I have some hobbies and pastimes. Football is not high on my favorite pastime list unless my teams are winning. I get more of a bang out of writing, traveling, cooking, photography and, last but not least, sports cars - especially Mustangs. Since moving to St. Simons, I have owned four Mustangs. My Jewel right now is a Red Convertible Mustang 5.0. B. J. has her own Mustang and she is beginning to loosen a bit on the Shelby GT500 Super Snake. (My son Richard is persistently trying to win me over to a Corvette.)
However, there are certain aspects about football that are appealing - the parties on Super Bowl Weekend. Although, the term “party” may be used rather loosely and, for an old country boy who grew up in a partying atmosphere, it may be somewhat dull.
Our first Super Bowl Party of any significance occurred when we went on our first cruise to the Bahamas in the early nineties. We were cruising out of the Port of Miami and sailing to Freeport, Grand Bahama.
Since we had not had a vacation in some time, we decided to make it a Florida/Bahamas extended vacation. We dipped into our dividends and reserved a suite in a ten-story fancy pink hotel in Boca Raton, Florida right smack dab on the Intracoastal Waterway a few hundred yards from one of the loveliest beaches in Florida. The view from our window was spectacular. We have some treasured pictures of that scenery. We would spend a few days in the suite before embarking from Miami on our Cruise to Freeport where we would stay in the Ramada Inn within spitting distance of one of the most beautiful beaches in the Bahamas. We would complete our Florida vacation in Boca Raton when we returned from our cruise.
As luck would have it and through no design of ours, we arrived at our hotel in Boca Raton on Super Bowl Sunday. Smartly dressed porters met us and handled our luggage while we made our way up the elevator to our suite.
We had hardly gotten to our suite when the phone rang; it was the concierge welcoming us and inviting us to come down to the office for a briefing on the amenities offered by the swanky hotel and the surrounding neighborhood.
With honey dripping from her lips, she especially emphasized, “We are having a poolside Super Bowl Party tonight. Come on down; it will be fun fun.”
B. J. and I talked it over and decided that it might be fun so we told the concierge that we would come down.
It had been a long drive in our new white Dodge Caravan from south Georgia. We had time for a nap before party time so we piled into the king size comfortable cradle and stretched out.
After about an hour, an announcement was made over the hotel loudspeaker “Our poolside Super Bowl Party is getting under way come on down.”
We hit the elevator and descended. The elevator stopped and we got off just a few feet from poolside. There was music and people were gathering at the bar. We walked over to the bar, were greeted by handshakes and backslaps and “come on ups.” The friendly bartender smiled and said with a chuckle as he mixed a drink “What are yall drinking?”
“I’ll have a coke,” I replied.
“I will too,” B. J. answered.
The bartender looked surprised. “Coke?” he said. “Man this is Super Bowl Sunday. You are not going to come in here and drink cokes are you?”
A slinky blue-eyed brunette dressed in black with lacy frills and behaving as if she had begun celebrating earlier in the afternoon and didn’t really care who won the Super Bowl, cuddled up beside me and said “Aw come on and buy us a drink. We’ll have fun.” B. J. standing next to me on the other side gave her a mean look.
“What kind of work do you do?” she continued.
“I’m a Methodist preacher,” I told her.
That was the wrong thing to say at a bar at a Super Bowl party. You could’ve heard a pin drop. The mood changed quickly. It was obvious that I had rained on their parade.
Well, B. J. and I ordered some all-the-way burgers and fries and found us a cozy table at the far end of the pool and observed the goings-on. Soon, they recovered from having a Methodist preacher drinking coke with them at the bar and went on with their celebrating.
In time, no one appeared to be watching the ball game.