In another incarnation I lived two long football throws from Candlestick Park, in a shack.
Those were miserable but joyous times as well, especially when quarterback Joe Montana won the first of four Super Bowls for the San Francisco 49ers. In the immediate aftermath of the first victory, in January 1982, I jumped on a pickup truck headed down to the city itself, to Castro Street, nexus of the most rousing celebrations.
Last night I watched the latest edition of the Super Bowl in the hinterlands of Venezuela, in a house with my wife and 15-month-old, switching back and forth between ESPN and FOX.
Truth to tell, I guess you could call me a fair weather NFL football fan these days, or just a hero worshiper type, since I rarely root for the 49ers anymore—now that Joe is gone—even if I quickly resurrected my enthusiasm when the Bay Area team got to the Super Bowl again.
And then there’s something that I like about this (Colin) Kaepernick kid. I mean who wouldn’t be all over his Hollywood-scripted story of being a substitute earlier in the season to starting in the Super Bowl and poised to win it all along the lines of Tom Brady and Kurt Warner?
Even if he sure didn’t play like “Joe Cool” in the first half, lofting passes beyond his receivers, throwing an interception and looking every bit the nervous rookie in his first big game, the biggest game of all.
The 49ers were losing 21-6 when Beyonce came on to do the traditional halftime show. Boring. At least musically for me. My wife, thirty years my junior, didn’t care for the extravaganza, either, so it’s not exactly a generational thing.
A 109-yard kickoff return when play resumes and the game (28-6) is safely in the hands of the Baltimore Ravens, right?
Next, a power outage. Look, we get visited by blackouts here in San Juan almost every day. So during that almost surreal “inconvenience” I calmly switched to watching Michael Jackson’s 1997 History World Tour concert in Munich, Germany. Thank you, YouTube.