Best Super Bowl
It's Super Bowl time again. My annual “I don't care” day. Unless the Steelers are playing. Even then, it's not what it used to be. For one thing, a ticket costs as much as a tiny home. When did a major sports event become so unattainable to regular people? It's more than offensive, it's a wider reflection of what we have become as a nation and what we value. It isn't good. It sets an example to our children and to the world about greed, inequity, and multimillion dollar advertising as more important than the actual game. It doesn't imply fairness. In fact, football may have cheating involved, according to recent news reports. We won't know. There's enough money to cover up that story too. It will fade away and any offenders will be free to keep offending.
Then there are the parties. Maybe that's what it's really about. I buy that. That's the good part, the tailgating, the cooking contests, the get-togethers, the raucous celebrating primarily for the reason of celebrating something. After all, Christmas came and went weeks ago.
My best Super Bowl was Super Bowl 1994. Dallas Cowboys vs Buffalo Bills. Atlanta, Georgia. The Dome.
January 30. Before the Olympics in 1996, Atlanta was still a nice town. You could actually get from place to place without swearing or swerving. And Ted Turner was still a phenomenon, a father of the growing metropolis and a revered philanthropist. Ted threw the best parties. At the World Congress Center, he hosted the 1994 Super Bowl party the night before the big game.
I was a casting director at the time, and I'd worked for Ted before, mostly commercials for Cartoon Network and some TBS movies. He called and asked for special servers for his Super Bowl party. Tall, pretty, trustworthy, unobtrusive ladies who could be counted on to serve food, help guests, and never break the code of confidentiality or bother the large crowd of celebrities, football players, and special guests. The roster of attendees, mind boggling and extensive. It included politicians, players, executives, anyone famous who was coming to the Big Game. I remember the term: “car show babes” being tossed about. That was the look. The Vanna White, no talk, just be pretty and turn the tiles kind of look he wanted. It was a huge party and a huge job and I was flattered to be part of it. I hired the talent and went to the party to supervise the service.
Everyone did a wonderful job, so I didn't have much to do except enjoy the party. Not a bad gig! There were hundreds of guests. Each team had their own table. Plus thousands of people in the distance, trying to get close enough to see anything. Police and guard dogs patrolled past large barriers, set up to keep people away. Charlie Daniels' large hat blocked the view from one angle. He sat with the Judd's, who were performing at half-time.
I spent time at the bar with Mike Ditka, who looked familiar, but I didn't know it was Mike at the time. We had a few cocktails together and amiably chatted, and I was too embarrassed to ask who he was, so when I found out later that I had been drinking with Mike Ditka, I was floored! It's good I didn't recognize him, because I know I would have made a dang fool of myself.
I shook hands with Muhammad Ali, a highlight for me. He was very gentle, but at the beginnings of his mental decline. He shook and shook hands all around and handed out pamphlets and his wife was there to end each interaction. It was very sweet to see him.
The food was outstanding. Glorious. Caviar, fancy main courses, cakes, big bowls of fresh strawberries, and more. Endless food. The kitchen was set up in a grid pattern, so servers could whisk each plate out, then circle back after serving and grab another. A sit-down dinner for hundreds isn't easy to coordinate. It flowed exceptionally well. At the center of each table was a large chocolate train, a very detailed and decorated centerpiece in thick chocolate. There were boxes in the back room and I placed a coin under one plate on each table. The person who sat there would win that train. Then I'd box it up for them to take it with them.
Joe Namath came late. I think he wanted to make an entrance with that near-naked girl. He was already older, a bit shriveled, dark tanned, as usual, and she looked like a child. They drifted across the floor, she, in a dress so sheer and skimpy, one wondered whether it was even there. The room fell sort of silent and heads swiveled to see the spectacle. At the game, Joe would do the coin toss. At the party, he tossed the air with sexuality.
A Dallas Cowboy player asked me to get Michael Jordan's autograph for his wife. Sure! No problem. I went over to Michael, tapped him on his shoulder, introduced myself, chatted a brief moment, asked for his autograph. His wife, unamused, broke up that little private soiree, but I was sorry that I didn't know how VALUABLE that little piece of paper would be! I only learned later on that Michael doesn't sign autographs. Apparently, that's a “get”. And I got it. But I gave it away. The Dallas player gave me a $50 bill as a tip. He insisted, so I said “thank you” and took the money. There's no telling how much money that tiny slip of paper would be worth today. A lot more than $50, I'm certain, but the story is now worth a lot to me too. It's true. It's exciting to think about.
Martina Navratilova tapped me on the shoulder. She asked me how she could get a whole bowl of those delicious strawberries to take with her? I held up a finger and told her to wait a minute, then went and got a chocolate train box, took it to the kitchen, and quietly sneaked one of those big bowls of berries into the box, came back, handed it to her, and said, “you just did!” She winked at me and I smiled at her and she turned and left with the strawberries. I laughed. She was fun.
Most importantly, Ted Turner was happy. His party, an enormous success. Everyone had a good time. I only had to send home one server for inappropriate behavior. Nothing crazy happened. (Unless you think about Joe and the naked girl.) Wynonna Judd is a hoot. Football players in suits smell nice. They are gorgeous. I had to hold in my swoons. Big hunks of handsome men filled the hall. I halfway floated through the evening, because if I let “real Lori” out, she would have also ended up half naked, just from the vapors of infatuation enveloping her at every turn. I paid special attention to all the Steelers, because, well, they're my hometown boys.
But the best part of all from my best Super Bowl ever, was that chocolate train. My father loved trains and chocolate all of his life and he couldn't be at this party with me and I know he would have loved it so much. Before the Dallas guys got up from their table, they called me over and gave me their train. That was even better than $50.
I boxed it up and the next day, I gave it to my father.
The teary twinkle in his eye was worth far more than a Michael Jordan autograph.
Just Another Lori Story.
