Game Is in Good Hands

San Francisco and San Diego have begun to wage the War Between the State, and friends, this one could get ugly. “You wine drinkers!” “You zoo keepers!” “You quiche eaters!” “You Tijuana wanna-be!” I’m telling you, before this Super Bowl civil unrest is over, the governor might be calling out the national guard.

At least there won’t be any friendly betting between two governors over the outcome of the game, because Pete Wilson is in this one all by his lonesome.

Unless maybe he makes a personal wager with himself.

“Pete, I’ll bet you a case of fine Jose Cuervo tequila that our Chargers can lick San Francisco like a wrist full of salt!” “You’re on, Pete. A case of Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 Rubicon says the 49ers make your team sleep with the fishes.”

Into the valley of death ride the 49ers and Chargers. Hang onto your vanity license plates, it’s the Golden State Super Bowl, gridiron gridlock on I-5. This one is the North against the South, and we in the middle could get caught in the cross-fire. Welcome to drive-by football.

Here we sit, minding our own business in neutral territory, with nothing to do but watch General Seifert and General Ross marshal their forces. The game itself should be in doubt about as long as it takes Kathie Lee Gifford to finish singing, “And the home . . . of the . . . brave.” Otherwise, we can look forward to not one but two weeks of San Francisco/San Diego razzing, ribbing, taunting and woofing.

“You know what I hate? I hate Tony Bennett.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you know who left his heart in San Diego?”

“Who?”

“Nobody.”

San Franciscans are saying that they already played the Super Bowl--last week. San Diegans are saying that the game isn’t over until Frank Gifford’s old lady sings.

San Franciscans say they are 19-point favorites and by game day the 49ers will probably be 49-point favorites. San Diegans say if Broadway Joe Namath can overcome such long odds, so can Friars Road Stan Humphries!

San Franciscans say the Chargers probably couldn’t defeat the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. San Diegans are saying that not only is Junior Seau tougher than Ken Norton Jr., he’s tougher than Ken Norton Sr.

San Franciscans say Steve Young plays quarterback just like Joe Montana. San Diegans say, “Yeah. Old.”

San Franciscans say the only way the Chargers will bother them is by asking for autographs. San Diegans say if Barry Switzer hadn’t bumped a referee, they’d be studying film of Emmitt Smith today.

San Franciscans say nobody can stop Jerry Rice, Ricky Watters and William Floyd. San Diegans say, “Hmmm. We’ve heard of the first guy, but what were those other names again?”

San Franciscans say the Chargers can forget about Mark Seay or Alfred Pupunu getting open, because Deion Sanders will stick to them like a pierced ear. San Diegans say they don’t expect Deion to be playing because he’s got a baseball game that day.

San Franciscans say hey, like Mays. San Diegans say Seau and Seay.

San Franciscans say, “Pupunu? Didn’t he work at the White House? Don’t they serve that with mahi mahi? “ San Diegans say, “Brent Jones? Wasn’t that a TV show with Buddy Ebsen?”

San Franciscans say you don’t know what pressure is until you play in a Super Bowl. San Diegans say yeah, that must have really been a lot of pressure, playing the Cincinnati Bengals.

And on and on like this it will go. Two weeks of California domestic quarreling.

“You know what Mark Twain once said? ‘The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.’ ”

“Oh, yeah? You know what Mark Twain once said about San Diego?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ah, San Francisco. It is the town of Sam Spade, of steep hills, of Mrs. Doubtfire, of fine dining, of Ghirardelli chocolate, of sourdough bread, of Jimmy Stewart kissing Kim Novak, of bays and bridges, of Steve McQueen breaking the speed limit, of wind that blows pitchers off the mound, of Michael Douglas examining Sharon Stone.

Ah, San Diego. It is the town of Simon and Simon, of sandy beaches, of Betty Broderick, of lots of yachts, of the Old Town Mexican Cafe, of performing seafood, of Del Mar where the surf meets the turf, of ballparks named after sportswriters, of ballplayers who once dressed in brown and yellow, resembling tacos.

Today, San Diego’s athletes wear bolts on their heads, a look I haven’t seen since Frankenstein’s monster.

But you know what San Diegans think a 49er is? What a typical San Franciscan scores out of 100.