Bruce the Blog

I’ve been to more than my share of Super Bowls. There was the 1998 game in San Diego when those of us who wanted to see the Denver Broncos quarterback beat the Green Bay Packers and finally win the big one after three prior losses, including to the N.Y. Giants, chanted “Elway all the way!” And he did just that. I’ll always remember being on the treadmill in the Hotel Del Coronado’s fitness room Super Bowl morning when notoriously irascible Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis walked in. We were the only two there. He asked me, “Gonna be on that long?” I assured him I didn’t have miles to go before I was done, then couldn’t resist asking, “Who do you like in the game?” His reply approximated, “Harumph!” His team wasn’t in it and he could care less.

The next year my late son Harrison accompanied me to Miami to see Denver win two in a row, this time against Atlanta Falcons. We met Joe Morgan, Warren Moon, Steve McNair, South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, rapper/actor LL Cool J, Harrison had his photo taken with very nice Hall of Fame Pittsburgh Steelers receiver Lynn Swann and we were standing in an elevator when Magic Johnson walked in and graciously signed Harrison’s hat. At a party where KC and the Sunshine Band played, we got Neil O’Donnell’s autograph (remember him, Jets fans?). We were standing right next to a rather hefty fellow but never asked for his autograph because Harrison’s dad has this rule about not asking without knowing who the person is. It just seems somewhat insincere and hollow. Others we were with didn’t recognize him either, only to find out later that night it was former Dallas Cowboys linebacker Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson.

Two years later, I went to Tampa for the drubbing the Giants took at the hands of the brutish Baltimore Ravens, but at least had the privilege of telling Aerosmith’s Steve Tyler I didn’t have a match when he asked me for one to light his cigar in the hotel lobby as we were waiting for our bus to the airport on Monday.  I have to admit that was a matchless experience.

This past Sunday, though, I had another matchless experience. As a guest of my friends at the Christopher Columbus Society clubhouse on Mahopac Avenue in Yorktown for their Super Bowl party, it was quite a sight to see all those present reflexively rise as the old cathode-ray television showed Carrie Underwood singing the National Anthem. Several of the men placed their right hands over their hearts. I’ve been to other Super Bowl parties over the years, and never remember seeing this heartening display of sacred respect, for a way of life that these people do not take for granted.

As the game transpired, we were deeply engaged in animated conversations. I enjoyed meeting and chatting with recently inducted Columbus Society president Frank Weller and with the more familiar faces of Peekskill Police Chief Gene Tumolo, his son Andy Tumolo (VP of the Columbus Society), Yorktown Parks & Recreation Commision Chair Joe Falcone, Columbus Society treasurer Vince Lemmo, who also is president of Mount Kisco Chamber of Commerce, Alfie Boniello, and Phil and Nunzio Cassese of Cassese & Sons Construction Corp., commemorating its golden anniversary this year. Also on hand was Yorktown civic fixture Bob Giordano, a Yorktown Planning Board member, who’s always ready to lend a hand and move things forward with whatever group he’s involved with, and there’s no shortage of them for him. Bob’s always in the mix.

The game offered a nice backdrop, visual wallpaper if you will, and when the action heated up, we’d crane our necks to pick it up. Otherwise, we were more entertained by each other than by those armored gladiators playing footsie with an oblong object. As for the commercials, when Elyse asked me the next morning what I thought of them, I proudly was able to answer I didn’t pay attention to a one. Much like Al Davis, I could care less. The whole zeitgeist of “Super Bowl Commercials” has lost its romance for me because they’ve become self-parody. More to the point, where they once were genuinely clever and resourceful, they now are shallow and often stultifyingly tasteless.

Of course, one thing I wasn’t about to miss was The Who’s performance, and was surprised by how long it seemed to last, wondering to myself if that was how long the previous halftime shows were.

My most memorable halftime show that I attended was at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, an antiquated arena with cement seats and with entrance tunnels so narrow it took us forever to pass through security and we got to our seats as the National Anthem was playing. The stadium itself is ensconced as if in a cul-de-sac, with only one road in and out, which means the ingress for buses is single lane, so just getting to the parking lot also took an eternity.

The game highlight of that Dallas Cowboys 52-17 blowout of the Buffalo Bill was the Texans’ defensive tackle Leon Lett picking up a Bills fumble and running it just to the fringe of the end zone, but not breaking the plane, preferring instead to preen, only to have the ball knocked out of his hand, costing the Cowboys a touchdown, which they certainly didn’t need with a huge lead. However, it also cost the holding the record for most Super Bowl points in a single game, which is 55 held by the San Francisco Giants. It endures as one of the most infamous plays in NFL annals, but I say Lett Leon alone already.

But the real highlight of that event didn’t happen as the game clock was ticking. Whereas I couldn’t even tell you right now without Googling it who performed at the three other halftime shows of the aforementioned Super Bowls, there’s no way to forget, between the halves, the sylph-like figurine that appeared first midfield, then magically materialized the next second perched high atop the Rose Bowl’s wall: it was a guy named Michael Jackson.