And don't you just love how they amp up the importance of this contest by numbering it with Roman numerals. As if this is even remotely Biblical?? What are we supposed to think? Disciple Simon Peter was the treasurer for the big football pool set up by Jesus. Come on! Get a grip, gang.
Of course, there was a time and a year, ages ago, that I did care. And it would be the first time in my very young life as as a crazy and likely obnoxious sports fan that I would be vindicated.
Super Bowl III. My team was in it. The New York Jets. How lucky could I get? Somebody that actually was rooting for was playing in the big game. Woo hoo! I might not ever get the opportunity to have a moment like this in my life ever again. Of course, about nine months later, I would be in a frenzy all over again when the Mets...my Mets...came out of complete mediocrity to win the World Series.
Of course, I would get to see the Mets do this again...well, one more time...in my life. As for the Jets and the Super Bowl? Yeah, we're still waiting.
But, in that football season preceding Super Bowl III, it was all that this kid could think about it. I hung on every pass and every penalty. You may have remembered that I previously wrote about the year where I went to a lot of Jets games at Shea Stadium courtesy of my mother's boss and her amorous boyfriend. Well, that ticket opportunity had dried up already. I didn't get to go to any Jets home games in that championship season. But I was glued to the television. Or, in the case of the big American Football League championship game, the radio. Back then, television coverage of pro football was not abundant.
I did what I could to stay intimately connected to the New York Jets.
When it was clear that my guys were moving onto the Super Bowl, I could focus on little else. I sat in class coloring in shapes on my textbook covers with shades of green and white. Around the house, I walked around with my little toy Jets football all day long. Tossing up and down. Side to side. In the air and then down. Grandma started to get fed up. She started to visualize some of her dining room crystal in pieces.
"You're gonna break something with that stupid thing of yours."
I didn't really listen. If I put the little toy ball down, I almost felt as if I would be severing the connection to my Jets.
Upstairs in our end of the house, I walked around nervously with my little toy Jets football all day. Tossing it up and down. My mother started to get fed up.
"One more time and that goes into the garbage."
Nobody understood what I was feeling.
As would be the case with most teams I rooted for in my life, the Jets never got any respect. But, for that matter, neither did the whole AFL, which was essentially gum on the shoe of any pro football fan. They can't be that important because, after all, it's not the NFL. The AFL team had gotten destroyed in the first two Super Bowls by those assholes from Wisconsin, the Green Bay Packers. What the heck could the Jets possibly do against this year's NFL juggernaut, the Baltimore Colts? Especially with quarterback Joe Namath, who had a big mouth and might be a regular wearer of panty hose.
Nevertheless, I viewed the upcoming game with excitement. And trepidation.
And a little toy Jets football in my hand.
For me, the week preceding the Super Bowl couldn't have gone faster. I awoke Saturday mentally preparing myself for the contest on Sunday. Back then, there wasn't the frenzy and chaos behind the Super Bowl that you witness today. But, in my mind on that day, there was enough frenzy and chaos in my mind to cover a dozen Super Bowl parties in 2013.
But, as I tried to mentally prepare myself, something else weird was going on. I had a headache.
Now, when I go for my annual physical every December, my current internist and I go through our traditional dialogue.
"You want a flu shot?"
"Doc, I don't get the flu."
"Then, okay, you don't need to get a flu shot."
And that's a fact. I never get a flu shot. Because there are only two times in my entire life when I got the flu. On New Year's Eve freshman year in college.
And on the Saturday before Super Bowl III.
By that night, I was as sick as a dog. It was the perfect storm of ailments. Head, stomach, and every bodily portal of entry and exit. I could barely lift my head off the pillow in my room to watch my favorite TV show, "Get Smart." I prayed silently that I would be better the next day. The Jets needed me in perfect condition.
Sunday morning was even worse. I got parental approval to move my carcass from my bedroom to the living room sofa so I could at least watch the game with my father.
Hugging my little toy Jets football, I curled up on the couch just as the opening whistle blew.
And promptly fell asleep.
As you probably know, this would be the greatest moment in Jets history ever.
I was in a coma for all of it.
My dad rustled me awake to tell me the final score. In my body of aches and torment, I could barely muster a smile.
And then I ran down to the bathroom so I could throw up.
Over time, I have gone in and out of fandom with the New York Jets. But they have never been in the Super Bowl since. And, given my luck, likely will be there. Because, somewhere in this crazy world of irony, somebody will note that the one time the Jets made the Super Bowl, this fan slept right through it.
And then threw up.
Dinner last night: Sausage and peppers sandwich at Vito's.
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