Sometimes Game Plans Go Awry in Super Bowl of Life

I would love to have my ex-wife over this Sunday for the Super Bowl. She could bring the chips, I could be the dip. We’d have plenty to talk about. Maybe even some football.

Our last one together would have been Super Bowl XIV.

The Big Game . . . January, 1980 . . . Thinking back on it now, I remember being bone-tired and grimly aware that darkness was descending over the house as the game clock wound down to those final minutes and seconds. I remember a blur of lights and motion and the field spinning; the game seemed to have lasted an eternity, or was it just a moment? I don’t know, everything was so topsy-turvy. . . .

The game had begun in bright sunshine and with much clarity, that much I remember.

I was young and strong and unbridled, thinking I could pull off anything that came my way. Despite my lack of big-game experience, I was fully confident I knew exactly what I was doing. It’s easy to look back now and realize that was foolish, immature youth talking, but when you’re young and you see your whole life stretched out before you, nobody’s thinking about what you can’t do.

She was even younger, but, oh, what a player! This was somebody you could build a franchise around. I noticed right away, however, that she didn’t have the confidence. Little did I know that what I diagnosed as lack of confidence was instead a wariness about what lay ahead.

It’s all hindsight now, but my game plan could have used a lot more wariness and a lot less confidence.

Early on, before I realized the stakes we were playing for, the game was fun. And that’s what it was--a game. I marched up and down the field, seeing what worked and what didn’t, and enjoyed the give and take. We both got penalized plenty of times, but there were no flagrant fouls. No matter how bloodied we got, there was always another game the next week.

It’s just that the games got tougher and tougher. I made my mistakes, but tried to shrug them off and avoid repeating them. You may think you’re a natural athlete, but nobody just shows up and shines in this game. If you don’t practice, the off-season comes early.

Even so, man, they make you play a lot of games. What’s fun in early September, when the cuts and bruises haven’t started adding up, becomes business by late December.

When did that sun start setting so quickly? When did it start getting dark so fast?

And then before you realize what’s happening, it’s way, way late in the season and you’re out there alone in the biggest game of your life, the clouds are hanging low over the stadium and it’s all up for grabs.

There is nothing so dispiriting as thinking you’re ready for it only to get steamrollered. You think you’re in complete control and that your hard work is going to pay off.

But, somehow, things start going awry.

What the hell happened to the game plan? I thought I was prepared for anything. These plays were supposed to work!

You’re scurrying furiously as the disaster unfolds right before your eyes. Not only are you not marching down the field, you’re going backward. You’re eating turf, buddy. It doesn’t help that everyone you know in the world is watching you unravel. It becomes too painful to watch. . . .

That’s how The Game was playing itself on that cold day in hell. Watching Good ol’ Super Bowl XIV wind down about the same time the other one was.

The Steelers were in control, and I would have sworn I was too.

And for a while, I was. And it was a great game. I feel sorry for the people who don’t experience the highs.

Then in the blink of an eye, it was third-and-long with time almost expired. . . . I dropped back for a desperation pass . . . she threw up a defense I didn’t recognize quickly enough . . . I held the ball a fraction of a second too long . . . the next thing I knew, boom, a blind-side shot that bent me like a twig. . . . I was being hauled off the field on a stretcher, slightly cuckoo. . . . I remember her leaning over me, saying, “Nice game,” then smiling in that faintly condescending way that victors congratulate the vanquished before trotting off the field. . . . I have a vague recollection of someone--a doctor, I think--saying somberly, “This could be career-ending.”

OK, so it didn’t kill me. But why didn’t someone tell me this game is adults only?

It’s painful losing the big one, but take heart from the former player who once said during Super Bowl week: “If it’s the Ultimate Game, how come they play it again next year?”

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.