XX

Fun at The Superbowl, 40 years ago

Sunday, January 19th, 1986

I was sitting on the couch in front of the TV smoking yet another bong load when Will, my college roommate, came bursting into the living room of our little apartment in Playa Del Rey (the only room really, other than the two bedrooms in that place). He had that big shit eating grin on his face like he always did when he had cooked something up. I had known him since sixth grade, and we had been playing in the same band for years. He had always had a penchant for sneaky shit.

I figured maybe he had just gotten another batch of pot brownies from his sister in Maui, especially since my brother ate the last three and then spent the next seven hours couch-locked in front of the TV. He should have known better when those were the only food in the house, especially since they were in the freezer. He just kept saying, “but I was hungry, I was just hungry...”.

But it wasn’t that. It was bigger than that. It was so very much bigger.

“You wanna go to the Super Bowl?”

“The one in New Orleans?”

“Yah.”

“The one next weekend, in New Orleans?”

“Yah.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, for real, Jelly has Sammy going down there to sell some tickets or some shit and I asked him if we could go, and he said yes, and they have a big hotel room on Bourbon Street, and we have plane tickets and really great seats for the game, and,... seriously, we have to fucking go.”

I thought about it for literally a second.

“Shit, ok.”

Bourbon Street, booze, girls, Cajun food, more booze, and the biggest game of the year. It was like a 19 year old boy’s version of sugar plums and pixie dust. Hard to say no to that, even with classes starting that week at school. Like I gave half a shit about school back then anyway. What’s a week of classes compared to all that.

Now Jelly was Will’s step-dad, Arturo ‘Jelly’ Girvaskian. He was a poor Armenian kid from East L.A., who had really made something of himself against all the odds. There was not a kinder, more generous person in the whole world. I loved that man; we all did.

He would take us out to The Palm or the Beverly Hilton for dinner with his friends, order stuff that wasn’t even on the menu like Chateaubriand, giant lobsters, anything you could want. He even got our band a steady weekly gig at a place in El Segundo, The Yellow Star Bar, every Wednesday night. Pretty much only our friends would show up, but at least we could say we were working.

Knowing Will since before junior high, it didn’t take long for me to see that Jelly was not your regular 9 to 5 office worker. Over the years, I found out that Jelly was the head of one of the biggest book making operations on the West Coast, taking bets from all over the world, back when there was no online gambling, and we’re not talking $20 parlays. To look at him, you never would have guessed. He didn’t flaunt it, he didn’t bluster or talk big. He was even, all the time, and smiling more often than not. A real gent.

So the next morning we threw some clothes in a suitcase, got in Will’s Rabbit convertible, and headed the short trip south to LAX, and caught the flight to New Orleans.

Monday, January 20th, 1986

We got into the airport in New Orleans, already feeling giddy, and Will said we had to pick up a rental car for Sammy, or ‘Uncle Sammy’ as we called him. He wasn’t really related to anyone in Will’s family, he was one of Jelly’s goombadells, like a goodfella I guess. So we get to the Avis counter and I’m expecting a sedan or maybe a mini-van. The guy pulls up in a big ass Cadillac convertible, probably the biggest thing they had. I told Will he’s driving ‘cuz no way I’m scratching that whale on the way into town. We zoomed along the freeway, and got off when we saw the larger buildings downtown, but I guess it was the wrong exit.

Suddenly we were in the hood, for real, and the only white faces around. And in a big old Cadillac. Some kid on the sidewalk saw us and yelled out, “Ya’ll in the wrong neighborhood!”. Will yelled back, “We know!” and flipped a u-turn to get back on the freeway, tires squealing. We shot back up the on ramp and got off down on Canal Street and started looking for the hotel. We had to go around a few streets trying to find the parking entrance around back, being that the hotel was literally on Bourbon Street, and trying to drive down that would be crazy.

We parked and went upstairs to the room. It was not your average double twin bed hotel room, but obviously designed for parties. It was two stories, but all in one big space, with a giant living room, huge couch and bar downstairs, and a kind of loft built on 6x6 pilings, but so you could look down into the living room from above. Two story windows with floor to ceiling curtains thick enough to keep the light out, with sliding glass doors that opened out to the private balcony that looked directly down over Bourbon Street. It was amazing.

Uncle Sammy was there, wearing a white track suit zipped down half way to his ample belly, and with a big old gold chain, looking like RUN-DMC’s white granddad. He was kind enough, but we got the vibe that it wasn’t exactly his choice to have to baby sit two kids in the middle of running business. And business it was for him.

He introduced us to his partner, Vincent, who was sitting on the couch. Vincent was a guy I had never met before over at Will’s house when Jelly’s guys would come over for BBQ’s (Jelly made the best lamb kabobs ever). He looked more like a movie mobster, nice sports coat with an open neck silk shirt and a gold chain, slicked back dark hair, and a big gold pinky ring. He was pleasant enough, but not given to smiling or joking much.

In front of Vincent on the coffee table were like ten thick stacks of Super Bowl tickets. I didn’t know if they were real or not, but apparently that was at least part of what they were in New Orleans for. Those had a face value of $75, but who knows how much they were really going for.

Sammy said, “There’s only the two bedrooms upstairs, so you two can sleep down here. And there’s a bathroom over by the bar.” It was fine with us. I could see a folding cot between the couch and the window, and we told him it was no big deal.

“Here’s a key; only got one spare so don’t lose it.” Then he sat down on the couch with Vincent and went back to discussing whatever it was they were doing here. We took that as our cue to make ourselves scarce, which we were more than happy to do.

We headed down to the elevator and out to the streets. We were in the shit now. You could smell it, feel it. People walking around with drinks and no cops saying shit about open containers. Young guys peddling dope on the corners. The smells of grease frying and of piss in the gutters. The hustle of so many people, all on a beautiful sunny day with a breeze off the river. I was in heaven.

There were bars and restaurants on every street, every corner, and in between them little tiny shops selling booze and food and trinkets and t-shirts and post cards, but mostly booze. Big signs and placards vied for your attention. ‘Pineapple Hand Grenade’, shit yah, gotta have one of those. ‘Bacardi 151 Watermelon Slushy’, fuck yah, that too. ‘Oyster Po Boy’, why not.

We were getting fairly drunk, on the booze and the atmosphere. We walked down to Jackson Square, and got some bengniets at Cafe Du Monde. The afternoon was getting on so we started looking for a place to eat dinner. We walked by K Paul’s (Paul Prudhomme’s famous little Cajun place), but there was already a big line outside. We weren’t looking to be too fancy, like Antoine’s or Commander’s Palace, so we ended up at Acme Oyster House, eating them fresh shucked right on top of the bar, no plate or anything. Really great.

On the way back to the hotel we passed by Pat O’Brien’s which was just starting to get hopping. I had heard about that place when I had been to New Orleans as a kid with my folks, but had never been there, so we threw on some nicer clothes, combed our Mel Gibson style mullets, and walked right in, feeling on top of the world.

The entrance was a brick lined arched tunnel, kind of dark and a bit dank, with three doors near the end of it. It was already getting raucous at the piano bar on the right side, and on the left was another whole bar, but we headed straight for the courtyard out back. It was beautiful, and relatively huge compared with how crowded and cramped every place was down along Bourbon Street, with lush plants and trees around the edges, and a big fountain right in the center with fire coming out the top. We grabbed a table and ordered a pitcher of Hurricanes, the red rum punch the place was famous for. After a few of those, everything was right in the world, so we had a few more, not stumbling out ‘til close to 1:00 am.

There was just something about sitting outside in the warm Louisiana moonlight, amid the murmuring of hundreds of folks, with the craziness of Bourbon Street hidden by the plants and vines just a few yards away. You felt isolated from it all, even from the people sitting around you. Like you were a different world, away from everything. Not a care in the world. It was awesome.

Tuesday, January 21st, 1986

We woke up late, thinking about lunch but then hit the frozen margarita stand across the street. It was all so novel, a world of bars, t-shirt shops, booze stands no bigger than a walk in closet, serving 151 slushies, and hurricanes, and hand grenades. It was easy to push lunch off until 2:00 or so.

We came back, took showers in the small downstairs bathroom, and headed back to Pat O’Briens, only this time we hit the bar on the left side of the entryway. It was a good sized rectangular room, running left and back down to where the street was, with a long bar and some booths and tables. Nothing fancy but solid and stately, comfortable but not trying to be chic. Really awesome spot, actually.

More hurricanes at the bar. I talked to some folks on my side, and Will talked to some folks on his. Then, Will was saying we needed to go to some bar out in Metairie, just outside of town. A white guy with scruffy hair was standing next to him saying, “Yah, you gotta see it. I can take you guys”. Being naive and 19, we said sure.

We piled into this guys car, some shitbox old American POS, and ended up on this low-rent street corner with low slung buildings all around. In front of us was indeed an old streetcar, faded yellow paint and chrome siding dim in the sodium street lamps.

We climbed up the wooden steps and sat at the bar. I was at a loss for what to order when I saw several gallon jugs lined up at the back of the bar, the kind with corks for stoppers and big glass rings at the mouth to hook your finger around. There was one, right in front of me, with a dark liquid inside, and only a hand drawn label taped to the front of the bottle; a simple skull and crossbones.

Silly me, I asked, “What’s that?”, pointing at the pirate themed concoction. The bartender, a balding and bearded man with a not insubstantial gut, just laughed softly.

“That’s shine.” He saw my quizzical look. “Moonshine, son. The real real.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I just had to have that. Anything with a skull and crossbones had to be too much, and for me back then, too much was just enough.

So,… the rest gets a little hazy.

Will and I went from the bar with the scruffy white guy to his place. I remember playing an acoustic guitar, sitting on his single bed, and seeing some roaches scurrying around.

Then we were back down on Bourbon Street, me and Will and this guy and some friend of his I don’t remember too well. We ended up at ‘The Oubliette’, this biker bar that doesn’t open until midnight. I don’t know who’s idea that was. It had a weird entrance, a narrow walkway with some overhanging plants and then a large, black door.

On the other side there was darkness, and as our eyes adjusted I saw a hallway with two bars, one on either side, lined with stools on which were perched some of the biggest and meanest looking guys and girls I had ever seen. We saw scruffy guy just walk on though, so we tried to follow, but there was barely any room in between the two rows of people.

“Hey”, someone said. I figured it couldn’t be for me so I just kept moving.

“Hey!”, louder now. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and got pulled around. There was a big guy, leather vest, long hair and scraggly beard, on the other end of the hand.

“We don’t want you here”, he said almost quietly. I looked over at Will, who was ahead of me in the gauntlet.

“He’s ok, but we don’t want YOU”, tapping his dirty finger into my chest. I got the message, and nodded to Will like ‘it’s ok’ and just turned around and headed back for the door. I had no idea what this cat had against me, but I knew finding out might mean teeth. So I left.

I pushed back out through the heavy wooden door, went a bit down the plant lined walkway and waited, figuring Will would extricate himself soon enough and we would get out of there. And just then I saw two girls walking the other way, coming into the club. The first was pretty hot, tight top and shorts, maybe a little older than me. She saw I was out of place, and literally I was a bit.

“Hey, you ok?”, she said. I played it up a bit. “Yah, I just got kicked out.” Making the puppy eyes and all. Think she liked it, or maybe she was on the make anyway, but we started talking and hit it off a bit. She was cute, dark skin and eyes, maybe 28-30. Her friend was a white girl, same age, but a bit bigger and not quite as fresh.

Just then Will came out followed by scruffy and his friend. We all walked down the street, not really going anywhere, just talking and walking. At some point she said, “You know those guys are trying to roll you, right?”, meaning scruffy+1. I gave Will a nod and we just picked up our pace. I remember scruffy saying something and us just saying “No, that’s ok” and running off down the street with the girls. Scruffy didn’t try to follow us, and after a bit we ended up back at the hotel.

I pulled my girl over to the folding bed on the other side of the couch. She didn’t seem to see that as a deal breaker.

“I’m Juanita.” She said, and I told her my name as we fell onto the cot, stripping our clothes off. I could hear Will and the white girl making similar sounds from the other end of the U-shaped couch.

“Wait,…..don’t you come”, said the white girl in the dark from across the room. I heard Will just grunt and say, “Too late.”

Juanita and I shared a quiet giggle and went back to what we were doing. She sighed, and I came, rolling off of her after a bit to lay closely side by side on the tiny bed. I fell asleep like that, but woke up with a start.

The curtains were still drawn but the room was suffused with daylight. I was laying on my back, and as I opened my eyes and looked up the first thing I saw was Sammy leaning over the balcony staring daggers at me. He just shook his head and pulled back, but I knew we had fucked up.

I shook Juanita awake. “You’ve got to go.” She got it. She knew two kids couldn’t afford that room. She said she was taking my t-shirt I’d let her wear as a remembrance though, and I was fine with that. I gave her a kiss and watched her go, taking her grumpy friend with her.

Wednesday, January 22nd, 1986

I was up the next morning having some cheap instant coffee from one of those little one-cup hotel drip makers, when there was a knock at the door. Bill was still asleep on the couch. Sammy came down the stairs, and opened the door. A woman came in and they exchanged pleasantries. They knew each other, but it wasn’t a girlfriend or romantic thing. She was about 50, with brassy blond hair, dressed casual but nice. Sammy introduced her to me as Geraldine.

“Just Gerry”, she said. She and Sammy went upstairs and I got Will off the couch. He was not looking too well after the night before. When Sammy and Gerry came down a little later, they asked us if we wanted to go to breakfast. Will declined, holding his head, but I was happy to be included. Sammy was in a good mood. We went to the small diner on the corner of the next block, eggs and bacon and toast and more coffee. I was feeling almost normal.

We got back to the hotel and Gerry excused herself. She had a room on the floor below ours. When we got back to the room, Sammy told me that Gerry was Hal Davidson’s personal secretary. I was impressed. The owner of the NorCal Marauders himself.

Hal Davidson was something of an enigma in the NFL. People said he was scary. That he was crazy. Like bat-shit crazy. They even called him the Coffin Keeper, from the old horror comic books of the late 60’s. But he wasn’t really evil, he was just from New Jersey. It was something West Coast folks didn’t get.

He was driven, cantankerous, blustery, and sometimes just plain old mean. But he could work magic. Not wizard magic, but football magic. Like finding a starting left tackle in the sixth round of the draft. Like bringing players’ careers back from the dead, over and over. Like winning. That kind of magic. He was feared and loathed and people talked shit about him behind his back, but those that knew respected Hal Davidson. He was a maverick of the early days, and there probably wouldn’t be an NFL without him.

The Marauders were larger than life, just like their owner. There were players like Jimbo Strunkt, maybe Davidson’s biggest reclamation project ever. He had washed out in Boston, but Hal saw something in him, and he was right. Strunkt led the Marauders to two Super Bowl victories, the last only a few years before. And there were tons of others, like the great Harry Strong, and my favorite defensive end ever, Shaun Miculek. Miculek was another cast-off, a scruffy giant who went on to act in movies after his playing days were over.

I had found out a few years before that he lived in a house right on the route I drove every day to high school, because I saw him standing in his driveway one afternoon. It was not possible to mistake him for any other human. I screamed out, “Miculek!” as I drove by, and he did a big muscle man pose and yelled back, like the pirate he was. I’ll never forget that. He passed away a few years later, under questionable circumstances, but he was one of one; a real mutant.

Thursday, January 23rd, 1986

Will was still on the ropes. Maybe he had caught something from that girl, but he was not up for doing anything. I got some coffee and was hanging out in the room when Gerry stopped by. I let her in, and told her Sammy and Vincent were out; I had no idea where. She said she and a friend of hers were gonna go out later, for drinks and dinner, and asked if I wanted to come along.

I thought, ‘me?’. Why would she ask a kid like me? Maybe Sammy had told her who my folks were. My mom and dad were both in show business, and pretty well known. Sometimes folks found that interesting. I didn’t question it though. With Will out of commission I was happy to get out and do something. She came by later with her friend, Samantha, a bit younger, maybe mid 30’s and nice and pretty, and we all went out.

Just to get one thing straight, I never got the vibe from Gerry or her friend that there was anything sexual. No innuendos or veiled come-ons. They were just nice. It was never anything like that, although I did think Samantha was kind of hot in a milfy sort of way.

We went to Pat O’Brien’s around 4:00 pm, and sat in the small bar on the left side of the entrance way. It was stately without being over done. Kind of like the Hamburger Hamlet in Beverly Hills used to be. Dark, but not too dark, and quieter than the piano bar on the other side, which always seemed to have all the raucous drunks. We sat at the bar, and just like every other place I went to that week, no one ever asked for my ID when ordering a drink. I had some more hurricanes while Gerry had gin and tonics and Samantha stuck to white wine.

We grabbed some food, nothing fancy, and then tried to get into Preservation Hall, the tiny club that specialized in old school blues, but like K Paul, its reputation had it packed. We ended up right across the street at a regular looking bar that had a great modern blues band, and had more drinks, and then more drinks. About 2:00 am they both excused themselves and wandered out, but for some reason I stayed there until the place closed.

Not sure when that was. I wandered up the street, but the usual crowds were gone. A lot of places were shut down for the night. It was darker, quieter than I had seen it all week. I don’t know what I was looking for, maybe one more drink, I don’t know, but I wasn’t finding anything.

I went up past Acme Oyster House, just a stone’s throw from Canal Street, but there was nothing up, so I started back to the Bourbon Orleans. There was mist moving in, wisps of fog floating up Bourbon Street, and just at the edge of it I saw a man, walking slowly and holding a long stick, like a baton, in his right hand. I could just make out several others behind him though the fog. I stopped, not sure why at first, but the few other people on the street did the same.

The man, an old Black man with gray hair, had on an old style tuxedo, the kind with tails on the back of the jacket. He stopped and placed a black top hat he had been carrying up on his head, tilting it back, and raised the long stick up in his outstretched hand.

A horn sounded behind him. Not a car horn but a low note from a brass instrument, maybe a trumpet or a trombone. The man moved the baton down and up, slowly, like a conductor, and the horn was joined by another, and then another, playing solemnly in the misty darkness.

The man started forward in a slow march. I could see some musicians following behind him, trumpets, trombones and a big brass tuba, all playing out this mournful dirge. They picked it up a bit as the baton moved quicker, and the pace of the marchers slowly increased too. Then I could see why people had stood aside and cleared the way. Behind the band were six men carrying a coffin, and a larger group of people was walking behind it, all dressed in black. I didn’t see any white faces among them.

The light of dawn was just coming up behind the procession as they walked toward me through the mist. The pace of the music picked up, until it was a full on southern rag. The people who had been so somber just moments before became animated, dancing and strutting in time with the leader’s baton. I stood transfixed as I watched them pass by. Only when they had gone on, likely to the cemetery just north of the French Quarter, did I or any of the other onlookers move off.

There was something special in that moment. I had never known something like that existed, and have never seen or heard of its kind since. I went back to the room and collapsed on the small cot with a smile on my face, having witnessed something magical, and slept until noon the next day.

Friday, January 24th, 1986

Will was still not well. He always had been a bit delicate, but the week was flying by. Will’s cousin Race came by the hotel, second cousin really, from Orange County. He used to play keyboards in our band sometimes, for high school dances and such. Nice guy. He was studying pre-med at Tulane, and it was doing him some good to get out from under his mom’s thumb.

We went out and had some drinks; something he would never have done when he lived with his folks in OC. He said he had two tickets for Frank Sinatra at Lakefront Arena for Saturday night. He wanted Will to go, but Will didn’t seem up for it. He was really still not doing great, hacking and spitting green shit up. Maybe that fat girl had taken a dump in his mouth when he was passed out.

Gerry and Samantha dropped by later, looking for Sammy. Gerry was asking him if he wanted to go to a political fund raiser breakfast in the morning the next day. Sammy just looked at her like she was crazy.

“Why the fuck would I wanna do that?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s all Republicans, religious right-wing people, you know, the kind with the little Shriner hats? Hal asked me to put in an appearance, but there’s gonna be nothing to do tomorrow anyway, supposed to be cats and dogs.”

“Then I’ll be sleeping in,…”, and he turned to me and Will, “so don’t you get any ideas.” He was still pissed about Tuesday night. He tightened the belt of the hotel robe he was wearing over his sweatpants and wife beater shirt, and walked back up the stairs.

Then Gerry surprised me by asking if I wanted to go the the breakfast the next morning. Not Will and I; just me. The kind of week it had been so far, I was looking no gift horses in the mouth, so I said ok.

Things were getting crowded on the street, the bars and restaurants were packed to the gills. I just went across to a little food stand and got an oyster Po’Boy, and a quart of 151 punch, and then went back to the room and sat on the balcony watching all the tourists go by. Funny, I had the balcony all to myself, while every other one up and down the street was falling over with people. The weekend crowd had really showed up. It was like a river of drunks that never stopped flowing. After a few hours I went in, read some Stephen King book, and got to bed early.

Saturday, January 25th, 1986

Around 7:30 am Gerry knocked on the door. I was ready to go, and left without waking anybody else up. Even though Gerry and Samantha were pretty casual, with polyester slacks and running shoes, I had my nice jacket on. It was the only decent thing I had with me, but a light silk and cotton job like that was not going to do much about the rain that was coming down. We grabbed a cab over to the Hyatt; it was too far to walk in that storm, but we were still kind of soaked by the time we got inside.

Up on the mezzanine level there were floor to ceiling windows in the hallway that fronted the conference and buffet rooms that got rented out for things like weddings and banquets, and the occasional political bacon, eggs and checkbooks breakfast. The carpet was a dull burnt orange geometric pattern, left over from the ‘70’s apparently. We could see the round tables set up in front of a small stage, a banner behind it splayed with ‘VOTE JOCK!’ in red, white and blue.

The breakfast was for Joseph ‘Jock’ Camp, a US senator who had been an NFL star himself quite a few years back. Now he was firmly ensconced in the right-wing religious side of U.S. politics; the side that liked orange juice and hated fags (and pretty much everyone else who they didn’t consider to be ‘real Americans’).

There were a few people in bad suits milling about amongst the tables, but the place wasn’t a quarter full. We were a bit early, so I nodded to the only thing in the hallway other than the carpet and the windows; a portable bar. But not one of those typically flimsy bars from most wedding venues. This was small but well set up. A full assortment of glasses, two sinks, ice bins, and bottles of all sorts. Gerry turned to me as she sat on one of the vinyl covered stools.

“Bloody Mary?”

“Sure”, I said as I sat next to her.

“Three please.”

The bartender, a skinny white man with short dark hair, got to work. I think he was happy to have something to do, as no one else in that crowd was drinking. Wouldn’t play well with their demographic to be seen with an adult beverage before sundown. We stared out at the street, dark with clouds and rain sheeting down the glass wall in front of us. No one walking around and hardly any cars, headlights illuminating the drops of water pouring down.

We heard them testing the microphone in the main room, and saw people filing in through the large front doors off the hallway. Men in blue plaid blazers, with string ties and cowboy boots, their wives in some knee length floral messes with big bows and ruffles at the neck.

“I think we have time for one more”, Gerry said to no one in particular, and made a little finger twirling motion in the direction of the bartender, who once again filled three tall glasses with ice, vodka, and spicy tomato mix. The drinks were quite good, and the bartender never said anything about money. We chatted and watched the rain outside. It was rather fascinating. The quiet thrumming of the water on the glass, the occasional flash and thunderclap, but otherwise quiet and dark. It was almost quite comfortable.

We heard the warm up speaker come to the microphone. The usual pleasantries and welcomes. I figured we should get up, and I motioned to do so, but Gerry just gave me a look.

“I don’t think we need to rush right in.” Again the twirl; again the ice, the vodka and the spicy tomato mix.

By the time we got up from the bar I was feeling more than a little drunk. Gotta hand it to the bartender, he wasn’t skimping on the booze. We grabbed some seats at a table in the back of the room. There were only a few folks sitting at it, but they had turned their chairs around to face the stage, and paid no attention to us.

Out of nowhere waiters came up and deposited plates of food in front of us. No asking for your order, everyone just got the same thing, scrambled eggs, link sausages and hash browns. A middle-aged black man quietly reached over my shoulder, turned my coffee cup right side up and filled it from a silver carafe, deftly, an action he’d probably done thousands of times, never waiting for or expecting a thank you. He and his co-workers, all in starched white jackets, were the only black faces in the room.

Then the senator was coming up to the mic. Boisterous and brash, he was good looking in a stern southern preacher sort of way. He started right in on football, congratulating both team’s fans for being here, and then went into some spiel about how football represented the capitalist world, and how the whole rest of the world loving soccer more was somehow a warning about socialism creeping in and threatening American freedoms, or some such nonsense. I found it kind of funny, and I started giggling but then I found that I couldn’t stop. Just like I used to get when my grandparents would take me and my brother to Catholic mass. And the three Bloody Marys weren’t helping.

Gerry turned to me and said “Stop it” under her breath, kicking me under the table, but she was already laughing too, and that just made me laugh more. I was trying to hold a cloth napkin over my mouth, making it look like maybe I was just having a coughing fit, but that just made her laugh more, and now Samantha was doing it too. Either laughing at us or it was just contagious. People were turning around and giving us shitty looks, so we got up and made our way out, unable to stop, our laughter only getting worse in the hallway outside. We never even got to eat the breakfast.

I got back to the room to find Will awake and almost feeling human again, so we ordered some room service, a chicken and bacon club sandwich, a crab louie salad and some fries. Will figured Jelly was footing the bill for the room anyway, so we added a bottle of wine. No problem, just signed when it came, including the 12% tip they added.

We could hear the crowds outside when we were having lunch, even through the windows and the curtain. As many as there had been on Bourbon Street the night before, it was more now. Much more. It was like a flood of drunks. A living river of energy right below our room. We stood out on the balcony, getting looks of jealousy from the folks on the balconies next door and across the street. Like before, the other balconies were overflowing, but even more so, and we had a solid 25 feet of frontage all to ourselves. I could see why our room was special. It was a hell of an experience.

I could hear the room phone ringing from inside. Will went in to answer it, and then stuck his head out the balcony door with the phone in his hand.

“Hey, you wanna go to the concert with Race? I’m kind of not into it.” I thought ‘hell yes’. I had never seen Sinatra, although I knew a lot about him. He was one of my dad’s favorites, kind of an acquaintance if not a close friend. I had gone out to dinner with him and my dad a few years before at the Beverly Hilton. We were all seated at a long table, like 20 people, with Frank at the head. Usually my dad would hold court and be the center of attention, but he totally deferred to Frank on that night.

I remember standing at the bar, waiting for a drink, when I felt something behind me. It was like getting pushed, but not physically. I turned around and Frank was walking just a few feet away. You could literally feel him near you, he had that kind of presence. Hard to explain, but it was there.

We drove down to the arena in Race’s car, just a bit north of the quarter. We had nosebleed seats, but it was cool. At that point in his career, he didn’t have a lot of range left, but his style was great, all the old songs. Standing in front of the piano with a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand. It was a classic performance, and we were lucky to see him.

I got back to the room expecting things to be quiet, but Sammy was up, pacing around. He had dark dress slacks and a light blue shirt on, open down to the middle of his chest with a big gold chain, a sport coat in his hand.

“Hey, we should go.”, he was saying to Will. “I can get us in.” Sammy was a bit lit. He turned to me.

“You wanna go to the player’s party? I know where it’s at, and I bet we can get in.”

I was suddenly awake again. I had no idea there was a player’s party, or where it was, but that sounded like something amazing. Will and Sammy and I got in the Caddy and drove over to the stadium. It was dark out front, no indication that there was anything going on inside. We pulled around the back and parked near the trash cans, over by the loading ramps used for buses and trucks.

Sammy got out and walked up to a security guard. We hung back a bit while they talked. Sammy pulled out a stack of the tickets we had seen on the table earlier, peeling off a few and handing them to the guard. He looked around a bit, left and right, making sure no one was eyeballing him, and then motioned us forward, opening the big metal doors to the basement under the arena. We followed Sammy in.

It was a bleak area, a kind of loading dock with nothing of interest, just an open basement of sorts, with some big roll up doors leading into the bottom of the Superdome. The whole place was poorly lit, with industrial carpeting and rows of chairs stacked up against cement walls. I saw a set of stairs heading up toward some light about 100 yards to the right, and started that way, ahead of Sammy and Will. It was quiet and dark on this level, but you could hear music and some commotion coming from the stairway ahead.

As I walked forward I saw one person coming down the stairs from the party above, a big guy in a tan sport coat. He was looking down, not taking any notice of us or his surroundings, but as I got closer I couldn’t help but recognize him. It was Jimbo Strunkt, the Marauder’s quarterback. I really wished that Gerry had come with us, but I was not to be deterred. I strode right up to him with my arm outstretched.

Jimbo was one of my favorite players, maybe ever. I usually wouldn’t push myself on famous people, I knew how my folks hated gubby fans, but I couldn’t help it. He was walking toward me, preoccupied, looking down. He was lost in thought, wistful. I was about fifteen feet away when he finally noticed me and slowed down a bit, seeing there was no avoiding me.

I said, “Hey man, I really love your work.” He took it in stride. I’m sure I wasn’t the first person, even that night, to do that to him.

“Hi”, he said kindly, and shook my hand. I’m 6 foot 3, and have pretty big hands, but his hand swallowed mine. It was like a catchers’ mitt. He looked me in the eyes for a second or two and moved on, heading for the back doors.

Sammy came up to me. “Holy shit, you know who that was?” I nodded yes, still in awe of shaking Jimbo’s hand. I didn’t know it then, but 1986 would be the last year he would play in the NFL. He had been dealing with injuries, and although he still played well, the team couldn’t replicate the success they had had just a few years before. Maybe that’s what was going through his mind as he made his way out of the player’s party, like he was walking out for the last time.

I turned and watched him go out the back doors, never looking back. We went upstairs, but the majority of the party had finished up. There were some drinks and food, but the place was flat, we had missed most of it.

Superbowl Sunday, January 26th, 1986

I was up early, took a shower and put on my cleanest dirty shirt. It was clear and bright outside. I had some coffee out on the balcony, watching the crowds milling around in the fresh air. The crowds were excited, animated, sober for a change. But it was early yet.

We went to Brennan’s for breakfast. A famous restaurant just around the corner from the hotel. At first I though there was no way we were getting in, the place was literally wall to wall people, but somehow we got a small table in one of the back rooms. The place was like a maze of dark wood paneling and furniture, but the waiters moved though it like trout in a stream. They were all black guys, mid -30’s to maybe 50, all thin but wiry, like athletes, which is kind of what they were; running a marathon every day at this place. All dressed in the same black pants, white shirts and black aprons. They moved trays of food and coffee with precision, between the rows and over the tables. They got us bacon and eggs and biscuits and gravy and kept the coffee topped up, all without a word. Like a well oiled machine, that place was.

We walked over to the Superdome, kind of early, we still had a few hours before the game, but the crowds were already filing in. Will and I had seats at about the 20 yard line on the right side, about eight rows up from the field. It made it hard to see anything that wasn’t right in front of us, especially in the era before jumbotron screens in stadiums, but I wasn’t going to complain about free seats at the Super Bowl.

As the place started filling up, I found we were sitting near a lot of New England fans. We talked with them a bit, the usual friendly pre-game banter. I was rooting for Chicago, mostly since my aunt was a die hard and lifelong fan of theirs, but also because they were pretty heavily favored. That didn’t stop the other side from talking some smack, but it was all good. They were on top of the world, and sure their team would win.

Out of the gate, New England scored first, getting a field goal only a few minutes into the game. I didn’t want to say anything, but I had always felt that getting three points on the first possession was like the kiss of death. It usually preceded defeat.

Then Chicago got a field goal, and then another, and then a touchdown, and another field goal. Then they put up another three touchdowns. The last one was especially painful since Chicago gave the ball to a gigantic defensive lineman and let him rumble over the goal line. Kind of insulting.

You could see the air come out of the New England fans. We tried to console them when their team finally scored in the fourth quarter, but by then everyone could see it was a fait accompli. The game ended up 46-10, with the last score being a safety as the New England QB was tackled in his own end zone right in front of us.

We tried not to cheer too hard out of respect for the folks around us. We walked back to the hotel. Sammy and Vincent were happy even though the favored team had won and had definitely covered the spread, usually meaning a heavy payout for the book makers, but maybe they had made it up with the tickets they had sold.

Will and I hit the town again, now that he was finally feeling better, and went over to the side bar at Pat O’Brien’s rather than sitting out in the courtyard. We drank our fill. We must have stumbled in pretty late, because the next morning Will was shaking me awake, saying we had to get to the airport. I had barely felt my head hit the pillow.

Monday, January 27th, 1986

We got to the airport around 6:00 am. Nobody told us before, but we had only had reservations on the flight out to New Orleans. On the way back we were on standby, meaning no confirmed flight. On the busiest day of the year. I didn’t care, I was still flying drunk from the night before. I half-stumbled through the sliding glass doors into the main building, and was looking back over my shoulder to say something to Will when I tripped right over someone’s luggage.

There I was flat on my ass, laying across three big suitcases, and I looked up with every intention of saying ‘Hey, sorry’ when who was looking down at me but Josiah ‘Jazzy’ Jackson himself. If you know anything about religion in the US, you’ve seen Jazzy. He was the number one most popular television preacher in the world probably at the time. And like a moth to the media spotlight. They say if you put three cameras in a room that Jazzy will automatically appear. Kind of like Candyman.

I just started laughing, uncontrollably, laying there on the cold tile floor of the New Orleans airport. Jazzy Jackson was not pleased with me. In fact, he was clearly pissed. And standing on either side of him were two of the biggest African American men I had ever seen in my life. They were both wearing identical checked brown and tan suits, with big shoulder pads and double-wide lapels. And black bow ties, tiny on their enormous necks.

I couldn’t help it. I just laughed more. I really couldn’t help myself. The two men both looked at Jazzy, as if to ask ‘Can we kill it?’, but Jazzy was just fuming. I felt Will grab my hand and yank me up, pulling me away from them as fast as he could. It didn’t help that I was still laughing my ass off. I’m pretty sure I was trying to say ‘I’m sorry’, but likely not much of what came out was understandable. I did not get a beating though, and I can thank Will for that. Otherwise I would have just lay there laughing ‘til they kicked the smile off my face with their very nicely shined brown cordovans.

The rest of the day was less fun, being hungover in the muggy, crowded airport. We finally caught a flight at about 4:oo pm, and I tried to sleep, all the while keeping careful tabs on the location of the air sickness bag (which luckily I didn’t need). We drove the short trip back from LAX to Playa Del Rey and just sacked out, still exhausted. I remember thinking to myself, ‘who’s gonna believe we did all this shit?’. I dunno, but maybe you will.

After all, it’s the truth.