Seeing every swinging dick with a computer will be doing a liveblog during today’s big game, old Steelhead has other plans. Why wait for kickoff, and do a liveblog for the tailgate? I’m sitting in an empty Louisiana Superdome parking lot as we speak, eagerly waiting for other revelers to arrive and party. Most readers understand that I will be blottoed by the national anthem, so this idea is perfect. Sit back, crack a PBR, and enjoy the Super Bowl atmosphere, hours before the game even takes place.
I am the first person here, and this place is a vacant ghost town. All my assumptions that this Super Bowl would be the wildest, rowdiest celebration of all-time are dwindling. Lucky for me, the gas station sells bourbon, a New Orleans staple. I buy a bottle of Beam, and ask the clerk who he is rooting for. He replies “Steelers,” and is obviously on meth, seeing they aren’t even playing today. He gives my attire (Bears knit hat complete with ball on top, Mark Bortz jersey) a disdainful look, but fuck him, did the Saints go 15-1 this year? Didn’t think so. I high-tail it back to the lot in hopes nobody snaked my spot, and am relieved to see there is still nobody here yet. Time to pour a drink.
Jim is a genius…
Here we go, signs of life. A few natives stroll through the lot in my direction. I ask if they know what time the Bears bus is supposed to arrive, and get a death stare. Instead of politely answering my question, one man pulls out a knife and threatens to stab my face if I don’t cough up my wallet in a thick, almost unintelligible accent. Dammit, I had a 1986 Harold Baines Slurpee coin in my blue velcro beauty, but oh well, I guess my face is more important. With my wallet gone, and “Bayou Billy” now the proud new owner of my coin, looks like it’s time for another drink. These morons didn’t even take my ticket to the big game! Things are certainly turning up Steelhead today.
You know what I’m talking about
I’m really starting to get excited now, for the Bears bus should arrive any minute. I’m camped in a perfect spot to unveil my sign for Coach Ditka that reads, “Is Your Fridge Running?” Apparently nobody else thinks as highly of our division and conference winning team, for there is nobody around, not even Pat fans. Not too much to report right now other than I’m getting slightly drunk, and that “Super Bowl party atmosphere” people boast about is a complete sham.
Awesome, now give Walter the fucking football for crissake…
The police arrive, and ask me what I’m doing hanging out by the entrance gates. Like these assholes don’t know. I reply, “Waiting for the Bears bus to arrive. You two mongoloids realize that the Super Bowl is today right? God, we are gonna fucking smash the Pats today!!! I hope you don’t have to clean the inside of the dome afterwards, because Tony Eason and Steve Grogan’s blood is gonna be fucking splattered everywhere once Dent and the boys get their hands on ’em.” They proceed to ask how much I’ve had to drink, and inform that there is no game today, urging me to go home. It’s obvious what is going on here: they want my spot, and possibly my ticket. They lose interest when their rover announces “Person stabbed in face on Bourbon Street after wallet dispute.” Apparently that guy had a Mike Pagliarulo Slurpee coin in his wallet, and naturally refused to part with it.
Take my eyes, but not the ticket
We have officially hit the afternoon, and people should be pouring in any minute, just like I’m pouring a shit load of Beam into this drink. Everytime I see a bus, my heart flutters, knowing one of these will be pulling into the stadium to deliver our beloved Bears. The Super Bowl Shuffle is screaming in my head, and I am a one man party, for I have to be: NOBODY else is here. I wait and wait and wait, like Marino during a pass play. Hope is running out. I’ll be on Bourbon Street in an hour.
Screw the tailgate, time to hit up BS
With the tailgate sucking ass, I meander over to BS, hit up a little shithole (my type of place), and order a Hurricane to switch things up a bit. The barmaid can tell I’m dissappointed, and asks what’s wrong. She just opened Pandora’s Box. I explain how this year’s Super Bowl party scene is shitty as hell, and the game can’t start soon enough. She recalls how in 1986 the Bears fans came and ripped the living piss out of BS for an entire weekend, and that was the best atmosphere she has seen for the big game. Confused, I pull out my ticket, and quickly realize it isn’t the ’85-’86 season anymore, and sob hysterically.
Good old days….
The moral of my story is simple: Doesn’t matter what year it is, or what SB is being played, I spend that Sunday reminiscing about the most dominating team in sports history, the ’85 Bears. Never has a team captured the hearts of so many, and they will forever be legends in the city of Chicago. I’m off to watch the America’s Game story chronicling that magical season, and promise to not sob uncontrollably until at least the 5 minute mark.
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