grounding the urethane wheels into the fresh, smooth-as-shit asphalt. I zoned out on the bank riding for a good, solid four hours. Berts,
lipslides, nose-grab tall scrapers (frontside and backside only). Non-comp-type skateboarding, just skating. Just skating, with nothing else
in mind but skating.
The sun's sharp rays were suddenly severed when an aimless cloud strayed past. The fragrance of all that was organic, ceased briefly
as they adjusted to the changed atmosphere. I did a fully extended layback, farted, and popped my shoulder. Damn.
6
Skating down the street, I saw a whole pack (3) of Forty-Niner fans. There was blood in their eyes, cheap beer in their guts, and mischief
on their minds. They saw me, but I saw them first. Gurgling amongst themselves, they made plans as I approached. All of a sudden, I felt
like I was involved in a flashback, in a T.V. series. I thought back to the times when I was a little kid, maybe five years old. There I was, it
was nineteen sixty-five, at a kelly green duplex in Escondido about a half a mile from Del Dios Junior High School (which I was to attend
nine years later), it was summertime, dad had just given me a mohawk, mom didn't like it, thought dad was crazy. Dad was in the Navy,
it was the height of the Vietnam conflict, he was a jet mechanic and he had a bunch of high-tech, fighter-type military dudes over for some
of mom's fine tacos 'cause all those guys were from out of state, and were looking for an excuse to get real drunk, and expose themselves
to a little native culture at the same time. Well, they'd get drunk, call me over and proceed to give me a martial arts lesson.
"Hey kid, c'mere. Wanna know how to finger lock the enemy into submission?" a drunk dude from Missouri yelled to me, he had spilled
taco sauce all over his crotch, and was an expert in sabotage. Heh, you could hardly tell.
Before I could respond, this hick had me through the air, onto the ground, one of my fingers was blazing with an infero of pain. There
Ilie, pinned, in pain, and this guy is lighting a cigarette with his free hand, and laughing out the side of his mouth. Then he let me go. After
that...
"Hey kid, wanna know how to throw the enemy ten feet through the air without hardly trying?" another macho military man said.
Then...
Hey kid. Hey, quit your cryin'. What? You a baby or sumthin'? Hey, c'mere. I'll show you somethin." This guy, I later found out, was a
SEAL. Kinda like a Green Beret, but the Navy version, and a deadly individual. "Hey kid, here c'mere. I'll teach you how to render the
enemy harmless by putting him to sleep, then I'll show you how to kill them if they don't cooperate. Well, he put me to sleep instantly, but
considerately woke me up seconds later. Where in the hell is dad? If I scream, these guys'll think I'm a wimp. I was self-conscious back
then. Then the guy shows me how to shatter the artery that runs by the armpit.
Well, it was me face-to-face with the drunk Niner fans, they didn't like my look, or my mode of transportation. "What about them Niners?"
I said. The biggest one took a swing at me, but I shoved my deck, grip-tape first, to block the punch. Broke his hand. "Hey, God Bless Joe
Montanal" A Nike caught me in the shin, charlie horse. I hit Mr. Broken hand in the face with the rear trucks and dove on the other two,
bustin' the one on the right in the nose with my right forearm, he fell back, screaming. My fingers reached the other dude's face as I put
him into a position for enemy-sleeper-hold number Z X-15. It worked, his wallet fell out of his pocket, spilling its content across the
pavement. I picked up the driver's license. Hell, these guys aren't even real niner-fans, they're fakes! They are from Alviso! I picked up my
skate and skated away, flipping these pukes the birdie, "POSEURS!"
Once home, I made a Stouffers insta-meal, sat and watched the news on T.V. NINER-NEWS. This god-damned SUPER BOWL hype
is gonna kill me. What the hell is happening in Geneva at the peace talks? Ten percent real news, then it was eighty five percent "Hey,
what about those Niners?" The rest were commercials hyping the Super Bowl. I'm sick of it. It's worse than back in '76 when they kept
playing bicentennial moments in history.
7
Saturday, night before the game, there was a big "tail gate" party at Moscone center. The real freaks were out tonight. Red-Gold
decorum, a giant high-school-Homecoming looking thing. The line to get in was worse than the line to see the riches of famous dead-guy,
boy-king pharoah type-dude, King-Tut. Everybody with a Forty Niner jacket. I'd paused and scratched down some more quick lyrics, and
wrote "Give me something to believe in!" across the top of the scrap of paper.
Across the street from Moscone Center was a giant, three-story high, inflated, six-pack of Budweiser. Now, what could they be promoting
there? Over all the night-time noises, a dull roar could be heard above the block. "Niner-niner-niner-Joe-niner. Niner-Joe-niner-niner-
reagan-niner-joe-niner-victory!"
Standing there was like watching one of those movies that transvestite, Divine, stars in where all they show is ugly people, and some
times Tab Hunter.
In the Mission district there's this cool restaurant with perfectly raunchy Mexican food. La Rondalla, excellent cuisine. Their margaritas
are mandatory no matter what religion you are, or who you voted for. Some nights, I'll just sit at the bar, listening to their in-house mariachi
band, and thinking of how much it reminded me of when I was a kid and my uncles would sing these same songs, in the same manner.
My late uncle Julio always came to mind, I'd get sad, drop a tear, have another margarita and think about the next day.
On the bus to the Mission, I ran into Boney Washington. Boney's a seventy year old blind black man, that I'd known since I was little
kid. I sat next to him.
"Hey. Boney Washington, hey old friend, how's life been treating you? You're looking good old buddy."
"Hey Son! Oh, uh, ahh. How long has it been. Mussa be two, mebbe three years now, huh?"
"A month."
"Well, oh-uh-ohhh. Hell, it all looks the same to me. Heh-heh. Naw, Wadda-bow dem-niners thar son? We gonna kick some ass, huh?
Give 'em what-for upside their who-zits, eh?"
"Boney, old man's been blind all your livin' and breathin' days there pancho. You've ain't never seen no football, in person, in
pictures...anywhere. You don't even know what a football looks like!"
"One of my nephew's sons is on the niners my-boy. Now, where is you? You gib me mo lip, rill hit it with this cane, hear! Now, where
is you?" I'd already split. disgusted, ashamed, confused...and on a full bladder.
Well, it was Sunday, it was sunny out, and several thousand people were already drunk by eleven-thirty-five a.m. Several thousand
people were already working on some sort of an excuse for not making it to work the next day. Some were just gonna shirk. Worse,
employers were making allowances for this, because they were fans too. That means the non-fans suffered in almost every way, except
for the clear streets during game time.
Yag. How am I to spend this Superbowl Sunday? I've got lots of graphics work to do, but I'd much rather skate. Regardless, I found
myself in front of my drawing table, cutting overlays, two hours of this, the phone rings and I'm back out into the real world. The word is,
a Super Bowl indoor skate session over in Oakland to happen this afternoon. I tried to call several friends to clue them in on the exclusive,
private session. The ramps are in a warehouse, propped up against couches, which make a good sturdy base. The transition, at the floor,
is supported by old type-writers. Everybody asks me when I can take them there to skate, they crave. But, now that I'm going, everyone
is all of a sudden too busy watching the Superbowl. It's more important than skating? At least at this ramp session, if it was absolutely
necessary, you could watch the game between runs. But no! "Oh, I'm afraid my car will stall, run out of gas, get a flat, miss one second of
the game." It's soooooo important to be a bigger fan than the next guy. Jump around a little wilder on the left of the T.V. set while your
cousins are pumping the keg in the kitchen, uncle is ferrying mugs to the living room, neighbor Jim is pulling antenna duty during the first
half hour of the second quarter while Durk the family mechanic is flying to the liquor store, in his '76 Grand Prix fully chopped 'n' chanelled,
for a direly needed reserve keg.
SCENARIO: A SEVEN CAR PILE-UP IN THE DRIVEWAY OF THE 7-11 ON WHITE ROAD NEAR ROTTEN ROBBIES. FIGHTS
ENSUE, VIOLENCE ERUPTS, FEW LIVES RUINED.
9
There were only a few skater-types at this place. Steve Heck, big-dude-non-pencil neck-type-guy, Matt (skating) about four months,
approx. 26 years of age, 200 lbs., working on 'berts." Chris, (real big guy-about same age, weight, but tall) and Madman. "When Madman
skates, everybody skates." There were some non-skater types hangin' too. They were the screamer/hooter types that get fully over-amped
on the yardage gain, and grunt when Miami quarterback, Dan Marino, got sacked.
I got there, and there was a little less than three seconds left in the second quarter. Some guy that I don't even know, runs up and says,
"O.K. I'll give you an update! Right now it's almost halftime. We get the ball, it's first and ten on our 48. Betters blasts through and sacks
Joe for a 5 yard loss right? But, now we're talking second and fifteen at our 43. Joe twindles it underneath to Craig for a gainer of 20,
lapping up a beautiful first down. First and ten at Miami's 37, Joe hoofs and holds to the right for seven. Then Joe throws an incomplete
to Solomon. Next he hands it to Tyler, who wheels to the left for nine. Joe then systematically drives to the goal with a pass to Francis, for
nine. Then Harmon sweeps to the right for seven. First and goal on Miami's five. Tyler gets three. It's second and goal, on Miami's two
yard line. Roger Craig pulls a steam-roller routine, and plows up the middle for the goal. YEAH! Wersching gets the extra. 28-10, NINERS
I didn't need that, I thought. The guy rushes back to his spot in front of the T.V. and ques back in.
Miami has the ball, and Von Schamann kicks a 31 yard field goal for three more points. When Miami kicks off, it's fielded by 49er McIntyre,
but he gets hit and fumbles at the 18. Miami's Jensen recovers it at the 12 with twelve seconds left in the half. The boys were moanin' in
front of the T.V. and I was skating an open series of ramps. Von Schamann comes in again and kicks a thirty yarder. Into the half it's
28-16, San Francisco. The ramp came alive at the sound of the gun.
"You want to get in on the pool?" Matt's wife asked me. She wears glasses. "Uh, no, not really into the game. I'm just skating."
"C'mon. Everyone else did. We need to get the kitty up."
"How big is it?"
"If you put in your buck, eleven big bucks."
"Ha! Well, no, really I uh..."
"C'mon..."
"O.K."
"What numbers you want?"
"Numbers?"
"Yeah, for the score."
"You pick one, I don't know, I wanna skate."
"How about 447"
"O.K."
"Or, how about, 55, or 51? Fifty-one is good."
"O.K. 51. I gave a buck and continued to skate.
These ramps are cool, the lips flex down when you grind it. There was one collision in the middle of the floor between Madman and
Matt. Madman's beer got squashed in the middle and shot a ten to fifteen foot spoot straight up, leaving a beer-hazard when it landed.
Slick as oil.
I skated for awhile, then another friend shows with his girlfriend, for some sessioning, not football.
Steve Heck was doing acid drops from the highest ramp while holding and drinking straight shots from a half gallon jug outta one hand,
and chasing it with a cold Bud that was in the other hand, until he slid out on the beer hazard and slammed into a refrigerator, but...he
didn't spill a drop.
The game got back underway, and the ramps were clear once again. I hardly noticed the game the rest of the time.
The game was over, the Niner's won I didn't even know the score.
10
"Who won the pool, who won?" a guy was screamin'. Matt's wife pointed to me. Hah, I won? Eleven bucks. Yeah.
"What, how'd he win? He wasn't even watchin' the fuckin' game. He didn't even care who won."
"What about them Niners. Yeah. Joe," I mimicked wryly through the side of my mouth. Simultaneously they started screaming, "NINERS,
NINERSI
I shouted, Yeah, "FIFTY-ONE!" and then, "FIFTY-ONE FOR ELEVEN BUCKS FOR SKATING THROUGH THE GAME."
11
I hurried back to the office to finish working on the paste-up. I didn't want to get caught up in the riot-menace-mob-rules-mindless
celebration. The turmoil of hundreds of thousands of people spilling into the streets to celebrate and act like crazed lunatics. Wild in the
streets. Then the police come out and arrest almost 200 revelers, screwing up their lives for a bit. Hey, it's only a game.
Millions of dollars for this whole debacle. Millions and millions. The game's atmosphere had been pumped up for weeks. More attention
and air-time were paid to it than were paid to issues concerning starvation and other humanity areas. Strife, death. People who'll pay
hundreds of dollars for a seat at the game, but they'd probably not lift a finger to help someone who's lost all, has no food and absolutely
no chance of self betterment. Not that they're lazy like some, but just can't exist, and are waiting to die. People who heartily devour hype,
get hypnotized into thinking they need things. "The finer people have these, it's the latest."
I'm sure there's nothing wrong with the Niners themselves. Just a gangload of jocks, like any other gangload of jockos. It's not their fault
that just because they're good, the people of their city act like bumbling fools just 'cause they need something to belong to, to believe in
'cause they are relatively creativeless. It's easy to be a football fan. Just buy a hat, shirt, jacket, bumper sticker, mug, etc. Walk around
saying, "What about them Niners?" "Yeah, Go-Joe-Go!", and you're already acting like a ten-year football fan vet. If you want to get real
deep, memorize a handful of statistics, and toss 'em in at appropriate moments when someone's talkin' pigskin. Remember, get loud, be
enthusiastic and punctuate names, especially nicknames. The fans get hostile because their position of actually belonging to something
has been challenged. The fans of old are O.K. They've liked the game since before it was a multi-million dollar corporate deal. It's the ones
who have only been a fan since the introduction of the "reverse-angle" camera, that are phony.
I have a dream, hmmmn, hmmn, hm. What can I see? Hmm mn mmm hm eh! Then there was the time in Texas. Lance Mountain and
Steve Steadham were skating some planters, when this....
THRASHER-But-Butt
19