football fun 3: SB XXVII, a memoir
Super Bowl XXVII
January 31, 1993
Dallas Cowboys 52 Buffalo Bills 17
I can tell you exactly where I was as I watched the Buffalo Bills get trounced and humiliated in what would be their third straight Super Bowl loss in a string of four.
I was in Winthrop Hospital, Mineola, New York. The previous evening I had given birth to DJ and I was resting uncomforatably, as these things go, awaiting my discharge the next day.
Winthrop is a nice hospital. I had DJ in the room with me most of the day, snug in his little plastic bassinet. They had a cute blue index card with his name - Daniel Joseph - taped to the bassinet. Just in case I forgot his name, I guess.
I managed to drag my ass into the small hospital shower that morning and primped and preened, awaiting my visitors.
The nurse comes in and sees me looking a bit sad. She explains that the birth of a second child is often a low-key affair, as the novelty has worn off. I bet they still didn't even smoke their cigars from Natalie's birth three years ago, I think. Bastards.
So I attempt to get the hang of this breast-feeding thing as I wait for someone, anyone, to come visit me. DJ latches on and I scream in pain. The nurse comes running back in. I have a breast infection. Lovely.
There I am, in some ratty old bathrobe and dirty t-shirt because my husband* has yet to show up with the new nightgown he forgot to bring the day before, and I have this ache in my tit and a baby who still wants to suck on it and no one has come to see me.
I turn the tv on. Oh, silly me! It's Super Bowl Sunday! Explains a lot. Everyone is too busy making appetizers and shopping for beer and taking a pre-game nap. Who the hell wants to go see a woman with aching breasts and a sore vagina try to nurse a fussy kid when it's the god damn national holiday?
Yea, I was a bit cranky. My sister showed up eventually (I just had to add that in there so she didn't bitch at me for not saying she was there).
So finally 6:00 rolls around and one of the most uninteresting games in Super Bowl history is about to begin. Not a sign of my husband all day. Not even a phone call.
I decided to take my frustrations out on the Bills by rooting hard for the Cowboys to kick their asses all over the place. That was fun for about ten minutes.
Halftime. Still no sign of the husband. I figure at this point that he's already either a)sitting at home getting a hard-on over the score because he probably called his bookie and took the over bet or b)sitting at home putting his fists through the walls because he took the teaser bet and was losing his shirt.
Hint: We needed to respackle the living room wall the next week.
No sooner does halftime start then someone walks in the room. Could it be? A....a....visitor?
Of course, it was my best friend Barbara, a sack of McDonald's in one hand, chocolate shakes in the other. She stayed with me for as long as the nurses would let her, gave me a quick lesson in breastfeeding while you have an infection (no, not that kind of lesson, you gutter head!) and got DJ to finally stop fussing. We watched Michael Jackson do his thing -whatever that thing was - during halftime. I'm pretty sure there was a spaceship involved. It was then I realized that what I needed was a wife, not a husband. Or just a better husband.
The Cowboys won, the Bills were humiliated and DJ saw the whole thing from my arms. I swear, he kicked up his legs in glee each time the Cowboys scored.
*for the uninitiated, referenced husband is a previous husband, not the gem of a partner I have now.