This has not been a good spring. First, it hasn’t come. Actually, it came and went, and came and went, again. Repeatedly. Second, I’ve been laid up with an old football injury ever since Super Bowl XLVIII (48 for the Roman numeral challenged), which I call the continuing saga of the Broncos meet anybody else and get the nasal mucus knocked out of them. I would not care except the Broncos are the reason I got a football injury.
Scroll back to Jan. 15, 1978. Super Bowl XII (12). The Dallas Cowboys showed up at the Louisiana Superdome ready to rumble and the Broncos showed up ready to . . . well, no one is sure. It was more like a “chick” fight between a raucous hot babe and a prissy old lady who didn’t want to break her nails.
OK, I don’t watch much football, but when I do, certain requirements must be met. I assume my football watching position, reclining on the sofa, legs stretched out, my back at precisely a 43.5-degree angle. The TV is located so that my head is not in any unnaturally contorted position. My large plastic bowl of butter-flavored popcorn must be on the coffee table fronting the sofa. And a chilled Coca-Cola (because ‘Coke Is It’) is placed to the left of the PPB (popcorn pig bowl).
So it was, right up until the fourth quarter when fullback Robert Newhouse executed a halfback option play and hurled a 29-yard pass for a touchdown. That’s when I spewed my “Co-cola,” my legs flew up into the air, I fell off the sofa, pulled the pig bowl down on top of me and kawa-bungled my right shoulder’s rotator cuff big time. The Cowboys 27, the Broncos 10.
Rehab was brutal, but I “womaned” up and made it. Until Jan. 28, 1990 and Super Bowl XXIV (24). Same thing, different decade. I was all set. The San Francisco 49ers met the Denver Broncos. Louisiana Superdome, again. The 49ers showed up ready to rumble, and the Broncos showed up ready to fumble. Which they did, along with being intercepted, many times. The biggest point differential in Super Bowl history (45). The biggest number of players crying during a single game (the entire Bronco defense and offense). Blah, blah.
I made it to the third quarter before the sofa threw me off. Joe Montana’s pump fake making the score 41-3 was responsible.
More rehab. Then came Feb. 2, 2014. Denver Broncos vs. the Seattle Seahawks. Not played in the Louisiana Superdome. Another Bronco game so I reverse-engineered my preferred position. My left side was closest to the coffee table. Not a chance I could fall on the right rotator cuff.
It was the Seahawks quickest score in Super Bowl history, a safety on the first play from scrimmage, that did it. I bolted upright, lost my popcorn, spun in the air, bypassed my left arm and fell on my right rotator cuff kawa-bungling it for the third time.
If the Broncos ever go to the Super Bowl again, I’ll be watching from a Barcalounger tied in with rope, wearing shoulder pads and surrounded by 4-inch thick upholstery foam cushions . . . just in case.
For more humor, visit www.BarbaraCohea.com, or email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.