Chilling Memories From The Big Easy

AFTER PLACING MY HAND -- my now unthawed hand -- on a stack of NFL rulebooks, I promised never to write about Super Bowl I or 7,348 again.
However, promises are made to be broken. Or that's what someone unwise once muttered.
Of course, a week Sunday's 42nd edition of Super Hype in sunny Arizona will mean a matter of Xs and O's to some, but for the Ol' Columnist it will stir up a batch of bitter memories -- of pain and suffering.
Alright, stiff upper lip, Big Fellow, learn to play with pain.
"Aw, shut up," I say. "Look at my fingers, all gnarled ... quick, call in the Doc."
Of course, these digits have looked like this since Jan. 12, 1975 when the Pittsburgh (The Steel Curtain) Steelers ran over the Minnesota (Purple People Eaters) Vikings 16-6 in Super Bore IX in a New Orleans' cow pasture called Tulane Stadium.
Preceding that afternoon, I had savoured a stackful of sizzling steaks cooked in the middle of the Superdome. It was before it had been officially opened to the public and the horde of scribes and/or ex-jocks had congregated to live off NFL handouts.
It was long before the flood, which devastated New Orleans and long before Bourbon Street was awash with gin mixed with party favours.
So there I was soaking up the atmosphere and steak sauce when I learned of the change of venue from the Dome to a university campus I had barely heard of before. Tulane, ah, Tulane, the Sugar Bowl ... Cajun music, jazz, etc., etc.
Getting off the bus, I knew this would be an afternoon to forget; for the wind whistled through my shirtsleeves and sent shivers up and down my back as I climbed the rickety stands ... These weren't the luxurious elevators I heard one of the league's flacks talk about.
So where was the expansive press box where the elite such as myself would sit?
"Excuse me, Mister, you're in Row 2,487 Seat 00073," snarled a young voice, emphasizing I would be in the "cheap seats" since I was from a non-NFL city. "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me," I kept repeating as I tried to manoeuvre my lanky frame and a portable typewriter past protruding legs.
"Ah, here's my seat (still wet from overnight rain)," I muttered to myself.
Next came the quantum task of trying to fit the little typewriter on my lap and typing ... NEW OR ... that's when an elbow jabbed me in my right arm and I knew, immediately, it was going to be a long and frigid afternoon ... NEW ORvhutiiogt648hhdek54342 ... Ah forget about it, I'll wait until half time before typing any more about Terry Bradshaw and Franco Harris vs. Fran Tarkenton and Chuck Foreman.
So this is the glamorous life of a highly-skilled sportswriter?
By halftime, all my fingers were curled in a grotesque manner as the temperatures dipped to 236 below ... or was it 237? That's when I decided to type up my game column back at the "toasty" hotel.
Next came the halftime show with the Grambling State University band and the half-time "meal." The music with its tribute to Duke Ellington had my toes a-tappin, but the free "meal" was an icy steak and putrid sauce, which I managed to smear on my clean shirt.
Then came the grand finale. What's that about?
Well, there I was in the dying seconds of the game; standing on the sidelines waiting for the final whistle when a Pittsburgh monster rumbled for the nearest exit, but not before mangling my now-frozen toes.
Even today, so many years later, my typing fingers still hurt and my toes (on my right foot) are twisted in a disgusting manner. Thanks a lot, Big Boy, I'll remember you in my (ill) will.
Was there any more to this version of Les Miserables?
On the return to my hotel, I found my typewriter carriage had shifted and the keys had become glued. My next move was to phone "it" in.
Without mentioning one word about that bitter afternoon, I started dictating to the sports desk: "NEW ORvhutiiogt648hhdek54342 ..." The voice at the other end blared: "What's the matter, Corbett, you sound cold." That's when I realized my ears had sustained a severe case of frost bite.
Even today, 33 years later, when questioned, I'll, repeatedly, ask: "WAAAAAHATTT?"
P.S. Incidentally, IX was the third and last Super Bowl ever played at Tulane. The 80,997-seat stadium was mercifully closed on August 3, 1975 and demolished in 1980.