We tromped into TubaMan’s late in the morning for brunch. Finding the hair of the dog was top priority. The Saturday night before the big game in downtown San Diego had been eventful. The day had started at a city park, playing full tackle football with a crew of off-duty marines. I was still fit & fast, so I held my own during the bone jarring brawl like event. After the park, it was off to the beach for another attempt at surfing mediocrity then onward back downtown to the Super Bowl host hotel to see what trouble could be conjured up.
The 1988 game pitted Washington vs the Broncos at Jack Murphy Stadium, named after a local sports journalist. This old iconic venue was shared with the Padres baseball team. The downtown local hotels were jam packed with fans, players, alumni & the media; the usual scrum of Super Bowl overlords, bigshots, wannabees & charlatans. Toss in the odd fun-loving fake reporter like me, & it was a pigskin melting pot extravaganza.
After a few lounge checks, I find what I’m hoping to find. I have tickets to see Dr Hunter S Thompson later that evening downtown at the Symphony Hall for his talk, Fear & Loathing at the Super Bowl. I hedge he’s near the hijinks found at the events host hotel. And he is. The Doctor of Gonzo is holding court at the back of a bar, his Kentucky mumbling drawl distinct above all else. “I’m a doctor of Torts,” he bellows. “Only God knows how footballs bounce,” he proclaims. “Where’s my attorney,” he asks. “I might require more cash & pharma!”
The place is crawling with recognizable football & sports personalities. John ‘the diesel’ Riggins is hulking around. I remember a chance conversation with Canadian born QB, Mark Rypien. My hand disappears when I shake monster tackle Joe Jakoby’s. Not everybody appears as mesmerized by Dr Thompson & his wild-eyed entourage as I am. Each to their own. I manage to get close enough to the man to see his cigarette holder is made of bone. He’s cranking out his best mojo madness. I’m wondering how we’re all going to make it to curtain call in three hours.
The San Diego Symphony Hall is grand. The seats are plush, the architecture exquisite. The place is full, raucous & rollicking. A rowdy crowd has assembled to hear the good Dr Thompson mutter & muse. The sound of rolling & clinking bottles is laughable. Pot smoke wafts & permeates the place, fills the upper levels. Many attendees appear inebriated. Its entertaining & certainly meeting my expectations.
Thompson is fashionably late by a half hour. He arrives with his ‘attorney,’ a tall, buxom blonde in a black mini who plays bartender to his constant need for refills. He blathers on with a litany of incomprehensible bibble & babble until he can’t. I recall only one story. He talked about golfing one day & getting miffed at the people dawdling ahead of his party. He took out a 12ga & blew apart their ball & part of the flagstick. He quickly found himself being interviewed by the police. He said he said, “Now Sherriff, everyone knows I play with a full set of irons!”
He departs the stage like an injured staggering football player being escorted off the gridiron, drooling & cross-eyed, hoisted & cradled by the lovely assistant, heading to the medical tent for a concussion check & hopefully a shot of ether. And with that, fear & loathing at the super bowl came to its bleary-eyed conclusion. Or had it?
At Tubaman’s we quaff down yummy fish omelettes chased with bloody Mary’s & head to the stadium feeling top drawer. I found myself neutral at kickoff. I leaned Bronco’s but liked Rypien & the Skins, too. I wasn’t wearing any team swag but just there to take in the sights, absorb the mania. In ’88, unlike today, scalped tickets were still relatively affordable, even for a wildland firefighter. I was already in southern California so it seemed a no-brainer for a lover of football to attend. As I write this story, the Pro Bowl is happening just down the road in Orlando. Oh, the times they change. In ’88, it was difficult to imagine today’s QB’s making millions a game. I think I’ll stay away, go paddling.
However, while on the subject & looking for a closer, I will add. The game was over at halftime. Elway & the Broncos put 10 on the board early. Washington, behind Doug Williams, put up 42 unanswered, 35 in the second quarter. Never have I witnessed the air go out of a team & their fans with so little effort. Doug Williams was the first African-American QB to not only play in the big game, but win it. He ended up MVP. I enjoyed being there for that. It was a big deal. The battle between iconic coaches Dan Reeves vs Joe Gibbs was overshadowed by Mr Williams historic & trend setting performance. I hope a zero or two were added to his pay check!
After the game, we took public transportation back to Tubaman’s for drinks & dinner. It was in the same neighbourhood we were staying & convenient. Upon arrival, the place was a smoking ruin. During the game, it had burned down! It was a famous bar, a favourite watering hole for old school sportsters & evening jazz joint for street level artists. Such a bummer!
Fear & Loathing at the Super Bowl, indeed. Hunter Thompson understood cash & chaos.
Sorry Taylor, I’ll take the 9’ers.
