When people hear I’m a college professor they say ‘I’ll bet that keeps you young.’ It does. But at times it makes me feel old.

I was 40 when I left full-time newspapering for full-time professoring and I was in the best physical shape of my life. The phys-ed department of the college sponsored a competition back then between faculty and students. I entered the rowing event and took third place. “Enjoy it now,” a colleague said, “because you’ll find out soon enough that every time you do it again you’re a year older, but the competition is still 18.”

By “competition” he meant “students” and they always are 18, or 19, or 20, but you get the point: the gap between us keeps growing. And while I long ago stopped rowing against them, there are still all sorts of ways they can make me feel my age.

For instance, I told a class the other day that I began college as an art major and the year was 1967. Their jaws dropped.

“Yes,” I said, “that was a long time ago. Want to know how long? It was the year of Super Bowl I.”

No one actually said “yikes!” but their eyes did. They know today’s game is Super Bowl XLVI (46) and when I told them I’ve seen every one of them they look at me as though I am Methuselah – although I doubt they know who Methuselah is.

Nevertheless, I have seen all 45 Super Bowls – 44 on TV and one in person – but don’t ask me any details or scores because I can’t answer. To me, the Super Bowls are one big super blur. And it has nothing to do with alcohol consumption at parties.

Actually, I’ve been to very few Super Bowl parties. I prefer to watch the game at home, particularly if my team, the Green Bay Packers, are playing. But there have been so many games now that I tend to remember only an isolated play here or there or some random incident that has nothing to do with the game itself, the stone crab claws former Times Leader publisher Pat McHugh had flown in from South Beach for example, or Mike Caputo’s dad’s sausage and peppers.

Or the one Super Bowl that I went to. That was Super Bowl VI (the Roman Numerals were easier to figure out then) in New Orleans. My Uncle Eddie took me. It was the first Super Bowl the Dallas Cowboys won. They beat the Miami Dolphins but don’t ask me the score. The Dolphins might have been held to just a field goal, but don’t quote me.

What I do remember is that the game was played at Tulane Stadium and it wasn’t equipped to handle the crowd. There weren’t enough rest rooms and the lines at the portable johns were a mile long. I watched from the back of the bleachers as a bunch of guys in Dolphins regalia formed a circle for privacy and took turns peeing in the middle. But as the kickoff neared, a lot of the guys who already had their turn took off for their seats, leaving those remaining with little cover.

I also remember hanging out with Joe Roszko, a hero of mine when he was an All American lineman at Wilkes College, and his pal Tony Milewski. I had just turned 21 and Uncle Eddie said I could go out with the big boys as long as they took care of me. And, man, did they take care of me.

Another thing I remember about that game is the morning I went out walking by myself and bumped into Yogi Berra on Bourbon Street. He stopped to chat like we were old friends.

The ’67 game I recall better than any. Remember, I’m a Packers fan – winners of four Super Bowls, counting last year’s … just sayin’. Every once in a while, like maybe on Jeopardy or Who Wants to be a Millionaire, the question will come up “What was the score of the first Super Bowl?”

Packers over Chiefs, 35-10, I snap. I own that question.

The Pack beat the Raiders the following year but that game is not as vivid as the first. And the thing I remember most about the Packers win over the Patriots in Super Bowl XXXI is not the game but the cheesehead I bought from a guy in Swoyersville after seeing a little ad in the paper. It was ten bucks but I would have paid 50. I gave it to a young Packers fan when I spoke at a Cub Scouts dinner.

I also have a clear memory of Super Bowl XVII at the close of the ’82 season. It’s Jimmy Cefalo’s 76-yard touchdown reception against the Redskins. I helped coached that kid in Little League.

What I remember is Jimmy spiking the ball in the end zone. It was the most feeble spike in the history of the NFL but a flamboyant gesture from Cefalo who every other time he scored in high school, college and the pros had just trotted over and handed the ball to the official.

About the Author

Ed Ackerman is the editor of the Pittston Sunday Dispatch. He can be reached at 602-0175.

Archives

To me, it’s one big super blur

He taught me all the little things

He had a way about him

Two Bills for the Congressman

How it works

Happy New Now

My Atheist, my blessed atheist

When Herald Angels sing, I mouth the words

Those were the days

Milking a column, one more time