I went to Super Bowl XI. It was the Minnesota Vikings 4th quixotic appearance and they played John Madden’s Oakland Raiders at the Rose Bowl. The Vikings had won their division eight out of the past nine years and had been to the big game three times. Each time they were soundly defeated. The Kansas City Chiefs, the Miami Dolphins, and the Pittsburgh Steelers had taken their turns at a Viking smackdown. This was the Raider’s second trip, having lost Superbowl II to the legendary Green Bay Packers.
When we arrived at our seat we found that O.J. Simpson and Franco Harris sat 6 rows above us. Both were still NFL players. Little did we now that O.J. would one day change history, forever altering our perception of freeway chase. Back then he was known as a great running back and pitchman.
Early in the game the Vikings had a chance to draw first blood when they blocked a Ray Guy punt, recovering it at the Raiders 3 yard line. They proceeded to fumble the ball right back to the Raiders and shortly thereafter the rout was on. Fred Biletnikoff caught three touchdown passes and the Raiders rolled to a 32-7 win.
We had parked at the house of the district attorney of Los Angeles — a friend of my Uncle’s – two blocks from the Rose Bowl. After the game we discovered that we had been parked in by a Chevy Nova and my crazy cousin, never one excercise patience, became so upset that he keyed the guys car. He was like a caged animal and we stared in rank amazement as he vandalized a strangers car.
That was the first and only Superbowl I went to. There was no rock-star halftime show, no full body cavity search upon entering the arena, and no MVP prattling on about Disneyland in the post-game interview. Just a bunch of crazed, over-sized freaks playing a kid’s game without even the aid of an instant replay booth review.
