Byline: George Kimball
HOUSTON - The Super Bowl might not exactly have been in its INFANCY, but it had yet to notch its first 'X' 30 years ago when it was first played in Houston. The rest of the nation was still in the throes of what was euphemistically described as an 'energy crisis,' and gasoline was a quarter per gallon cheaper in oil-rich Texas than in the rest of the country. Houstonian hospitality, circa 1974, was accurately reflected on a popular bumper-sticker slogan you saw all over town: LET THE BASTARDS FREEZE IN THE DARK.
When the Dolphins played the Vikings in Super Bowl VIII, the Astrodome was, even then, considered too small for the game, which was played in Rice Stadium; but, then as now, the 'Eighth Wonder of the World' was considered just about right for the Commissioner's Party. (That event on the Super Bowl social calendar once again took place in the Astrodome this week.)
Pete Rozelle's little soiree 30 years ago remains indelibly etched in memory because it was the first and, so far, only Super Bowl party built around a livestock motif, namely live pigs and dead cows. The little porkers scurried about between chuckwagons strategically placed around the floor of the Astrodome, while massive steer carcasses roasted on spits at several campfires. Party guests were issued bandanas on their way in.
One night earlier in the week, an intrepid trio consisting of myself, Clark Booth, then of Channel 4 in Boston, and Hunter S. Thompson, whose coverage of the event for Rolling Stone would later become 'Fear and Loathing at the Super Bowl,' made our way to a backwater biker bar/strip joint. The Blue Fox had been highly recommended by locals.
We'd been there less than an hour when a massive brawl, apparently stemming from a disagreement over a pool game, erupted. I saw the larger of the participants take a roundhouse swing from a billiard cue squarely in the mouth, spit out several teeth, and with a mighty roar go after his attacker, who turned and fled. In short order, bottles were flying and chairs were being broken over customers' noggins. Booth ('That guy has a remarkable instinct for survival,' an admiring Thompson said later) had hightailed it out the door at the first sign of trouble, but Hunter and I were trapped in the melee. I cowered on the stage, using one of the strippers like an American League umpire's chest protector, to fend off the flying debris, while Thompson, a serene smile on his face, watched transfixed.
No sooner had the first pistol been unholstered than a remarkable sight unfolded before our eyes. Two seemingly innocuous fellows who had been drinking at the bar waded through the crowd, tossing huge tattooed bodies into the air as they made straight for the guy with the gun. He was still trying to decide who to shoot when the smaller of the two superheroes grabbed him in a choke-hold, disarmed him, and trundled him headlong out the door, not stopping until he had run him headfirst into the grill of a Cadillac. He then flipped the woozy assailant over, deposited him on the hood, produced a pair of handcuffs, and emptied a can of mace in the guy's now-mangled face.
`Jesus, Thompson whistled before stating the obvious. 'Undercover cops.'
On another occasion that week, the same trio of Musketeers (joined by our D'Artagnan, Leigh Montville, then of the Globe) drove across town for dinner at a Houston eatery. When the first order of drinks arrived, Thompson produced a sheet of paper from one pocket and a Swiss army knife from another, and began to deposit the shredded bits of confetti into his drink. Montville nudged me with an elbow.
'What's that?' he whispered.
'Blotter acid,' I replied.
Montville shuddered and rolled his eyes. Hunter was our designated driver.
We managed to make it safely back to the hotel before the chemicals kicked in, but later that night, grabbing a religious tract that had been slipped under his door, Thompson delivered a thundering homily, roaring out biblical passages from the 14th floor of the atrium at the Hyatt Regency. Booth, who hadn't been able to tear himself away from the Doctor, served as the altar boy.
The Battle of the Blue Fox wasn't even our only run-in with the constabulary the week of Super Bowl VIII. On the same night Hunter Thompson was upstairs preaching from the Book of Revelations, the Houston Vice Squad burst into the press room at the Hyatt and raided the traditional poker game in the press lounge. When the cops flashed their badges, a couple of frightened scribes appeared ready to bolt out the side door, but the late Chicago Tribune columnist Rick Talley, noting that we were four cards into a game of seven-card stud, issued the defiant order:
'Nobody moves,' he said, 'until this hand is over.'
Caption: STRAIGHT AHEAD: Patriots back Antowain Smith looks for yardage as Carolina's Greg Favors moves in for the tackle last night. STAFF PHOTO BY KUNI TAKAHASHI
