickered with purple, gold and white. My cheeks pressed against the wooden balusters, I spied my mother circulating the room with a tray of tiny canap├®s topped with pimento stuffed green olives. Her guests eyed the tidbits, each one impaled with a tiny plastic sword.
I could see a man’s head of red hair over the back of our green lounge chair, his freckled hand nonchalantly balancing a can of Iron City Beer on the armrest. My father entered from our dining room, delivering a fresh can of beer to a mutton-chopped man wearing plaid bell-bottoms, and a cherry-garnished whisky sour to a woman laughing with my mother on our couch
My father nudged my older brother with the toe of his white vinyl shoe, telling him to get out of the way of the TV so everyone could see.
Suddenly, one of my dad’s hunting buddies shushed everyone and pointed to the screen. Everyone got quiet. A voice from the speaker of the console shouted a series of unintelligible numbers, and then, “TOUCHDOWN!”
My eyes widened as our redheaded guest jumped to his feet, causing the lounge chair to reverberate wildly. His arms shot into the air, and I saw a splash of foam hit the carpet when the Iron City fell to the floor. Everyone shrieked and turned toward each other to share their moment of exhilaration.
In his repugnant way, my brother woo-hooed and did an obnoxious, writhing, celebratory dance that the guests tried to ignore. Why does he get to stay down there with everyone?
Dramatically collapsing onto a floor pillow after his rude display, my brother took his place again in front of the television, just in time to see the latest McDonald’s commercial. Two teenagers, an old man, and pig-tailed girls botched “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun,” until the jingle set them straight.
My brother attempted the tongue-twister for himself, until my father nudged him again with his white vinyl toe. I heard my brother whine, “Puleeeease?” Unmoved, my father pointed to the staircase.
Head hanging low, he trudged up the stairs toward me.
“I’m telling,” he said when he saw me huddled on the landing.
With a huff, I stomped off to get ready for bed.
Later in my yellow bedroom, I listened to the uproar of laughter, clinking glasses, and the creaking springs of my father’s green lounge chair. I wish I didn’t have to go to bed.
I woke up early. Too many Dr. Pepper’s the night before had me tip toeing to the toilet.
Turning the glass knob of the bathroom door, I heard a deep rolling sound. I glanced toward the staircase. The noise paused a moment, and started again. Is that coming from the living room?
I crept stealthily to my landing spot, and pressed my cheeks against the balusters. The living room was dark, but my eight-year-old curiosity drew me closer.
I slid my pajama-clad bottom down the stairs, coming nearer to the source of the low rumble with each step. Reaching the olive green carpeted floor, I took hesitant bare-footed steps toward the darkness.
The chilled air smelled fermented. I stepped on something prickly and heard a snap. Bringing my bare foot up for a look, I found a broken pretzel stick stuck in the wrinkled skin of my arch, and a cocktail peanut lodge between my toes.
Reaching the couch, I knelt on the mustard cushions and drew back the window’s curtain. Morning light broke into the room, and I turned, not knowing what to expect.
The tiny spiced squares, sticks and nuts of Chex Party Mix were scattered all over the floor. Cocktail glasses and beer cans were on every flat surface. Ashtrays overflowed. The stereo turntable was opened, and several vinyl LPs were out of their jackets. Plates were left laying about, with half-eaten Swedish meatballs, remnants of deviled egg and tiny plastic swords. My father’s green lounge chair was overturned.
The hideous rumble continued and seemed to emanate from the overturned chair. I could see the underbelly, with it’s octopus of swiveling legs. I crept closer, and noticed two shoes propped on the upholstery skirt. Horrified to find legs attached, I cautiously peeked over the upturned bottom and into the shadowy seat.
There, lay my parents’ freckled, redheaded friend, snoring, with an empty can of Iron City still in his lap.
Wow. What a party that was. A Superbowl Party. And I missed the whole thing.
Feeling sorry for myself, I crossed my flannel arms and trudged back up the stairs to mope in my room.
But we didn’t know that 1975 was just the beginning. We had no idea there would be mountains of Chex Mix, barrels of cheap beer, and scores of cheeseballs in our football future.
Having never seen their team come close to an NFL championship before, Pittsburgh fans of 1975 partied like it was the Steeler’s one shot in “The Show,” and unknowingly set the standard for what would become a long line of Superbowl Party tradition.
So as you stir your chili and ice your beverages today, take a moment to remember our Superbowl Party Forefathers, and heed the benchmark they set for us.
In other words, party like its 1975.
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