My Super Bowl Experience. A not so short story.

Tuesday, January 1, 2019. 5:00 AM.

Luna Rae joins our family, the 1st baby born that year in the Seattle hospital.

Now, Meg and I live in Minnesota. Our son, Chris, and Kate live in Seattle. When we heard of Kate’s due date, we thought we would schedule our trip to meet Luna Rae for late January, at which point the new parents would have had a chance to settle in a bit.

Little did we know that the date we chose for our flight home would be the day on which the Rams played the Pats in the Super Bowl. While we were in the air. And little did I know the ordeal that awaited me.

We began our trip in Palm Springs, where I hoped to play some golf. Weirdly, however, I somehow wrenched my left hip and it became a severe problem. It really hurt, I didn’t play much golf, and I worried about the ordeal of busy airports. I had to hobble along through airport security and it even hurt to sit.

So we land in Seattle, meet the delightful Luna Rae, and Chris and I watch England win a 6 Nations match. And then it’s time to go to the airport to fly home.
Now, I have my own emotional hang-ups about watching my sports teams. I DO NOT want to know anything about how the game is going. If we had won, the experience of watching would be muted. If we had lost, I’d never watch the game, and I would miss my lads in the freaking Super Bowl. So I want to get home knowing nothing and watch the game.

But this is the freaking Super Bowl. I have to pass through SEATAC and MSP, 2 major airports, during the freaking game that thousands of people around me are going to be watching.

So I have devised an ersatz cone of silence mode. Hat brim pulled down over my eyes. Head phones that aren’t particularly sound proof in my ears and music playing. I am determined to avoid people, hum a lot, and begin about 6 hours of laboriously maintaining isolation tank conditions. It’s gonna be tough.

We get out to Chris’s car and it is snowing. Hard. As it does in Minnesota. I am told this isn’t very common in Seattle. Of course, Seattle sees its share of weather, and the roads are OK. But are we going to get off in time? I can just see a canceled flight and hours of avoiding the news in a thronged airport.

We get to SEATAC, and we have the first and last really good break of the day. There is almost no one in the security line. I hobble along on my beat-up hip and don’t have to be in a crowded line of people potentially talking about the game. Then I go sit down to will myself to isolation for 2 hours waiting to board the plane. Planes appear to be taking off OK. We board the plane on time and the plan seems to be intact. We are scheduled to arrive in the Cities about 11:00. Get home around midnight and watch the game. If I can maintain my ignorance, it should be OK.

It is, however, snowing heavily. We board the plane and sit in long de-icing lines. Our schedule take a hit of nearly an hour. Still, we eventually get off the ground. But I live in fear of the pilot saying, “for those of you who haven’t heard about the Super Bowl …” So I am still keeping my fingers on those head phones, burrowed in radio silence. Hours drag along, one by one.

Eventually, we land at MSP. I’m limping through the concourse, facing the ordeal of the walk to the cab stand, which used to be across the street from the front door. Some years back, MSP routed foot traffic in a long trek under the road way, through corridors, up and down escalators and finally up to the cab stand. Normally, it’s an annoying walk. With my screaming hip, I am grunting with every step. But finally we get on the last escalator.

It is about 1:30 AM, close to 2 hours late. And I still have to get home and watch a football game. Still, things seem to be looking up. I actually think, “OK, the hard parts of the journey are done.” Yeah, right.

Ascending on the escalator, our eyes clear the main floor and we see the indoor waiting area for cabs. There’s a line of maybe 75 people. Not a cab in sight. Damn. There CANNOT be this many people WAITING for cabs in the dead of night. As a student in the late 70s, I drove Minneapolis cabs. Any time of the night, we’d sit in long lines waiting for fares. And the cab lines at the airport are much longer now than they were then. How on earth can they all be on the road, leaving this many people stranded? There just weren’t that many people in the airport.

So now I am standing, once again, on a screaming hip, trying to pull my tattered cone of silence around me again, frantically avoiding any Super Bowl talk from the people in the line. The line inches forward and my hip is throbbing. We get to the front of the line and Meg asks why the cab lines are empty. “The bars have closed and people are taking all the cabs home from Super Bowl parties.” Oh.

After what seems to be 3 hours, we get to the front of the line. A cab pulls up and I limp out to warn the driver. “Please say nothing about the Super Bowl. I’m a big Ram fan and have the game recorded at home.” OK. I’m in the car, there is no radio on, and the driver has been warned. Somehow, miraculously, I have maintained my bubble of ignorance through nearly twelve hours of airline travel. All we have to do now is get home and I can watch the beloved Rams. The hard parts of the trip really are over. … Right?

Minnesota weather. What can I say? The previous week, we’d been basking in Palm Springs weather while the Upper Midwest labored under the infamous “Polar Vortex.” Temperatures in the minus 20s. But now, the meteorologists seemed to be benevolent. There was a light coat of snow. Drizzle was falling on bare streets in a temperature of about 34. The conditions reminded me of the Chicago winters I grew up in. Not bad for driving. No need to creep through a 6” blizzard on the final leg of the journey. The cab sets off and we pull steadily towards home.

About 4 miles from our house, we hit a T intersection. As we approach it, Meg says, “the sand trucks are out on Hwy. 96. It’s pretty early to be sanding for the morning rush hour.” Well-placed foreboding. Those ace MN road crews knew the driving was suddenly getting bad.

We turn right onto Hwy. 96—speed limit 55—and I notice the cab is moving pretty slowly. Hmmmmm. We turn left onto Lexington Avenue—3.5 miles from home—and we really aren’t going very fast. Meg and I are paying attention.

“Oh.” I mutter this as the nose of the mini-van begins to drift to the left into the on-coming traffic lanes. By now it is after 2:00 and there is not a single other vehicle on Lexington. That is a very good thing, because we are sliding into what would have been head-on collisions. The cabby turns back to the right, trying to get the cab under control.

I don’t know if you have ever driven a car on an ice slick and lost control. I have, and one feels helplessly lost in a dreamscape with very real consequences. And here Meg and I were mere passengers. It’s funny what two people remember. Meg says the very young cabby was making quiet, whimpering noises, but I don’t remember that. What I do remember was the cab heading off the road.

To the right of Lexington Ave. there is a grass verge, a sidewalk, and then a line of bushes, trees, and telephone poles. We left the road at the corner of a small side street, just to the far side of a speed limit sign which tore up the back left quarter panel of the cab. That slowed us and shunted us further right over the snow cover—much better for footing than ice. Staring with helpless fascination through the windshield, we saw ourselves approaching a telephone pole.

Because we were sliding fairly slowly by now, there was time to ponder. I remember thinking distinctly, “This could be serious.” And then we slowed to a stop, just short of the pole. We were sitting on a sidewalk covered in about 2” of snow, not quite parallel to the road.

Now, you remember that I said I was a cabbie back in the 80s? Well, in my day, we were always on a radio mic to a dispatcher. Accident? Call the dispatcher who calls the cops. The police report is, of course, crucial for insurance claims. We are at this point less than 2 miles from home. But I can just see an hour delay while the cops get to us and take all the information. And I have a game to watch.

But of course the taxi game has changed. This guy has no radio and has not been listening to a dispatcher. He seems to be in touch via smart phone. I ask, “Do you own your cab? Do you work for a company? Do you have to report in?” Well, he drives for someone, but he did not seem interested in calling it in. 1.5 miles from home, exhausted, and thinking of that Rams game, I say nothing further. I feel guilty about this—he really should not move the vehicle until the cops have seen it. But we are so close to home …

The cabbie pulls back over the verge and onto Lexington Ave. He creeps along about 5 MPH. He makes the 2 turns onto our residential street, sliding sideways as he does so. Meg says, “This is us.” We’re home.

Now, our driveway has a moderate grade which, in dry conditions, we never notice. The cabbie turns onto our driveway, gets about 15 feet up the ice, and can go no further. He puts the cab into park, switches off the engine, and hits the button for the rear sliding doors to open. He gets out of the cab to go back to Meg.
But the cab, engine off and in park, is moving. I say, “Uh, I think we’re moving. Say, we’re sliding.” So the cabbie does what most of us would do instinctively. He turns back, puts his shoulder against the inside of the driver’s door, and tries to stop the vehicle. The 3,500 lb. vehicle sliding on ice which gives his shoes no grip. I see this guy struggling and call out sharply, “Get back in the car, Man.” He slips in and the cab slides back, coming to rest with half its length in the street. “OK. That’s fine. Just leave it there.”

I get out and pay the guy, adding an extra $20 to the tip. I’m still guilty about the consequences he’ll face for leaving the scene. Meg starts walking up the driveway, but keeps sliding back down. Only by walking on the crusty snow over the grass can she get up to the house. We bring the luggage in, and Meg looks back to ask the cabbie if he wants to come in. But he is already gone. We always wonder how he got away so fast, how he got back to downtown, and what happened to him.

Well. It’s Super Bowl time. 3:00 AM, but OK. But wait. What’s that? “Cheep … Cheep … Cheep … Cheep … Cheep …”

While we were gone, a fire alarm battery has gone bad and I have to deal with it. There are several along the corridor and in the bedrooms, and I am limping on a bad hip, hauling a step stool along to find the right one, and dying to get into my chair and watch the game. Finally, I find the right one, furiously disconnect it for the night, get a soda, and turn on the TV.

What? You don’t think I’m going to try to sleep without watching the game, do you? Silly board member. Meg goes to bed. I fast forward through all the hype (I loathe that stuff) and the game begins.

Well, you know how that went. But, you know, I remember very little of the game. I was exhausted, miserable, trying to sit in a way that relieved my bad hip, and in no mood to focus on anything that didn’t involve Ram glory. As you know, there wasn’t any. I whipped through the DVR recording in about 40:00, immediately erased the game (I will never watch any of it again), and tried to lull my brain with a couple other shows. I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night, so I climbed into the bed in Jennifer’s old room (post-doc fellow in biology at Washington State now. Proud papa here!) and spent the next 5 hours or so trying to read, dozing, and idly watching my brain race through the miseries of another Ram heartbreak. (My first was 1969—the bleeding Vikings.)

So that was my Super Bowl Sunday. Still, we got home safely, and things started to look up. An x-ray showed no damage to my hip and a steroid quickly brought down the swelling in the ligaments. Haven’t had a problem since. On the Wednesday, with an improving hip, I figured my sentence under Joe Btflsk’s raincloud was over. About an hour before Meg got home, I started doing the kitchen work to have a nice dinner waiting for her.

But that cloud wasn’t gone yet. I started my kitchen chores off with the death-defying feat of emptying the dishwasher. As I was lifting a glass up to the cupboard, it slipped. Instinctively, I reached down for it just as it shattered against the edge of the counter. A shard carved a deep, 2 inch slice in the top of my hand.

Really? You’re kidding! I use a paper towel to compress the cut and keep looking at it. Do I really have to see a doctor now? I call Alison, my other daughter who is a nurse (proud papa here) and she confirms what I know. Yes, it needs to be attended to.

So Meg pulls into the garage and finds me standing there, holding the paper towel over my hand. “Uh, Meg, I have to ask you to drive me to the Urgent Care.” She isn’t happy, but that’s what marriage is about, right? Painstakingly, she drives 15 miles through a genuine Minnesota blizzard to the destination. The sign in the lobby predicts a 2 hour wait. Great. It turns out to be more like an hour, but it ain’t fun.

What do they say? Count your blessings? Well, we did see a lot of Ram glory last year. My hip problem was temporary. The ice incident left us safe and well. And the cut on my hand missed everything but skin. I guess for a run of bad luck, it wasn’t too bad.

During the offseason, I’ve been meaning to write all of this up and share it with some folks who will understand about the game and, hearing of my comedy of errors, might feel a bit better about their experience. I kept not getting around to it. But now, with the PS games over, I can’t wait any longer to close the book on last year and look to the new one.

Go, Rams!




Edited 4 time(s). Last edit at 08/30/2019 07:05AM by RFL.