The Great Shark Hunt Part 2

Most Negro realtors deny this, citing the law of supply and demand. Good housing for Negroes is scarce, they point out and prices are consequently higher than those on the white market, where demand is not so heavy. There are, however, both white and Negro real-estate speculators who engage in "block busting." They will work to place a Negro in an all-white block, then try to scare the other residents into selling cheap. Quite often they succeed -- then resell to Negroes at a big profit.

According to Jesse P. Warders, a real-estate agent and a long-time leader in Louisville's Negro community, "What this town needs is a single market for housing -- not two, like we have now." Warders is counting on an "open housing" ordinance, and he maintains that the biggest obstacle to open housing without an ordinance is the lack of Negroes on Louisville's Real Estate board.

In order to be a "realtor" in Louisville, a real-estate agent has to be a member of "the Board," which does not accept Negroes. Warders is a member of the Was.h.i.+ngton-based National Inst.i.tute of Real Estate Brokers, which has about as much influence here as the French Foreign Legion.

Louisville, like other cities faced with urban decay, has turned to the building of midtown apartments as a means of luring suburbanites back to the city center. In the newest and biggest of these, called "The 800," Warders tried to place a Negro client. The reaction was a good indicator of the problems facing Negroes after they break the barrier of outright racism.

"Do me a favor," the builder of The 800 told Warders. "Let me get the place fifty per cent full-- that's my breakeven point-- then I'll rent to your client."

Warders was unhappy with the rebuff, but he believes the builder will eventually rent to Negroes; and that, he thinks, is real progress. "What should I say to the man?" he asked. "I know for a fact that he's refused some white people, too. What the man wants is prestige tenants; he'd like to have the mayor living in his place, he'd like to have the president of the board of aldermen. h.e.l.l, I'm in business, too, I might not like what he says, but I see his point."

Warders has been on the firing line long enough to know the score. He is convinced that fear of change and the reluctance of most whites to act in any way that might be frowned on by the neighbors is the Negroes' biggest problem in Louisville. "I know how they feel, and so do most of my clients. But do you think it's right?"

The 800 was built with the considerable help of an FHA-guaranteed loan, which places the building automatically in the open housing category. Furthermore, the owner insists that he is color-blind on the subject of tenants. But he a.s.sumes none the less that the prestige tenants he wants would not consider living in the same building with Negroes.

It is the same a.s.sumption that motivates a homeowner to sell to whites only-- not because of race prejudice but out of concern for property values. In other words, almost n.o.body has anything against Negroes, but everybody's neighbor does.

This is galling to the Negroes. Simple racism is an easy thing to confront, but a mixture of guilty prejudice, economic worries and threatened social standing is much harder to fight. "If all the white people I've talked to had the courage of their convictions," one Negro leader has said, "we wouldn't have a problem here."

Louisville's lending inst.i.tutions frustrate Negroes in the same way. Frank Stanley, Jr., claims that there's a gentlemen's agreement among bankers to prevent Negroes from getting mortgages to buy homes in white neighborhoods. The complaint would seem to have a certain validity, although once again less sinister explanations are offered. The lending agencies cite business reasons, not race prejudice, as the reason for their stand. Concern for the reaction of their depositors seems to be a big factor, and another is the allegation that such loans would be a poor risk -- especially if the inst.i.tution holds mortgages on other homes in the neighborhood. Here again is the fear of falling property values.

There is also the question whether a Negro would have any more difficulty getting a mortgage to buy a home in a white upper-cla.s.s neighborhood than would a member of another minority group -- say, a plumber named Luciano, proud possessor of six children, a dirty spitz that barks at night, and a ten-year-old pickup truck with "Luciano Plumbing" painted on the side.

Mayor Cowger, a mortgage banker himself, insists that a Negro would have no more trouble than the hypothetical Mr. Luciano. Another high-ranking occupant of City Hall disagrees: "That's what the mayor would like to think, but it just isn't true. n.o.body in Rolling Fields, for instance, would want an Italian plumber for a neighbor, but at least they could live with him, whereas a Negro would be unthinkable because he's too obvious. It wouldn't matter if he were a doctor or a lawyer or anything else. The whites in the neighborhood would fear for the value of their property and try to sell it before it dropped."

Another common contention is that Negroes "don't want to move into an all-white neighborhood." The East End, for instance, remains solidly white except for alley dwellings and isolated shacks. The mayor, who lives in the East End, has said, "Negroes don't want to live here. It wouldn't be congenial for them. There are some fine Negro neighborhoods in the West End -- beautiful homes. They don't try to buy homes where they won't be happy. People just don't do things like that." Some people do, however, and it appears that almost without exception they get turned down flat. One Negro executive with adequate funds called a white realtor and made an appointment to look at a house for sale in the East End. Things went smoothly on the telephone, but when the Negro arrived at the realtor's office the man was incensed. "What are you trying to do?" he demanded. "You know I can't sell you that house. What are you up to, anyway?"

No realtor however, admits to racial prejudice, at least while talking to strangers. They are, they point out, not selling their own homes but those of their clients. In the same fas.h.i.+on, mortgage bankers are quick to explain that they do not lend their own money. A man making inquiries soon gets the impression that all clients, investors, and depositors are vicious racists and dangerous people to cross. Which is entirely untrue in Louisville -- although it is hard to see how a Negro, after making the rounds of "very sympathetic" realtors, could be expected to believe anything else.

Housing ranks right at the top among Louisville's racial problems. According to Frank Stanley, Jr., "Housing is basic; once we have whites and Negroes living together, the rest will be a lot easier." Jesse P. Warders, the real-estate agent, however, rates unemployment as the No. 1 problem area, because "Without money you can't enjoy the other things."

The Louisville Human Relations Commission, one of the first of its kind in the nation, agrees that although the city has made vast strides in the areas of education and public accommodations, the problems of housing and employment are still largely unsolved because "These areas are much more complex and confront long-established customs based on a heritage of prejudice." Of the two, however, the commission sees housing as a bigger problem. J. Mansir Tydings, executive director of the commission, is optimistic about the willingness of merchants and other employers to hire Negroes: "Already -- and much sooner than we expected -- our problem is training unemployed Negroes to fill positions that are open."

Yet there is still another big hurdle, less tangible than such, factors as housing and employment but perhaps more basic when it comes to finding an ultimate solution. This is the pervasive distrust among the white power structure of the Negro leaders.h.i.+p's motives. Out in the dove-shooting country, in the suburbs beyond the East End, Stanley is viewed as an "opportunist politician" and a "black troublemaker." Bishop Ewbank Tucker, the minister who urged his congregation to arm themselves, is called an extremist and a Black Muslim. The possibility that some of the Negro leaders do sometimes agitate for the sake of agitation often cramps the avenues of communication between white and Negro leaders.

Even among Negroes, Stanley is sometimes viewed with uneasiness and Bishop Tucker called a racist. A former president of the Louisville NAACP, on hearing the statement that local Negroes "resent the national publicity concerning Louisville's progress in race relations," laughed and dismissed Stanley as a "very nice, very smart young fella with a lot to learn." (Stanley is twenty-six.) on hearing the statement that local Negroes "resent the national publicity concerning Louisville's progress in race relations," laughed and dismissed Stanley as a "very nice, very smart young fella with a lot to learn." (Stanley is twenty-six.) "He wants things to go properly," properly," said the NAACP said the NAACP man. "But difficult things never go properly -- life isn't that way." He smiled nervously. "Forty years ago I came back here thinking I could be a Black Moses -- I thought I was going to set my people free. But I couldn't do it then and it can't be done now. It's not a thing you can do overnight -- it's going to take years and years and years." man. "But difficult things never go properly -- life isn't that way." He smiled nervously. "Forty years ago I came back here thinking I could be a Black Moses -- I thought I was going to set my people free. But I couldn't do it then and it can't be done now. It's not a thing you can do overnight -- it's going to take years and years and years."

Nearly everyone agrees with that, and even with all its problems, Louisville looks to be a lot further along the road to facing and solving the "Negro problem" than many other cities. Even Stanley, who appears to make a cult of militant noncompromise, will eventually admit to a visitor that he threatens far more demonstrations than he ever intends to produce.

"The white power structure here tries to cling to the status quo. They keep telling me not to rock the boat, but I rock it anyway because it's the only way to make them move. We have to keep the pressure on them every minute, or we dissipate our strength.

"Louisville isn't like Birmingham," he adds. "I think there's a conviction here that this thing is morally wrong -- without that, we'd have real trouble."

The Reporter, vol. 29, December 19, 1963 vol. 29, December 19, 1963

Fear and Loathing at the Super Bowl

Grim Notes of a Failed Fan. . . Mano a Mano with the Oakland Raiders. . . Down and Out in Houston. . . Is Pro Football over the Hump?. . . A Vague & Vengeful Screed on Texas, Jesus, and the Political Realities of the NFL. . . Will Ron Ziegler Be the Next Commissioner?

I.

". . . and whosoever was not found written into the book of life was cast into the lake of fire and whosoever was not found written into the book of life was cast into the lake of fire. . ."

-- Revelations 20:15

This was the theme of the sermon I delivered off the 20th floor balcony of the Hyatt Regency in Houston on the morning of Super Bowl VIII. It was just before dawn, as I recall, when the urge to speak came on me. Earlier that day I had found -- on the tile floor of the Men's Room on the hotel mezzanine -- a religious comic book t.i.tled "A Demon's Nightmare," and it was from the text of this sleazy tract that I chose the words of my sermon.

The Houston Hyatt Regency -- like others designed by architect John Portman in Atlanta and San Francisco -- is a stack of 1000 rooms, built around a vast lobby at least 30 stories high, with a revolving "spindletop" bar on the roof. The whole center of the building is a tower of acoustical s.p.a.ce. You can walk out of any room and look over the indoor balcony (20 floors down, in my case) at the palm-shrouded, wood and naugahyde maze of the bar/lounge on the lobby floor.

Closing time in Houston is 2:00 AM. There are after-hours bars, but the Hyatt Regency is not one of them. So -- when I was seized by the urge to deliver my sermon at dawn -- there were only about 20 ant-sized people moving around in the lobby far below.

Earlier, before the bar closed, the whole ground floor had been jammed with drunken sportswriters, hard-eyed hookers, wandering geeks and hustlers (of almost every persuasion), and a legion of big and small gamblers from all over the country who roamed through the drunken, randy crowd -- as casually as possible -- with an eye to picking up a last-minute sucker bet from some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d half-mad on booze and willing to put some money, preferably four or five big ones, on "his boys."

The spread, in Houston, was Miami by six, but by midnight on Sat.u.r.day almost every one of the two-thousand or so drunks in the lobby of the Regency -- official headquarters and media vortex for this eighth annual Super Bowl -- was absolutely sure about what was going to happen when the deal went down on Sunday, about two miles east of the hotel on the fog-soaked artificial turf of Rice University stadium.

Ah. . . but wait! Why are we talking about gamblers here? Or thousands of hookers and drunken sportswriters jammed together in a seething mob in the lobby of a Houston hotel?

And what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter to deliver a sermon from the Book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of Super Sunday?

I had not planned a sermon for that morning. I had not even planned to be in Houston, for that matter. . . But now, looking back on that outburst, I see a certain inevitability about it. Probably it was a crazed and futile effort to somehow explain the extremely twisted nature of my relations.h.i.+p with G.o.d, Nixon and the National Football League: The three had long since become inseparable in my mind, a sort of unholy trinity that had caused me more trouble and personal anguish in the past few months than Ron Ziegler, Hubert Humphrey and Peter Sheridan all together had caused me in a year on the campaign trail.

Or perhaps it had something to do with my admittedly deep-seated need to have public revenge on Al Davis, general manager of the Oakland Raiders. . . Or maybe an overweening desire to confess that I had been wrong, from the start, to have ever agreed with Richard Nixon about anything anything, and especially pro football.

In any case, it was apparently something I'd been cranking myself up to deliver for quite a while. . . and, for reasons I still can't be sure of, the eruption finally occurred on the dawn of Super Sunday.

I howled at the top of my lungs for almost 30 minutes, raving and screeching about all those who would soon be cast into the lake of fire, for a variety of low crimes, misdemeanors and general ugliness that amounted to a sweeping indictment of almost everybody in the hotel at that hour.

Most of them were asleep when I began speaking, but as a Doctor of Divinity and an ordained minister in the Church of The New Truth, I knew in my heart that I was merely a vessel -- a tool, as it were -- of some higher and more powerful voice.

For eight long and degrading days I had skulked around Houston with all the other professionals, doing our jobs -- which was actually to do nothing at all except drink all the free booze we could pour into our bodies, courtesy of the National Football League, and listen to an endless barrage of some of the lamest and silliest swill ever uttered by man or beast. . . and finally, on Sunday morning about six hours before the opening kickoff, I was racked to the point of hysteria by a h.e.l.lish interior conflict.

I was sitting by myself in the room, watching the wind & weather clocks on the TV set, when I felt a sudden and extremely powerful movement at the base of my spine. Mother of Sweating Jesus! I thought. What is it -- a leech? Are there leeches in this G.o.dd.a.m.n hotel, along with everything else? I jumped off the bed and began clawing at the small of my back with both hands. The thing felt huge, maybe eight or nine pounds, moving slowly up my spine toward the base of my neck.

I'd been wondering, all week, why I was feeling so low and out of sorts. . . but it never occurred to me that a giant leech had been sucking blood out of the base of my spine all that time; and now the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing was moving up towards the base of my brain, going straight for the medulla. . . and as a professional sportswriter I knew that if the b.u.g.g.e.r ever reached my medulla I was done for.

It was at this point that serious conflict set in, because I realized -- given the nature of what was coming up my spine and the drastic effect I knew it would have, very soon, on my sense of journalistic responsibility -- that I would have to do two things immediately: First, deliver the sermon that had been brewing in my brain all week long, and then rush back into the room and write my lead for the Super Bowl story. . .

Or maybe write my lead first, and then deliver the sermon. In any case, there was no time to lose. The thing was about a third of the way up my spine now, and still moving at good speed. I jerked on a pair of L.L. Bean stalking shorts and ran out on the balcony to a nearby ice machine.

Back in the room I filled a gla.s.s full of ice and Wild Turkey, then began flipping through the pages of "A Demon's Nightmare" for some kind of spiritual springboard to get the sermon moving. I had already decided -- about midway in the ice-run -- that I had adequate time to address the sleeping crowd and also crank out a lead before that G.o.dd.a.m.n bloodsucking slug reached the base of my brain -- or, even worse, if a sharp dose of Wild Turkey happened to slow the thing down long enough to rob me of my final excuse for missing the game entirely, like last year. . .

What? Did my tongue slip there? My fingers? Or did I just get a fine professional hint from my old buddy, Mr. Natural?

Indeed. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. John Mitch.e.l.l said that -- shortly before he quit his job and left Was.h.i.+ngton at 90 miles an hour in a chauffeur-driven limousine.

I have never felt close to John Mitch.e.l.l, but on that rotten morning in Houston I came as close as I ever will; because he was, after all, a pro. . . and so, alas, was I. Or at least I had a fistful of press badges that said I was.

And it was this bedrock sense of professionalism, I think, that quickly solved my problem. . . which, until that moment when I recalled the foul spectre of Mitch.e.l.l, had seemed to require a frantic decision between either delivering my sermon or writing my lead, in the s.p.a.ce of an impossibly short time.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Who said that?

I suspect it was somebody from the Columbia Journalism Review, but I have no proof. . . and it makes no difference anyway. There is a bond, among pros, that needs no definition. Or at least it didn't on that Sunday morning in Houston, for reasons that require no further discussion at this point in time. . . because it suddenly occurred to me that I had already written the lead I had already written the lead for this year's Super Bowl game; I wrote it last year in Los Angeles, and a quick rip through my fat manila folder of clips labeled "Football '73" turned it up as if by magic. for this year's Super Bowl game; I wrote it last year in Los Angeles, and a quick rip through my fat manila folder of clips labeled "Football '73" turned it up as if by magic.

I jerked it out of the file, and retyped it on a fresh page slugged: "Super Bowl/Houston '74." The only change necessary was the subst.i.tution of "Minnesota Vikings" for "Was.h.i.+ngton Redskins." Except for that, the lead seemed just as adequate for the game that would begin in about six hours as it was for the one that I missed in Los Angeles in January of '73.

"The precision-jackhammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the b.a.l.l.s off the Minnesota Vikings today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision pa.s.ses into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stops around both ends. . ."

The jangling of the telephone caused me to interrupt my work. I jerked it off the hook, saying nothing to whoever was on the other end, and began flas.h.i.+ng the hotel operator. When she finally cut in I spoke very calmly. "Look," I said. "I'm a very friendly person and a minister of the gospel, to boot -- but I thought I left instructions down there to put no calls -- NO CALLS, G.o.dd.a.m.nIT! -- through to this room, and especially not now now in the middle of this orgy. . . I've been here eight days and n.o.body's called me yet. Why in h.e.l.l would they start now?. . . What? Well, I simply can't accept that kind of flimsy reasoning, operator. Do you believe in in the middle of this orgy. . . I've been here eight days and n.o.body's called me yet. Why in h.e.l.l would they start now?. . . What? Well, I simply can't accept that kind of flimsy reasoning, operator. Do you believe in h.e.l.l? h.e.l.l? Are you ready to speak with Saint Peter?. . . Wait a minute now, calm down. . . I want to be sure you understand Are you ready to speak with Saint Peter?. . . Wait a minute now, calm down. . . I want to be sure you understand one thing one thing before I get back to my business; I have some people here who before I get back to my business; I have some people here who need help need help. . . But I want you to know that G.o.d is Holy! He will not allow not allow sin in his presence! The Bible says: 'There is none righteous. sin in his presence! The Bible says: 'There is none righteous. No, not one No, not one. . . For all have sinned and come short of the glory of G.o.d.' That's from the book of Romans, young lady. . ."

The silence at the other end of the line was beginning to make me nervous. But I could feel the sap rising, so I decided to continue my sermon from the balcony. . . and I suddenly realized that somebody was beating on my door. Jesus G.o.d, I thought, it's the manager; they've come for me at last.

But it was a TV reporter from Pittsburgh, raving drunk and demanding to take a shower. I jerked him into the room. "Nevermind the G.o.dd.a.m.n shower," I said. "Do you realize what I have on my spine?" He stared at me, unable to speak. "A giant leech," I said. "It's been there for eight days, getting fatter and fatter with blood."

He nodded slowly as I led him over to the phone. "I hate leeches," he muttered.

"That's the least of our problems," I said. "Room service won't send any beer up until noon, and all the bars are closed. . . I have this Wild Turkey, but I think it's too heavy for the situation we're in."

"You're right," he said. "I got work to do. The G.o.dd.a.m.n game's about to start. I need a shower."

"Me too," I said. "But I have some work to do first, so you'll have to make the call."

"Call?" He slumped into a chair in front of the window, staring out at the thick grey mist that had hung on the town for eight days -- except now, as Super Sunday dawned, it was thicker and wetter than ever.

I gave him the phone: "Call the manager," I said. "Tell him you're Howard Cosell and you're visiting up here with a minister in 2003; we're having a private prayer breakfast and we need two fifths of his best red wine, with a box of saltine crackers."

He nodded unhappily. "h.e.l.l, I came here for a shower. Who needs the wine?"

"It's important," I said. "You make the call while I go outside and get started."

He shrugged and dialed "0" while I hurried out to the balcony, clearing my throat for an opening run at James 2:19: "Beware!" I shouted, "for the Devils also believe, and tremble!"

I waited for a moment, but there was no reply from the lobby, 20 floors down -- so I tried Ephesians 6:12, which seemed more appropriate: "For we wrestle not," I screamed, "against flesh and blood -- but against princ.i.p.alities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world -- and, yes -- against spiritual wickedness in high places!"

Still there was no response except the booming echoes of my own voice. . . but the thing on my spine was moving with new vigor now, and I sensed there was not much time. All movement in the lobby had ceased. They were all standing still down there -- maybe 20 or 30 people. . . but were they listening? listening? Could they Could they hear? hear?

I couldn't be sure. The acoustics of these ma.s.sive lobbies are not predictable. I knew, for instance, that a person sitting in a room on the 11th floor, with the door open, could hear -- with unnerving clarity -- the sound of a c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s shattering on the floor of the lobby. It was also true that almost every word of Gregg Allman's "Multi-Colored Lady" played at top volume on a dual-speaker Sony TC-126 in an open-door room on the 20th floor could be heard in the NFL press room on the hotel mezzanine. . . but it was hard to be sure of the timbre and carrying-power of my own voice in this cavern; it sounded, to me, like the deep screaming of a bull elk in the rut. . . but there was no way to know, for sure, if I was really getting through.

"Discipline!" I bellowed. "Remember Vince Lombardi!" I paused to let that one sink in -- waiting for applause, but none came. "Remember George Metesky!" I shouted. "He had discipline!"

n.o.body down in the lobby seemed to catch that one, although I sensed the first stirrings of action on the balconies just below me. It was almost time for the Free Breakfast in the Imperial Ballroom downstairs, and some of the early-rising sportswriters seemed to be up and about. Somewhere behind me a phone was ringing, but I paid no attention. It was time, I felt, to bring it all together. . . my voice was giving out, but despite the occasional dead spots and bursts of high-pitched wavering, I grasped the railing of the balcony and got braced for some flat-out raving: "Revelations, Twenty-fifteen!" I screamed. "Say Hallelujah! Yes! Say Hallelujah!"

People were definitely responding now. I could hear their voices, full of excitement -- but the acoustics of the place made it impossible to get a good fix on the cries that were bounding back and forth across the lobby. Were they saying "Hallelujah"?

"Four more years!" I shouted. "My friend General Haig has told us that the Forces of Darkness are now in control of the Nation -- and they will rule for four more years!" I paused to sip my drink, then I hit it again: "And Al Davis has told us that whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!"

I reached around behind me with my free hand, slapping at a spot between my shoulder blades to slow the thing down.

"How many of you will be cast into the lake of fire in the next four years? How many will survive? How many will survive? I have spoken with General Haig, and --" I have spoken with General Haig, and --"

At this point I was seized by both arms and jerked backwards, spilling my drink and interrupting the climax of my sermon. "You crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" a voice screamed. "Look what you've done! The manager just called. Get back in the room and lock the f.u.c.king door! He's going to bust us!"

It was the TV man from Pittsburgh, trying to drag me back from my pulpit. I slipped out of his grasp and returned to the balcony. "This is Super Sunday!" I screamed. "I want every one of you worthless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds down in the lobby in ten minutes so we can praise G.o.d and sing the national anthem!"

At this point I noticed the TV man sprinting down the hall toward the elevators, and the sight of him running caused something to snap in my brain. "There he goes!" I shouted. "He's headed for the lobby! Watch out! It's Al Davis. He has a knife!"

I could see people moving on all the balconies now, and also down in the lobby. Then, just before I ducked back in my room, I saw one of the gla.s.s-walled elevators starting down, with a single figure inside it. . . he was the most visible man in the building; a trapped and crazy animal descending slowly -- in full view of everybody from the busboys in the ground-floor coffee-shop to Jimmy the Greek on the balcony above me -- to certain captivity by that ugly crowd at the bottom.

I watched for a moment, then hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my doork.n.o.b and double-locked the door. That elevator, I knew, would be empty when it got to the lobby. There were at least five floors, on the way down, where he could jump out and bang on a friendly door for safe refuge. . . and the crowd in the lobby had not seen him clearly enough, through the tinted-gla.s.s wall of the elevator, to recognize him later on.

And there was not much time for vengeance, anyway, on the odd chance that anyone cared.

It had been a dull week, even by sportswriters' standards, and now the day of the Big Game was finally on us. Just one more free breakfast, one more ride, and by nightfall the thing would be over.

The first media-bus was scheduled to leave the hotel for the stadium at 10:30, four hours before kickoff, so I figured that gave me some time to relax and act human. I filled the bathtub with hot water, plugged the tape recorder with both speakers into a socket right next to the tub, and spent the next two hours in a steam-stupor, listening to Rosalie Sorrels and Doug Sahm, chewing idly on a small slice of Mr. Natural, and reading the Cocaine Papers Cocaine Papers of Sigmund Freud. of Sigmund Freud.

Around noon I went downstairs to the Imperial Ballroom to read the morning papers over the limp dregs of NFL's free breakfast, then I stopped at the free bar for a few b.l.o.o.d.y marys before wandering outside to catch the last bus for the stadium -- the CBS special -- complete with more b.l.o.o.d.y marys, screwdrivers and a roving wagon-meister who seemed to have everything under control.

On the bus to the stadium I made a few more bets on Miami. At that point I was picking up everything I could get, regardless of the points. It had been a long and jangled night, but the two things that needed to be done before game-time -- my sermon and my lead -- were already done, and the rest of the day looked easy: Just try to keep out of trouble and stay straight enough to collect on all my bets.

The consensus among the 1600 or so sportswriters in town favored Miami by almost two to one. . . but there are only a handful of sportswriters in this country with enough sense to pour p.i.s.s out of their own boots, and by Sat.u.r.day night there was an obvious drift among the few "smart" ones to Minnesota, with a seven-point cus.h.i.+on. Paul Zimmerman of the New York Post, author of A Thinking Man's Guide to Pro Football A Thinking Man's Guide to Pro Football and the sportswriting fraternity's scaled-down answer to the Was.h.i.+ngton Post's political guru David Broder, had organized his traditional pressroom betting pool -- where any sportswriter who felt up to it could put a dollar in the pot and predict the final score (in writing, on the pressroom bulletin board, for all the world to see). . . and whoever came closest would pick up a thousand or so dollars. and the sportswriting fraternity's scaled-down answer to the Was.h.i.+ngton Post's political guru David Broder, had organized his traditional pressroom betting pool -- where any sportswriter who felt up to it could put a dollar in the pot and predict the final score (in writing, on the pressroom bulletin board, for all the world to see). . . and whoever came closest would pick up a thousand or so dollars.

Or at least that was the theory. But in reality there were only about 400 writers willing to risk a public prediction on the outcome of a game that -- even to an amateur like me -- was so obvious that I took every bet I could get against the Vikings, regardless of the spread. As late as 10:30 on Sunday morning I was calling bookies on both coasts, doubling and tripling my bets with every point I could get from five to seven. . . and by 2:35 on Sunday afternoon, five minutes after the kickoff, I knew I was home free.

Moments later, when the Dolphins drove the length of the field for another touchdown, I began collecting money. The final outcome was painfully clear less than halfway through the first quarter-- and shortly after that, Sport Magazine editor d.i.c.k Schapp reached over my shoulder in the press section and dropped two bills -- a five and a twenty -- in my lap.

I smiled back at him. "Jesus," I said. "Are you giving up already? already? This game is far from over, my man. Your people are only 21 points down, and we still have a whole half to go." This game is far from over, my man. Your people are only 21 points down, and we still have a whole half to go."

He shook his head sadly.

"You're not counting on a second-half rally?" I asked, pocketing his money.

He stared at me, saying nothing. . . then he rolled his eyes up toward the soupy mist above the stadium where the Goodyear Blimp was hovering, almost invisible in the fog.

When I began this doom-struck story many months ago, the idea was to follow one team all the way to the Super Bowl and, in the process, try to doc.u.ment the alleged -- or at least Nixonian -- similarities between pro football and politics. The problem, at that time, was to decide which team to follow. It had to be one with a good chance of going all the way, and also a team I could get along with over an extended period of time.

That was in early November, and the list of possibilities included about half the League, but, I narrowed it down to the four teams where I already knew some of the players: Los Angeles, Miami, Was.h.i.+ngton and Oakland. . . and after many days of brooding I chose Oakland.

There were two main factors involved: 1) I had already made a large bet, at 8-1 odds, on Oakland to go all the way -- as opposed to a 4-1 bet on the Redskins and 2-1 against against Minnesota. . . and 2) When I checked with Dave Burgin, a former San Francisco Examiner and Was.h.i.+ngton Star-News sports editor, he said there were only two teams in the whole League flakey enough for me to identify with in any kind of personal or human way: One was Pittsburgh and the other was Oakland. Minnesota. . . and 2) When I checked with Dave Burgin, a former San Francisco Examiner and Was.h.i.+ngton Star-News sports editor, he said there were only two teams in the whole League flakey enough for me to identify with in any kind of personal or human way: One was Pittsburgh and the other was Oakland.

Well. . . it is three months later now, and the question that still haunts me, is, which jail, morgue or asylum would I be in today if I'd happened to pick one of the other other teams. teams.