A past blast; a chill spill

Anticipating next month’s Super Bowl, I watched the title game of the NFL’s 1985/’86 season (Super Bowl XX). Despite its violence, it was a tedious contest. It felt like a walkthrough for the Bears. They led the Patriots 23–3 by halftime and 44–3 by the end of the third quarter. In the fourth quarter, they brought in their reserves, one of whom forced a safety. The final score was 46–10.

Four Super Bowls later, the 49ers beat the Broncos, 56–10. I’ve also viewed sections of that historic snoozer. I think the Bears were more dominant in their Super Bowl victory.

Moreover, they had some real freaks: Gault, the speedster; Perry, the giant; a relentless defensive line; an intelligent, hard-hitting defensive backfield; McMahon, with his cannonlike arm and fiery temper; and Payton, the running back who, more than anyone else on the field, liked to hit. Back then, tacklers were allowed to strike with their heads; downfield blockers routinely aimed below the knee; and, of course, there were fewer protections for receivers and quarterbacks. The punishment meted out to Steve Grogan, the Patriots’ backup quarterback, shocked my modern sensibility. (Grogan actually played well, I thought.)

One thing I know about the ’85/’86 Bears is, those guys went on to live in a world of pain.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I myself am in a world of pain this evening. Walking home from work, I took a longish route to avoid the worst ice patches, but just a few yards from my building, I fell and badly sprained my ankle. It crunched like when a bicycle changes gears.

I lay on the ice for a good ten minutes. Some other tenants stood around the parking lot and ignored me. Finally, a nice, chubby guy came out of his apartment, helped me off the ground, and walked me into my building.

I called Karin and she left her work and took me to get x-rayed. No fractures – just a sprain. But I can’t walk. One of my old pastors lent me a pair of crutches.

The return leg

On Sunday, we returned to Indiana. For lunch we stopped in hilly Hannibal, MO, at a Subway.

The after-church queue was too long. We pressed onward to a Wendy’s.

The Wendy’s was being remodelled. We retraced our steps to a KFC.

Edoarda ate mashed potatoes without any gravy. (She’s a vegetarian.) Suddenly, a crowd came in for the lunch buffet. Edoarda was a little startled. She’d never seen so many Missourians.

Martin also felt out of place. He noted that the people of Hannibal would likely go home to watch the Rams, not the Bears. (And not the Colts, either, remarked Edoarda.)

Mary was troubled by the country music. …

Stephen … I think he was mostly concerned about Edoarda.

Edoarda was doing just fine. She ate plenty of potatoes, and on the way out she picked up a brochure for tourism in Hannibal.

Leaving town, we took a wrong turn and drove around some of the hilly neighborhoods. Finally we made it onto the highway. We crossed the river into Illinois, and all at once everything was desolate and flat.

Around Joliet, my knee started hurting badly. My leg needed to be stretched out. Edoarda was sitting next to me, and so I asked her if I could stretch out my leg upon her lap. It was an indelicate request. Edoarda refused, and not just a little vehemently. Martin permitted me to rest my leg upon the center console.

And now we’re back in Mishawaka. The next order of business is to choose presents for our gift exchange.