I Called The 14 Point Spread!

I CALLED THE 14 POINT SPREAD - PEYTON MANNING AND THE DENVER BRONCOS WIN THE 50TH SUPER BOWL

IT WAS A GREAT DAY TO KICK-BACK, ENJOY A TAIL-GATE PARTY, EVEN IF IT WAS IN OUR LIVINGROOM - BUT AT LEAST I DIDN'T GET USHERED OUT FOR BAD BEHAVIOUR

     I won, I won. I never win, but this time, I sure did! Suzanne was making a puzzle in her new sewing room, here at Birch Hollow,  the boys were at the shop hosting a "record listening" social, (what the heck is that all about) and here I was, on Super Bowl Sunday, without anybody to care, or celebrate with me, when I stood up at the end of the game, shouting out for the neighbor's benefit, "God Bless you Peyton Manning, God Bless you!" The day, in my opinion, of being a football fan, was well invested, even if it did get me some snide comments from the sidelines, and nasty looks, when I had to be surface-swept, occasionally, to be cleared of food debris, sports magazines and daily newspapers, spread over me like a big comfortable media and food quilt. Hey, it's one day out of the year, and I got all my chores done in advance, including Monday's recycling boxes.
     On Saturday, in this blog, I predicted that the Denver Broncos would win the 50th anniversary Super Bowl, by a handsome spread of 14 points. While all the expert commentators, who are paid to know a lot, and then some, about the professional football they're overviewing, were pretty much unanimous, that the Broncos were going to lose. But knowing the way veterans can use experience like a gentle battering ram, I had faith in Peyton Manning, who wasn't given much chance to out-perform the Carolina Panther's, quarterback, Cam Newton, admittedly one of the finest quarterbacks in the National Football League today. What the commentators neglected to factor in, was that old, and often volatile mixture, of good old heart and soul. Manning had only just come off the injured list in the fall, and off the bench a few games ago, where he had been riding the pine as a back-up; still a little rusty, from his time recuperating. And when it came to the way the season had begun, and the fact fans, some of his own, had been booing him, for being unable to complete passes, and get, and keep the club, in full throttle, I suppose there was reason to feel he wasn't up to the challenge of a Super Bowl, so soon after re-joining the squad. This veteran, guaranteed a place in the Hall of Fame, even if he hadn't led the team to victory yesterday, was bound to turn-in a stellar performance, and you could tell from the early going of the first quarter, that his team wanted to win this honor for him, as the ultimate sign of respect; and for commentators, they should have known this was going to be a major incentive, beyond the Super Bowl ring and trophy. It was a battle of the defences which meant less action in the end zones, but it suited Manning perfectly, where all the veteran attributes paid off. He kept his cool while Newton got flustered, and it showed, especially when at the end of the game, on his own fumble, he opted not to dive for the loose ball, when he might well have recovered it! Turnover! And it sure wasn't apple. It was a game changer! The nail in the proverbial coffin! Broncos were going to win. What a swell way to end a career, if that's what he intends to do in the months ahead. I'd like him to stay on, I really would! But the ringing in my ears, is that we got a Super Bowl victory for 2016. And little old me, called it! Maybe I should be sitting on the pre-game panel of football experts, all, by the way, who forgot the ways and means, of veterans, to come through when it counts. I keep telling Suzanne that she should show me more respect, because I'm a veteran, but she just laughs, grins cheek to cheek, just before the angry scowl, when she finds a moisture ring on the table where my drink was sitting. Non alcoholic of course. She came out of her room to watch the halftime show, while I walked the dog. When I got back, I asked her who won? "Cold Play lost," she said. Then she went back to finish off her puzzle, and the bowl of popcorn she snuck by me, when it was a first and goal stance for the Broncos. Nice eh?

     Admittedly, I did feel a little naked sitting there in my perfectly contoured-to-my-body chair, getting ready for the game yesterday, without having like minded mates at my side, taking turns at armchair quarterbacking. I love that stuff. But here's the succession of events that has left me, as a crowd of one, for the big games like the Super Bowl. My sons used to love hanging around for the Super Bowl games, especially back in the days when we were collecting hockey, baseball and football cards (and memorabilia), when son Robert was a meat-eater, barbecuing ribs and chicken wings for our tail-gate suppers. Ah, the shrimp trees. Now we won't afford ourselves the meat, or the shrimp, and Robert is a vegetarian, and oldest lad Andrew, has turned away from sport entirely. When I asked him if he was going to come home to watch the big game with his old dad, he laughed, said he had a prior commitment, which turned-out to be a social encounter with a bunch of record-lovers, (I still can't believe this was better than watching Peyton Manning) and then offered this overview. "Dad, I'm not interested in football." It was like a spear through my psyche. You see, that's what an early introduction to music did to our house of sports. They preferred to play their guitars and drums instead of slapping around a hockey puck, firing a fastball over the plate, and tossing a Hail Mary pass, with the pig skin, down the lawn for a touchdown.
     Another reason for my self imposed exile, is that I gave up drinking as a means of celebration. I used to celebrate way too much, and it was hurting my body and my marriage. I could go to Super Bowl parties in the old days, and come back two days later, with shipping stickers all over my shirt, and the sense I'd been travelling all over the country, but not with my consent. Suzanne was not impressed by my conduct, and suggested numerous times, in that first year of marriage, it was time to change my ways, sober up, and get rid of my drunken friends. She put most of the blame on them, and I didn't correct her, coward that I was. I don't know why, back then, I needed large quantities of alcoholic beverages to enjoy the big games, whether hockey, baseball, or football. I didn't drink when I watched golf, which Suzanne assumed was a route to pursue, once she had me cleaned up of my other bad sport's enthusiast habits. When I divorced myself from booze and those who consume it to make themselves feel more festive, I had to give up a lot of social encounters as a result. Two reasons for this, were, I was no longer any fun to be with, and secondly, I didn't want to be in their company, because they got excessively loud, repetitive in their arguments, eager to box on the front lawn, and a little too aggressive telling me that I was dampening the mood of the party. It's true. I had never before appreciated how little I had in common with those who I considered my best friends, who seemed to be more like-minded when we drank together drink for drink. I tried consuming pop, drink for drink, at the local watering hole, but they would start talking stupid, and all I was getting was a sugar buzz. I'm sorry to insult the guys this way, many who were my hockey, baseball and football team-mates in recreational play, but the booze differential was just too much for me to enjoy myself in conversation. I "made my own bed," and just started to go home right after the weekly games, and eventually, I got tired of the whole social enterprise, that always seemed to have booze as a source of inspiration or reward. Keeping in mind, that we always had booze in the dressing room, for after the game, yet there were players who drank between periods. I felt the odd man out, and not just because I am odd.
     Booze and sports went all the way back to the minor leagues, where I'm sorry to say, it was as prevalant as in adult recreational play. I can remember coming back from a road trip, in the back of a truck, and having gotten into the coach's personal stock of cold beer. Three of us were drunk by time we got back home, and imagine my surprise, when I fell out the back, at the front of the arena, and looking up, I saw my girlfriend standing over me, telling her girlfriends to call an ambulance for her obviously injured boyfriend. "He's not injured," my mate laughed, a beer tucked into the pocket of his jacket. "He's hammered just like me." Now, this girlfriend, a wonderful lass, did not believe I drank anything stronger than ginger ale, and refused, even at this point, of acknowledging I was one who would drink under age. Well, I was eighteen at that point in time, so I was inside the line when it came to being able to legally consumer alcohol; just not in the back of a truck. And her father, who was a police officer, would not look upon my actions kindly, or continue to allow me to see his daughter; if that is, he had known my conduct on that evening. The poor girl was horrified and although it didn't, by itself, end our relationship, it was a quarter of the last straw, that's for sure.
     I realized, sitting in the livingroom yesterday, by myself, that I had depended on the company of booze way too much, back in the old days; when for example, I could be found, and heard, well above the din of shunting in a rail yard, myself thusly tighter than a ceremonial drum, yelling and screaming at the television, as if I could connect by this means, with the coaches and quarterback, possibly with underwear over my head, pulling for my favorite team. And possibly swinging off the chandelier until it came crashing down. So sitting there, yesterday, as lonesome as I was, with the occasional recollections of my old days, and ways, of enjoying sports, was not in any way endearing to the sober judge that I was, and remained for the entire Super Bowl; and post game show as well. I actually watched every play, and enjoyed the nitty gritty of the match, whereas, under the influence, I would have missed most of it, either getting another beer, or being lined-up at the bathroom door, with the other booze-hounds who came for the game, but got sidetracked by story telling, as influenced by the beverages they consumed in copious amounts.
     Sure, I would have liked to have my sons with me, for the big game, but what would the purpose be, if they were just sitting there to please me. I would have worried from start to finish if they were having a good time, and I would have dismissed them early anyway, because it would have cut into my fun, to have them bored and texting through the great plays. I realized finally, other than the creaking joints and sore muscles, that I'm getting older and, gosh, a lot of my old cronies are now pushing up daisies; below the snow that is! I sobered myself up, in spirit, thinking it more important to have generated a happy family, that still sticks together, than what was likely to be the outcome of having a drunken sports fan as a father. I can more easily accept association with football, hockey and baseball haters, than not to have had a family at all. Of this I am thankful, that the spirit of sports finally took hold of me in earnest, and forced me to watch my favorite matches stone cold sober. For most of yesterday's game, I had our cat Zappa, kneading into my armpit, my knee-cap, and my shoulder, which wasn't quite the same as once upon a time, but I also didn't have to spend any money buying rounds either. I had a bubbly water, with a hint of lime, and some fine food that Suzanne whipped up, as a special treat for game time; and I had a nice, cozy, satisfying day, enjoying sports the old fashioned way; without any need for stimulation beyond the excitement of the main event.
     I'm not going to blame my bad habits with booze on my father Ed, because I never ever saw the man intoxicated. I also never saw him watch a game of anything that required a puck, stick, ball, or ten yard first downs, without a bottle of O'keefe ale at his side. It was his way of loosening up from the stresses of his work week, and it for him, was part of what made these sporting occasions special for him. So, whether he knew it or not, the big negative was that I began associating sports the same way, from a very young age. I got to the point where I couldn't watch a game without a treat of alcohol. My lack of willpower, got me into a lot of trouble with this social / recreational drinking, and I missed a lot of great games when beer supply became of greater significance, than the great plays of the game itself.
     I stopped hard core drinking, as I've noted previously, back in the late 1980's, for family reasons, and although I will gladly drink a beer, given to me as a gift at Christmas, or on my birthday, I haven't been influenced to rejoin what was a horrible habit, that cheated me out of watching some of the best games of my lifetime; because they became secondary to social enterprise. So sitting
through yesterday's game was a pure joy, and that's the best way I can describe it, feeling all toasty inside, that one of my favorite quarterbacks ever, got the big win, from the big club, he helped inspire. My victory toast? Suzanne and I met for a cup of tea, for the post-game show, in the British tradition of polite, refined, reserved celebration. I'm only kidding about this, because I was at a soccer match between Blackpool and Nottingham Forest, and our side (being Forest) won that day; and boy oh boy, did the fans ever let her rip that day. I made the mistake of wearing a nice coat and a Nottingham scarf, which did not appeal to the Blackpool fans. Oh well!