Amos

I’ve spent most of my adult life pet-free.

Some of that is due to living mostly in apartments that forbid pets.  But another part is that it’s so hard to top the pets I had as a kid.  We had the greatest cat and dog ever.  To love another pet that much would almost seem like cheating. 

When I was 14, having just moved to the Toledo area over the summer, we got a Siamese kitten.  A month or two later, for my 15^th birthday, I got to pick out a dog.  I selected a Golden Retriever.  The two animals accepted each other right off the bat and pretty much grew up together.  To write about them both would make an enormous post, so today I’m just going to talk about the cat.

My mom and I went to the breeder to take a look at a litter of Siamese.  These were seal-points; short hair, white chests, tawny backs, black paws, ears, mask and tail, and piercing blue eyes.

Mom surveyed the kittens, looking for The One.  “Gimme a stare, blue,” she said.

One little male sat amidst his playing siblings, cocked his head and gazed up at my mom and they locked eyes. 

“That’s the one.”

He sat on my lap on ride home, huddling close.  Very composed, for a kitten.

That night at bedtime, I took him with me.  I stuck him under the covers, where he spent the night against my chest, and most every night thereafter.  We had a tight bond from that first ride home, which never ever broke.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been around a Siamese before, but they don’t meow like normal cats.  They have an entire vocabulary from long polysyllabic yowls, to chortles and trills, to conversational little “waaah’s”.

This one used them all, from day one.  We’d never had a cat with so much to say.  In fact, he reminded us of a kid from the neighborhood we’d just left; a motor mouthed bundle of energy named Stamos, who we creatively called, “Amos Stamos.”

I don’t know if it was me that suggested we call the kitten Amos, but as soon as the name was put into play, everyone knew it was perfect.  And thus did this little loudmouthed ball of fun become our Amos.

He was a fun little kitten who would do things like fall asleep face-down in his supper dish, and then wake up and cry because he was still hungry.  His ears were so big for his little head… like radar dishes.  Every sudden noise, like the water turning on in the kitchen, he’d shoot 3 feet in the air.  Sometimes he’d get a wild hair and decide that we 2-legged people had gone far too long without being attacked.  He’d hide under the couch and as we’d walk by, 2 little black paws would shoot out from underneath to swat our ankles.

Amos went through the clumsy kitten stage fairly quickly.  He went from looking like a little black-faced white rat to a lithe, elegant Siamese that you so often see made into figurines. 

He’s about 13 in this shot, from my apartment in Cleveland.  He used to love to sit on the sofa back and look out the window, sniffing the breeze.  I had to keep telling him, “that’s not roadkill out there, it’s just Cleveland.”

Right from the outset, Amos always had to be where ever the action was.  Always on someone’s lap… usually the one in the room that liked cats the least.  Two of my best buddies hated cats… all cats… except this one.  Same with my Grandpa (the Storyteller).  He’d come to visit and Amos would immediately hop into his lap.

Grandpa would go “Get the hell out of here!” and push him off.  A few minutes later, Amos would jump up again and get brushed off again.  Later that day, I remember looking at Grandpa, with Amos in his lap, and Grandpa was actually petting him.  He saw me looking, looked down and said, “What the hell am I doing?  Get outta here!” and brushed him off again.

But after that, Amos got to stay.  He just wore Grandpa down.  I can see why one can’t help but pet him… his fur was always silky soft and smooth. 

This is Amos, New Years Eve of 1984, horning in on my buddies and I.  Like I said, he always had to be in the middle of everything.

The real thing with Amos is that he had character.  It was like you could have a conversation with him and he’d answer in the appropriate tone.

I remember one winter, after he’d done something wrong… I don’t remember what, maybe knocked something down, and at dinner, my dad yelled, “That cat better watch out or he’s gonna end up out in the snow!”

Right at that moment, from clear upstairs, we heard Amos go, “Yoooooooooooowwwwwwwwllllllllllll”, like he knew he was getting in trouble.  He had such great timing like that.  It just broke up the whole table and the tension as well.

He was the easiest cat in the world to take care of.  All he ever ate were dry Friskies.  You just kept his bowl filled and he’d nibble all day.  He never tried to cage food from the table… you couldn’t even feed him fish… he just didn’t want it.  But he had one weakness, we eventually found.

My parents brought me home some left over king crab legs from a dinner out.  Hot damn, one of my favorite things.  As I sat in a living room chair, salivating at the prospect of noshing on these goodies, here comes Amos bolting into the room.  He hops up on my lap and proceeds to intercept the crab lump out of my fingers, en route to my mouth.

I was like, “Dude, are you kidding me?  You like crab?”  I really didn’t want to share.  But he sat there on my lap, purring, chortling, and trilling like it was the best thing his little feline self had ever tasted.  Who knew that behind his simple Friskies, he had such expensive tastes.

In later years, that became his birthday present.  Mom would buy a little tin of lump crabmeat and feed it to him, sitting on the kitchen floor.

As I said before, he usually slept with me.  I always liked him up high, by my chest, but he always preferred to be around the knees.  I really should have just left him there, too.  One summer, I had the AC unit on, so covers were necessary.  I was sleeping shirtless and Amos was stretched out alongside me.  Then he did what most cats do… he streeeeeetched out his legs, with claws extended, which then raked me right down my bare chest.

I really hate to wake up screaming.  Scared the hell out of the cat too. 

Luckily that didn’t happen often.  Mostly, he had a way of going where he was needed.  Mom used to have terrible back pain.  Amos always seemed to know it too, because Mom would lay on the couch and Amos would go lay right up against the spot on her back that hurt.  He just knew.

Smelling the night air in Cleveland.

The year our family transitioned out of our old farmhouse in Toledo was trying.  Dad had to go out to Baltimore by himself… Mom and the rest of us stayed behind until the house sold.  I was already out of college and on my own, my brother was away at college and my sister was also out on her own.  During that time away, my dad developed an allergy to cats.  So when Mom moved out to Baltimore, she had to leave Amos with us.

In the following years, we all got turns with Amos.  He went to my sister first, then my brother.  I forget the reasons why now, but in 1989, my brother and mom brought him out to Cleveland to live with me.  They got to my apartment while I was at work.  I hadn’t seen Amos for probably 3-4 years, and wondered if he’d remember me. 

As I put the key in the door, I heard a “ka-thunk” from inside.  I opened the door and there was Amos, sitting in front of the door waiting for me.  Mom was asleep on the couch… that must have been the sound of Amos jumping down.  I picked him up to my chest and he put his forepaws on both my shoulders, looked at me and nuzzled my chin.

He remembered me all right.

I absolutely loved having him to come home to, always with the big greeting.  He never gave me a moment’s trouble, like trying to bolt out the door.  Mostly he was content to sit in the window and survey the parking lot.  He was getting older by then and had developed arthritis in his forepaws.  He’d lick them so often he actually licked the fur away, the poor thing.

So one day I decided to take him to the vet.  (I worked retail and my days off were few and far between.)  I didn’t have any kind of cat-carrier, so I just put him in the car with me.  Oh, he hated that.  He yowled the whole time in the car.

I was so proud of him though, when we got to the vet.  In a waiting room, surrounded by other pets of varying degrees of rambunctiousness, he sat very quietly on my lap, while I filled out the paperwork.  I didn’t even have to hold him; he just sat there unrestrained.  The nurse came over and said, “This must be Amos.”

Amos looked up and went, “rowr,” like he was saying, “yes, nice to meet you.”  Like I said, the timing on this guy…

We went back to the examining room and put him on the steel table.  He did not like that either.  He sat on the very edge of the table, pressing up against me hard.  The vet said, “He knows who his friend is, doesn’t he?”

Amos let the vet do whatever he needed to.  He made two noises… one little mewl when he got his temperature taken, like, “Aw Bluz, why’d you let him put that thing in my aaaass?”  And he made one little strained squeak when he got his cortisone shot.  But that was it.  Best of all, it worked.  His paws felt better, he stopped licking them and the fur grew back in no time.

In 1990, I had to move to Albany NY, very quickly.  I was given a day and a half to go there and find a place to live.  The best I could find (for the money I’d be making out there) was a 1-bedroom apartment that didn’t allow pets.  In fact, they had it in the lease that they could confiscate the animal if it was found on the premises.  So I had to live there with Amos secretly for several months, until I could send him back to my brother.

But we had a great time there up until then.  My grocery store there had this bin of frozen shrimp that you could buy by the pound… I know that’s not new now, but I’d never seen that before.  So that would be my Thursday “Be Kind to Bluz Day,” that entailed shrimp cocktail, a fresh jug of wine and a night of Seinfeld and Must See TV.

I’d be cooking up the shrimp and Amos would just go nuts.  He’d chirp and chirp… “Brrrt!  Brrrt!”  I’d try to quiet him down, for fear of someone hearing, but nothing would work until I could get the shrimp out of the pot and into the freezer to chill.

Then I’d prepare my plate and take it out to the living room to eat.  I’d get a drink coaster and tear up a shrimp for his Siamese Majesty.  He’s snarf one down and then quietly chirp for another.  I’d tear up another and that would usually satisfy him.  Then he’d just sit beside me while I ate.  That was our routine.  He was fine, once he got his little taste.  Soon after that, he started asking for bits of steak.  Go figure… I’d cut up a tiny bit for him on the coaster, he’d eat it, and that would be that.  He didn’t want much, just a little taste.  I really think he just wanted to participate.

I got him off to my brother without incident, where he grew to be a creaky old man.  My sister-in-law took him to get a portrait done, and oh, he did NOT want to cooperate.  Wouldn’t look at the camera for anything.  Then finally, he shot one look, like, “OK?  Is that enough?  Can I go now?”

I love that picture, how he has his tail curled around him just so.  He’d do that whenever he felt like being regal (which was most of the time.)

But then my sister-in-law topped it when she took this one. 

He was 16 or 17 here, sitting on the straight-backed chair like he owned the place, with that “What are you looking at?” expression.  He was still arthritic and probably couldn’t straighten out his forepaws like he used to when he sat up straight. 

Then it was December of 1993 and I was at my desk at work when my brother called.  Amos had been suffering in the last month.  He could barely walk now without leaning over.  When I’d visited a couple years prior, I could see how it hurt him every time he’d jump down from a chair or the bed.  He’d seize up for a second, then walk very gingerly away, holding his head high.  Ed told me the vet said Amos’s kidneys were failing.  There wasn’t much they could do.  He had a vet appointment at 6 that evening to have him put to sleep.  He just called because he knew I’d want to know.

I went home that night and poured myself a stiff drink.  I sat down in my recliner and pulled out my photo album and looked at the pictures you see above.  As 6:00 came and went, I toasted the memory of the finest cat I had ever known.

My wife came home shortly after, saw me and wanted to know what was wrong.  All I could do was point at the pictures and shake my head.  I couldn’t speak but she understood.

I just thank God that it was my brother that went through it in person and not me.  I’d have been a horrible mess.  I’m eternally grateful that he was strong enough to do right by the old boy and see him out peacefully.  Amos was 17 years old and left a long list of friends and family behind.  He had a good life and was always surrounded by people that loved him. 

He’s buried in my brother’s back yard, in a little velvet-lined box that his father-in-law made.  Whenever I’m back there, I always cast a long look over to the rosebush he rests beneath.  I was so lucky to have known such a fine fur fellow.  He’s one that broke the mold.  I don’t know how another will ever measure up.

Puck Droppings

I love hockey. I fell in love with it when I was in 3^rd grade. That’s the year I got ice skates and a hockey stick for Christmas. I learned how to skate with a stick in my hand and that’s just how it was. 

Now when I say, “learned how to skate”, you have to take that with a grain of salt. I learned how to scramble around a bumpy lake or snow-packed street without falling down very much. The hockey stick was like that big pole that high-wire acts use. But that first time skating, there was no teaching, just “You have skates, here’s your stick, there’s the ice… get out there.”

I never played organized hockey when I was growing up. That seemed way too complicated. But every day in the winter, my brother and I would be out on the street or on a local pond, “skating” around and shooting pucks at each other. Even in the summer, we’d play in the garage. One of us would grab a baseball glove and guard a little spot between two pieces of firewood we’d use for a goal. We’d use either a real puck or a baseball. Man, my shins got so banged up sometimes that I could hardly walk. 

We learned to skate on figure skates… that just happened to be what we got for that 3^rd grade Christmas, so that’s what we used and never thought twice about it. I got a pair of hockey skates once in junior high school and I hated them. They didn’t have toe-picks, so I couldn’t push off. (Remember, I didn’t really know how to skate properly. Left to our own, we used our toe-picks to get started.)

A toe-pick almost killed me once… or rather, killed my ego. I was a teenager, skating at night on our neighbor’s pond, on a beautiful crisp night. I was telling someone how sometimes when I almost fall, I can throw a quick spin-around and come out of it looking like I did it all on purpose. I told my friend, “sometimes I can be pretty graceful”.  he exact moment I said the word “graceful," my toe-pick hit a crack in the ice and I pitched forward, flat on my face, spinning in lazy circles as I slid another 20 feet. Pride indeed cameth before the fall.

In college I took a semester of figure skating and it was the greatest thing. It was also hard, because I had to unlearn everything I’d ever “learned.” 

The best thing I learned was that it helps to have sharp skates. My instructor had wondered why a big strapping guy like me was having such trouble with the rudimentary drills with which she started us.  She said, “Let me see your blades.” 

I showed her the blade of my old skates. She said, “Oh my God. Take those off right now.”

My blades were about as sharp as butter knife handles. What the hell did I know? I thought skates were skates.

She got me in a pair of house skates that were sharp; ones with actual inside and outside edges. Holy hell! I had no idea skating could be like that! I could stop, turn, and accelerate. It was like the first time I put on glasses, not knowing how well the rest of the world could see.

I didn’t learn anything terribly difficult in skating class, but I did re-learn how to skate, forward and backward. I could even do those fancy backward crossovers. I could do a 180-degree jump, in other words, skating backward, jumping, and coming down on the other for, going forward. On the last day of class, right at the end, I tried to do a 360. Almost pulled it off, too. The teacher was not amused.  “Do NOT try that again… you’re nowhere near ready for that!”

OK, OK. I had to try though. I was still young and indestructible.

After that class, I hardly ever got to skate. Too busy making a living and trying to find my way in the world. Next thing you know, 13 years down the road, I’m married (cold chill runs down back), living in Albany NY in 1996, spotting an ad in the Pennysaver announcing the formation of a new co-ed, non-checking hockey league in Saratoga Springs.

I called and found out that it was started by a group of hockey parents. They’d had a pickup game, grownups against the kids, and leared how much fun it was to get on the ice and play. They decided to do so regularly and thus the “league” was born. I wanted in immediately and even without being a parent, I was welcomed with open arms.

First, I had to get suited up. I’d never owned a single piece of hockey equipment other than skates and a stick. I had no idea what was involved. A trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods was a necessity. Luckily, the guy in their hockey department took good care of me. He gave me everything I’d need for such a league and was careful not to overdo it. Like, for a non-checking game, I wouldn’t need the big robo-shoulder pads; a nice light pair would do just fine. It’s a good thing he was there; I didn’t even know how to put all the stuff on. 

And yes, I got some nice new hockey skates. No more toe picks for this guy.

I had no idea what to expect from the Just For Fun League when I showed up that first night. The rink was pretty primitive, but then so were my skills. I needn’t have worried though, because so were everyone else’s. I’d been worried I’d stand out as a novice, but in fact, I was in about the middle of the pack, skills-wise.

While the name says “Just for Fun League”, it really wasn’t a league as much as a big pickup game.  There would be about 20 players and we’d divide up teams. At first, we’d just throw all the sticks on the ice and then they’d be separated randomly forming the 2 sides. Later, after our skill sets became apparent, Ellen the “founder” (and one of the goalies) would take people of similar skill by 2’s and divide them, so that no one side could accidentally become stacked.

I scored a goal that first night so I at least felt like I belonged, early on. In the early years, we were all pretty raggedy. There were some epic collisions, not because we were looking to hit, but because we weren’t very good at stopping and turning in time before, WHAM.

One of the cool things was that by design, you’d get to play every position. First, you’d have your starting five and then as people got tired (usually after 1-2 minutes) they’d come to the bench and holler their position. Whoever was up next would go in and take that position. That way, no one could monopolize any one position.

The first thing I learned was that playing hockey was nothing like playing softball. In softball, you spend most of your time waiting for something to happen. It usually didn't involve you. It was mostly standing around, followed by short bursts of activity. If you screwed something up, maybe you got a chance to redeem yourself, maybe you didn’t.

In hockey, it’s nothing but activity. You can lose the puck, stop the other guy, take it back, take a shot, and make a pass, all in about 30 seconds. It’s constant ebb and flow. You really don’t have time to dwell on mistakes because you’re immediately onto the next thing.

I loved the speed, the woosh of the wind in your earholes, your hair blowing in the breeze behind you. Yeah, I was a long-hair back then.  (at least in the back) My idol of that era was Jaromir Jagr. Hockey fans and Burghers who were around in the 90s know who I’m talking about. For everyone else, Jagr joined the Penguins at age 18, directly from Czechoslovakia. He was a mullet-wearing, free-spirited bundle of talent back then and I totally wanted to be him. For most of our games, I wore a white Pens jersey with his number 68 on it.  

About once a year, I’d have my wife come to a game and shoot some video. I was sure we’d all look fabulous out there flying around at such great speed. Then I watched the tape.

Oh. My. God. We were sooooo slooooooooooooooow. I don’t know how it’s possible to feel like you're zooming all over the place and then see the tape of everyone drifting seemingly aimlessly about the ice.  It was excruciating. 

Don’t believe me? Check this out… Look for big #68 to pounce on a puck and hit the post with a wrist shot. All in super-slo-mo.

Now check out the world's slowest fast break. You can time me going from the red line to the top of the circle with a sun-dial. I must say though, even though you can’t really see it, (camera-wife lost me) I totally beat the goalie like a rented mule, on the far side. Watch how angrily he swats the puck out of the net. 

But still, it really gave me an appreciation of how fast the pros must be going. Those guys really fly.

I played for 4 years and had the time of my life. It was very gratifying, over the years, to see the overall skill level pick up. We were worlds better the 4^th year than we were when we started. 

If I had to scout me, it would be like this:

Good skating in straight lines; not so maneuverable.  Outstanding reach. Hard to get around.

Smaller players skated rings around me, but I could often catch them if I turned and skated alongside.  Having long arms helped a great deal. If I was facing someone on a break, they’d go around me like I was a 6’5” traffic cone. (The skates add 2".) But if I turned and went the same direction, I could always interfere with their shot and usually force them wide.

Good in the corners, a grinder.

My skating or puck skills weren’t going to dazzle anyone, so I decided I’d try to out-hustle. I’d be the guy chasing the puck, battling people, and fishing the puck out of the corners.

Great wrist shot, absolutely no slapshot.

I couldn’t shoot a slapshot to save my life. I’d either wiff or it would just kind of dribble up there. But I was a sniper with a wrist shot. I was one of the few people who could lift the puck easily; it’s something I’d always been able to do since I was a kid. Every shot came at least knee-high. I had this one stick I got from the local minor league team that had a wicked curve and loft to it. It took me a while to get the handle on it, because every shot would go high and to the left. I took a shot from the right point once and almost took off our defenseman’s head. She was standing at the bottom of the left circle.

(There was another guy that just had a cannon of a slap shot, but he couldn’t control it. I called it the Moses Shot, because he’d wind up from the point and everyone would just part like the Red Sea. No one had any idea where it was going to end up and it was seldom on net.)

Plays sportsmanlike game but don’t get him riled up.

I was so glad it was a non-hitting game, because another thing I learned is how easy it is for one’s passions to run over. I normally played a very gentlemanly game, but if someone were to, say, jostle me, elbow me, or knock me off the puck in any way, it was like my eyes would turn red and I’d just want to plow into someone. I’d go all “Francis” (from the movie Stripes) on them and make it my mission to “accidentally” mash the offender into the glass, the post, the ice, or whatever. 

I was only ever called for 2 penalties, 1 of which I deserved. One of the bigger dudes (4” shorter than me but about 50 lbs heavier) knocked me off the puck and stole it, taking it up ice. I got up and just charged. I was praying he’d keep possession of the puck because I thought that would give me cover. I caught up to him (good in a straight line, remember?) and basically flew at him like My Cousin Vinny did to the redneck that wanted to fight him. 

Tweeeeeet!  Two minutes!

Then I had the nerve to stand there with my arms out going, “What?”

It was a learning experience playing with the women, and sometimes their daughters. I found that while they may not have shot as hard as the guys or were as physical, they skated better and were better passers. What was hard for me was getting into the physical battles for the puck. While we were a no-checking group, there was a lot of pushing, shoving, and muscling for the puck. I always felt like I shouldn’t do that with the women. I was brought up to never raise a hand to a lady and that was a hard thing to overcome.

The women helped me with that though, mostly by stealing the puck off of me with great regularity, so often that I wanted to kill them. There were 2 in particular, the teenage daughters of a 40-something player named Joanne. We’d be in the locker room afterward, (no one was getting naked, just getting pads off and on) and I told one of them how troubled I was about not wanting to be rough with them.

They basically laughed at me, telling me that the boys they play with in their own league have no such inhibitions. Made me feel better, anyway. I still didn’t knock them around like I could have, but I didn’t feel so bad about using my size if I had to.

There was one guy with whom I had some epic battles. He was a smaller guy, but a great skater and puck handler. He was greasy fast. I didn't know his name for the early part of my playing time, so I just thought of him as "My Nemesis."

As a way to get better, I decided I would make it my mission to be the one to try to stop this guy. So I'd chase him around the ice at length in an effort to steal the puck, and he regularly undressed me like a a saloon girl. But... I got better. It got so I took the puck off him about as often as he turned me into a pylon. That was about as good as I could have hoped. I lived for the stick-tap to the shin guard he'd give me after I'd make play on him.

I eventually learned that his name was Danny and over drinks, that he was a really good guy.

The family aspect of our group also made for some memorable encounters. I was skating with Joanne one game and she got smacked into behind the net. I went flying up to put a shoulder on the guy that did it, but I pulled up at the last moment when I saw that it was her husband!

We got back to the bench and I told her I almost went after her husband. She looked pissed. I said, “You want me to get him, next shift?”

She was like, “Hell yeah!”

Anyway, it was really a great group of people. We’d chase each other around for an hour and a half and then limp down to the pub and drink for another two. Good times.

It killed me to leave all that behind, but my non-hockey life was in the toilet. Divorced, working a shitty job with horrible hours, living like a monk… there was nothing left for me in New York. 

One night I made a list of all the reasons I should move to Baltimore to be near family, versus all the reasons I should stay. Needless to say, one list was very long and the other was quite short. The biggest reason on the short list, the one to stay in New York, was playing hockey. But sadly, there had to be more to life than that couple hours a week every winter, so I moved on to start a new life chapter.

But I’ll never forget the woosh of the wind in my ears and long-gone hair blowing behind me.

Big Giant Killer Death Storm Pt 2

I really wasn’t going to post about the snow again but sometimes life just has other ideas.  We got about 30” over the weekend.  That’s a record snowfall for the Baltimore area.  There’s just nowhere to put it all.

I handled it in stages.  Saturday, I was able to go out and clear the snow off my car.  I figured that was a good start.  On Sunday, I tackled the area behind my car that was covered by 3 feet of snow.  Without a shovel.

I really should buy a shovel.  I’ve resisted so far because I live in an apartment complex.  I don’t think I should have to buy any kind of outdoor tools, just on principle.  I may have to rethink that strategy.  Even though I’ve only needed a shovel twice in 12 years, I really could have used one.  My principles weren’t very good at moving snow.  The broom I used to clear my car just wasn’t cutting it.  My only option was to kick the snow away.  My neighbors were probably getting a good laugh out of it.  I looked like a clumsy Rockette.

This is what I was dealing with:

It was actually quite pretty when I went out to clear the car.

You could see that I had my work cut out for me.

This was from later in the week, at things began to thaw a bit.

So it started snowing again yesterday afternoon.  I tried to go to work but after spending a solid half hour waiting for the subway train that never appeared, I thought better of it.  Lord knows what kind of CF was looming if I should I get on and then, God forbid, attempt to come home later.  I was especially ticked because the MTA website said they were running as scheduled on both tracks.  I detest being lied to by government agencies.  So I bailed on the day.

It snowed all last night and it’s still snowing out now.  Plus it’s blowing around like a cyclone.

This was from an hour ago.  I’m going to have my work cut out for me again to dislodge my car.

You can kind of see the fog of blowing snow in this shot.

Obviously I’m home again today and I’m wondering if I’ll ever go back to work.  If only I could find a way to get paid to stay home, sleep late, read the paper, write blogs and watch sports.

Super Bowling Pt 2

Part 1 of this story is immediately below.  If this is the first thing you're seeing, you should scroll down and start at the beginning.  It'll make much more sense that way.

*****

We could see from the TV monitors in the casino that the lines to get in were tremendous.  Once we could see that they were letting people in, we got moving and got into line… a line that was over 6 blocks long.  Enterprising citizens of Detroit were selling beers from store doorways, which helped pass the time.  Also helping kill time were the group of anti-abortion protesters holding graphic signs and screaming at everyone in line.

God’s children, ruining everyone’s time in line.

They were really bothering our friend Margaret, as they were calling everyone sinners, apparently for going to a football game and not spending the day in church.  I’m not sure what their excuse was.  Margaret tried to plead her case to them but of course they just kept up with their speechifying.  I tried to tell her that these people weren’t interested in listening to anyone; they were only interested in condemning them.

Most of the time, stadiums have multiple entrances all around the venue.  For the Super Bowl, there was only one, although there might have been another on the opposite side.  That’s what made the lines so long… that and the giant security station.  They had a large tented area were everyone had to go through an airport-like security check.  They checked our bags, did a pat down and we walked through the big metal detectors.

Once through that, it was home free.  We skipped on up to the entrance, eager for our first sip of Super Bowl atmosphere.  But first I had to stop and stare at little Linda Cohn, sportscaster with ESPN, as she interviewed people in the crowd.  I would have stayed longer and was hoping to get a picture but the rest of my crew was steadily steaming ahead.

It was weird seeing all the Lions signage inside Ford Field.  You just don’t mentally link the Lions with the idea of the Super Bowl.  But the venue was indeed very nice.

My parents, showing off their tickets, on the concourse behind the corner of the end zone.

We were stunned to find how good our seats were… 2^nd row of the 2^nd deck.  And in the row in front of us, it was nothing but press photographers.  This was great, because they never stand up, they just sit there with their one-legged camera stands and long lenses.

This was our vantage point. 

At least this was my vantage point.  Ed and Margaret sat a couple rows behind my parents, Bob and me.

The players all ran out from the corner at our lower right.  The towels were really flying, but it’s hard to tell from the shot.

This looks more like what we saw.  I believe this shot is from the Post Gazette.

I couldn’t get over the ratio of Steeler fans to Seahawk fans.  It’s like they weren’t even there.  I’d put the ration at 85/15.  Steeler fans owned the place.  This became evident during the introductions of the past Super Bowl MVPs.  When Franco ran out as the MVP of Super Bowl IX, waving a terrible towel, the place just went crazy.  And you should have heard the boos for Tom Brady when he went out.  You could see him laughing about it.

Pre-game entertainment was stellar.  Stevie Wonder played a rocking medley of his hits, then Aaron Neville and Aretha Franklin blew out the National Anthem.  That’s when it really hit me that I was actually at the Super Bowl.  I wished like hell my friend Brill could have seen this day.  I couldn’t help but tear up, just a bit.

But then the player introductions began and there were yells to yell and towels to wave.  I’ll never forget Jerome Bettis charging alone onto the field, whooping and hollering, then turning around and going, “Where the hell is everybody?”  We couldn't see Joey Porter holding everyone back, but we figured as much.  It was a classy move to give the Bus his spotlight in his hometown.

The game had an under whelming start.  The Seahawks seemed to move up and down the field at will, firing short pass after short pass.  The Steelers went 3 and out time after time and couldn't seem to get out of their own way.

The Steelers, starting at their own 20, for the umpteenth time.

We went to halftime, up 7-0, owing to a short run from Ben.  Whether he crossed the goal line is still debated.  The Seahawks have been whining about it ever since.  As far as I’m concerned, photos I’ve seen online remove all doubt.  He didn’t make it by more than an eyelash, but he made it.

The halftime show was great… It was the Stones!  We were in the same building as Mick and Keef!  Just breathing the same air as Keith Richards will add at least 3 years to your life.  

The 2^nd half began with a bang, as Willie Parker ripped off a 75-yard run right into our end zone.  The place just went berserk.  I will never forget the sight of Fast Willie churning down the field, with no one else even close to him.  There was exactly zero suspense about that play.  He got past the line and was just gone! 

After that, the Steelers just started putting the game away, while the Seahawks blew play after play.  They were called for penalties and dropped several key passes.  Looked like a serious case of the yips, to me.

The Steelers administered the coup de grace with the Antwaan Randle El pass to Hines.  That play went away from us but was on our side of the field.  You could see Hines streaking wide open and we just prayed that the pass would end up somewhere near him.  It was a true thing of beauty.

Bob, my parents and moi, realizing that the Steelers were going to win Super Bowl XL.

On the Seahawks last possession, they worked very hard to remove any suspense.  Their 2-minute drill was atrocious as they pissed away a great deal of time.  When the clock ran out, I barely realized it.  But then there is was.  The Pittsburgh Steelers were Super Bowl Champions, finally attaining that legendary “One for the Thumb.”

Bedlam on the field, as the trophy presentation stage is set up at midfield.

When I was a teenager, Super Bowl championships seemed to be my birthright.  Next thing you know, 26 years had rolled by and my perspective had changed.  Only then did I begin to understand what my dad had gone through with the Steelers, prior to 1972.  Nothing makes victory sweeter than the endless years of failed seasons.

We stayed for a while, just soaking in the winning vibe.  We saw the trophy accepted and handed around.  We saw the Bus retire after a long, fabulous career.  We cheered when Hines Ward was named MVP.

This shot was specially framed to include the final score.

But eventually we had to get the hell out of Dodge, so we high-tailed it to our outlying parking lot and actually got out to the freeway in pretty good time.  We got back to my buddy John’s house about 1:00 am, to find that he was still up and waiting for us with some Gentlemen Jack.

We toasted all around, to a great season, to a satisfying victory, to good family and friends and to the joy of being a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.

The ticket to my dreams.

All pictures, with the one noted exception, were taken by my brother or me.  You may click on any of them to see a larger, clearer version.  bluz

Super Bowling Pt 1

With Super Bowl XLIV taking place this weekend, it’s time to dip into the family grab bag of Super Bowl stories.

Super Bowl XIII

My dad has always had to travel for business and developed quite a knack for scheduling trips to places where the Steelers just so happened to be playing, (like the Steelers/Dolphins Thursday night game I blogged about here.)

Dad hit the jackpot when he scheduled a trip to Miami for Super Bowl XIII; the 2^nd Steelers/Cowboys Super Bowl.  Once in Miami, he planned on going down to the Orange Bowl and buying a ticket on the street.

On his way there, sitting at a red light in a rented convertible, someone called to him from another car, “Hey, need a ticket?”

Just like that, Dad had a game ticket for the grand price of $40.  Now the question was, is it a real ticket and if so, where were the seats?

The answer was “yes,” and “the 40 yard line, surrounded by celebrities.”  Dad was sitting among OJ Simpson, one of his linemen and a dazzling blond he later recognized as the ill-fated Nicole, Ted Knight, and Joe DiMaggio.  There may have been others but I don’t remember the rest.  Ted Knight actually bought him a hot dog.  I think it went like this:


Ted: Would you like a hot dog?
Dad: I want a hamburger... no, a cheeseburger.  I want a hot dog, I want a milkshake, I want potato chips...
Ted: You'll get nothing and like it!

Hot dog in hand, he then had the privilege of watching one of the most exciting Super Bowls ever played. 

Super Bowl XXX

At the time, it killed me not to be able to go to this one.  The Steelers hadn’t been in a Super Bowl for 15 years, which seemed like an eternity at the time.

Both my brother and my dad were going.  Both were able to arrange business trips to the area, so plane fare and hotels were covered.  I was not so lucky.

I’d just gotten married, lost a job and had only recently started working again.  I knew better than to even mention wanting to go, so I had to settle for living vicariously through my brother and dad.

They came back telling great stories about the swarms of Steelers fans that took over the town.  They said the Cowboys fans just didn’t know what to make of them.  The hotel had 2 large outdoor tents; one for each set of fans.  The Cowboys tent seemed to be a more sedate affair… lots of moneyed people wearing furs and boots. 

The Steelers tent was, well, I’m sure you could imagine.  It was a raucous affair with lots of IC Light, good food and dancing.  Dad spent a good part of the night doing the polka with whoever wanted a quick whirl.

The game, however was another story.

I’ve never experienced a more soul-crushing loss in all my Steeler-watching years.  The 2^nd half comeback was riveting!  The onside kick recovery was a ballsy call.  The Big Nasty D had the Cowboys’ offense’s number.  The Cowboys had no answer for Bam Morris and were completely back on their heels.  The Steelers were one score back and the game was Right There for the taking.

Then came that 2^nd interception.  I don’t even remember anything that happened after that play.  I don’t remember the rest of the game, our party guests leaving, or even going to bed.  I do remember being very glad I didn’t mortgage the farm to go to that game.  Can there be anything worse than attending your very first Super Bowl, going through hell’s half acre to get there and then lose?

Which brings us to...

Super Bowl XL  

2005 was an incredible season that really started in 2004.  That was Ben’s rookie year.  We went to a lot of games that year… We saw the Steeler lose at Baltimore, in the game that made Ben a starter after Maddox got hurt.  We saw the very next game, Ben’s first start, against the Dolphins in Miami, following Hurricane Jeanne.  (Full story of that adventure is blogged here and part 2 is here.)  We saw the game against the Jets in Pittsburgh.

My brother lucked out and hit the Steeler Season Ticket Waiting List Lottery for the playoffs and so we then had the opportunity to go to the Jets game, featuring the Holy Doink (Jets kicker misses 2 field goals in the last 2 minutes, including one off the post) and the AFC Championship game against the Patriots (aka Soul-Crushing loss #2).

Getting this far with a rookie QB made the prospects for the 2005 season very bright.  That year we traveled to Green Bay for the Steelers/Packers game and saw the Steelers lose in OT in Baltimore as Tommy Maddox had to step in for an injured Ben. 

After losing 3 in a row, the Steelers won their last 4, starting with the Bus rolling over the Bears in a Heinz Field snowstorm.  They charged into the playoffs with the 6^th seed and a game in Cincinnati.  That’s where my brother and I met this clown and almost had to fight our way out of the parking lot:

Huge wins against the Colts (the Heart Attack game) and the Broncos (a Mile High shellacking) set up the Jerome Bettis Homecoming Super Bowl in Detroit MI.  As I touched on in this post, this game was the perfect storm. 

First of all, it was within driving distance, eliminating the need for airfare.  Second, we grew up in Toledo and have a great nest of friends there.  We could stay with them and forget about hotel reservations.  All we had to do was get tickets.  This job is always entrusted to my brother, The Ticketmaster.

He was able to secure a block of tickets, but it wasn’t going to be cheap.  There was a block of 6 tickets available at $2600 apiece.  That was a big chunk to swallow.  To do this, I’d have to devote my entire annual bonus and tax return, then live fairly lean for the rest of the year.  Even so, it was still going to be uncomfortably tight, so my brother and dad told me to fork over the 2K and they’d help with the rest.  For this I have been eternally grateful.

So my parents planned to fly up from Florida and Ed and I drove out from Baltimore.  The other 2 ticket were claimed by long-time football trip-going friends.  Bob, who came with us on the Hurricane Trip and many other football adventures, drove out from Charlotte NC.  The other ticket went to Margaret, an old Toledo neighbor who was a veteran of the many Cleveland trips we undertook in the 80’s.

Weather was an issue, however.  We had to bump up our departure time and plow through some snow to get to my buddy’s house, but we made it uneventfully.  Bob had a much tougher time coming up from the south.

Normally when you think of going to the Super Bowl, you’re thinking about sunshine and palm trees.  Not so with this one.  Detroit was coated with about a foot of snow and temps were in the 20’s.  It was terribly difficult to find our war around because all the street signs were covered with blown snow.  And apparently all Detroit could afford by way of event signage were some marker-on-cardboard signs, which were taped under various street signs. 

Our first order of business was to secure the tickets.  To do that, we had to get to a Detroit hotel, where the sellers (ticket brokers) had a “suite.”  How long could that take?

Answer, “forever.”  There was a line that snaked back and forth across the entire width of the hotel floor, crammed with people full of Super Bowl dreams.  Gee, it seems there’s a lot of money to be made in reselling Super Bowl tickets.  What I wonder is where they all came from?  These brokers had access to literally thousands of tickets.  Don’t tell me there’s not a ton of back-room dealing at the league level.  It also occurred to me that it would make a great “heist” movie if someone could do a story about ripping off a ticket broker at the Super Bowl.  I’m picturing “Ocean’s Eleven”, with jocks.

Our tickets came with a tailgate party, which we located about 11:00 and was within sight of the stadium. 

It looked close, but of course, "you couldn't get there from here."  We had a long way to go before we could get inside.

Unfortunately it didn’t officially “start” until noon, so we had nothing to do but stand around and freeze.  When it finally did open, we realized that cold beers and lukewarm hot dogs were not really helping our attitudes, so we bailed on the tailgate and went to hang out in a Greektown casino.  I figure I’ve paid my suffering-in-the-snow tailgating dues with that 11-degree game against the Patriots.

Our tailgate site.

 Family portrait... Freezing together, cheesing together.

Next: It’s Gametime!