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- <text id=90TT0326>
- <title>
- Feb. 05, 1990: Super Bowl Field Of Dreams
- </title>
- <history>
- TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
- Feb. 05, 1990 Mandela:Free At Last?
- </history>
- <article>
- <source>Time Magazine</source>
- <hdr>
- SPORT, Page 57
- Super Bowl Field of Dreams
- </hdr>
- <body>
- <p>An interview with a grilled snapper, and other wonderments
- </p>
- <p>By John Skow
- </p>
- <p> Outlined against a blue-gray October sky (in storage since
- 1924, trucked in to New Orleans for the occasion and fixed to
- the underside of the Superdome roof with 17,432 twist ties),
- the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse watch the Broncos and the
- 49ers prepare for Super Bowl XXIV. Joe Montana lazily solves
- the Savings and Loan Crisis. At half speed, without pads, John
- Elway construes Greek.
- </p>
- <p> 1,260 reporters in red tutus dance right; 1,720
- photographers in blue tutus dance left.
- </p>
- <p> Montana helps a crippled child engineer a hostile takeover
- of IBM. Sweating lightly, Elway confounds Manuel Noriega's
- lawyers. In the locker rooms, impartial observers from the
- National Bureau of Standards watch all the other players put
- on their pants, one leg at a time. Reporters dance left;
- photographers dance right.
- </p>
- <p> Montana does card tricks, and the Four Horsemen--Miller,
- Stuhldreher, Crowley and Layden--are baffled. Elway conducts
- the Boston Symphony Orchestra, which has been trucked in for
- the occasion. The Four Horsemen start to applaud between
- movements of Debussy's L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune and are
- embarrassed. Stuhldreher frowns, then whispers something to
- Crowley. From two rows back, Fielding Yost shushes him. Nearby,
- Knute Rockne is worried he will not have enough money to pay
- his hotel bill. New Orleans seems a lot fancier than South
- Bend.
- </p>
- <p> Rockne is uneasy. Last night at a party he met Brent
- Musburger, who seemed to be a nice fellow. But Rockne's suit
- was afraid of Musburger's suit, and kept trying to bend the
- wrong way at the knees and elbows. Rockne's suit is wrinkled
- and brown. Musburger's is the finest in town, but others nearly
- as rich and dark trap the light of distant stars in the lobbies
- of the Hilton and the Hyatt Regency.
- </p>
- <p> Not only are all the sachems of the nation's football
- tribes, living and dead, on hand for the Super Bowl, but bull
- corpocrats, not-yet indicted politicians and assorted
- overweeners from every power nexus in the nation have massed
- here, drawn to sport's most relentless weeklong party by forces
- they do not understand. They wear suits that are the worsted
- equivalent of stretch limos. Around these grandees, trophy
- wives orbit glossily. Some of them know the names of the teams
- </p>
- <p>the occasion balance vaselike on bar stools.
- </p>
- <p> An observer learns all this by interviewing a plate of
- superior grilled snapper at an amiable neighborhood restaurant
- called La Riviera, out in the 'burbs of Jefferson Parish. The
- snapper is the liveliest football interview in a town that has
- other important matters, such as the onrush of Mardi Gras, on
- its mind. "Joe Billy," the observer asked, "how will Elway do
- against the nickel, three pennies, car keys and a couple pieces
- of pocket-lint defense?"
- </p>
- <p> "He'll pick apart the seams," said the snapper, "unless the
- lint gets too bad."
- </p>
- <p> "Then how come Joe Montana is America's sweetheart?"
- </p>
- <p> "Well, first, he's named for the right state. Joe North
- Dakota, he'd probably be a bus driver. Then he's got those
- gunfighter's eyes. Deadly in publicity stills. Blam, blam,
- you're haddock pate." The observer wanted to ask this fine fish
- why this year everyone, even the players, seemed more bored
- with football than is usual at Super Bowl time. But the last
- of the snapper was gone.
- </p>
- <p> A bartender in the French Quarter says the wrong teams are
- in town. San Francisco fans are so cool they're hypothermic,
- and Denver fans try hard to act as if they were from San
- Francisco. Now if the Steelers had made it, you would have
- naked Pittsburghers whooping through the streets in body paint
- and feathers, yes sir you would.
- </p>
- <p> Then again, maybe John Madden, the rumpled gent who whoops
- the game for CBS, is right about mud. Why not haul a few dozen
- tons of good, dirty dirt into the Superdome, the way they do
- for those tractor pulls that ESPN broadcasts at 3 a.m.?
- </p>
- <p> If football has become a slick, indoor imitation of itself,
- jazzy old New & Slightly Used Orleans somehow remains the real
- thing, or nearly. On Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, a
- minicam crew stalks tourists, trying to find someone wearing
- a Broncos feed cap. The visitor ducks around the corner into
- Preservation Hall, a magnificently funky storefront that looks
- as if it has been flooded and drained a few times, where a $2
- donation lets you stand and listen to some grand old
- Dixielanders wail the stuffing out of St. James Infirmary and
- Muskrat Ramble.
- </p>
- <p> Munch lunch, Italian sausage and hot pickled onions, at the
- Home Plate Inn out on Tulane Avenue. Some retired cops there
- say, nah, they're not interested in the game, too much hype,
- but they've got two cards of a hefty betting pool filled
- anyway. Head for the big N.F.L. pregame monster rally at the
- Convention Center. Then on to Pat O'Brien's, where they serve
- a drink called the Hurricane. Note the immediate lowering of
- atmospheric pressure. Try a cheer: "Go, Pittsburgh!" "Joe
- Billy, the Steelers are a lock."
- </p>
-
- </body>
- </article>
- </text>
-
-