Dear Diary:
The last time the National Football League held its championship game in New York City was Dec. 30, 1962. The defending champion Green Bay Packers defeated the New York Giants, 16-7. It was a cold, blustery day, pretty much the forecast for February’s Super Bowl XLVIII in the New Jersey Meadowlands. There, however, most comparisons cease. Things were a little different 51 years ago.
First of all, tickets were easy to obtain. The president of my mother’s company was a season-ticket holder who also had two end zone tickets to the game. No one wanted them, so he gave them to his secretary, my mother. She, in turn, passed them on to me (two weeks shy of my 12th birthday) and my uncle.
Dressed in our warmest wool coats (only ducks had down then), gloves and scarves (called “mufflers†if memory serves), we arrived at the old, Ruthian Yankee Stadium, and found our seats adjacent to the left field bullpen.
We did not know about wind chill in those days, but I had never ever been so cold. From the 1 o’clock kickoff, the wind howled and the cold increased as the pale, heatless sun fell below the stadium facade. No one sat. We all stood, stamping our feet and clapping our hands, not to rally the team but to avoid frostbite. Fifths of whiskey were being passed up and down the rows. I had my first drink that day, but it did no good. The wind chilled us to the bone.
Halftime at Super Bowl XLVIII promises to be a big show featuring Bruno Mars. Halftime at the 1962 equivalent was â€" and I am serious â€" a high school marching band from New Jersey.
In February, I will watch the Super Bowl from the warmth of my living room. But, truth be told, the 11-year-old in me wishes that I could be there, too.
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