Fear and Loathing at Rolling Stone (50 page)

The spread, in Houston, was Miami by 6, but by midnight on Saturday almost every one of the two thousand or so drunks in the lobby of the Regency—official headquarters and media vortex for this eighth annual Super Bowl—was absolutely sure about what was going to happen when the deal went down on Sunday, about two miles east of the hotel on the fog-soaked artificial turf of Rice University Stadium.

Ah . . . but wait! Why are we talking about gamblers here? Or thousands of hookers and drunken sportswriters jammed together in a seething mob in the lobby of a Houston hotel?

And what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter to deliver a sermon from the book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of Super Sunday?

I had not planned a sermon for that morning. I had not even planned to be in Houston, for that matter ... But now, looking back on that outburst, I see a certain inevitability about it. Probably it was a crazed and futile effort to somehow explain the extremely twisted nature of my relationship with God, Nixon, and the National Football League: the three had long since become inseparable in my mind, a sort of unholy trinity that had caused me more trouble and personal anguish in the past few months than Ron Ziegler, Hubert Humphrey, and Peter Sheridan all together had caused me in a year on the campaign trail.

Or perhaps it had something to do with my admittedly deep-seated need to have public revenge on Al Davis, general manager of the Oakland Raiders ... Or maybe an overweening desire to confess that I had been wrong, from the start, to have ever agreed with Richard Nixon about
anything
, and especially pro football.

In any case, it was apparently something I’d been cranking myself up to deliver for quite a while ... and, for reasons I still can’t be sure of, the eruption finally occurred on the dawn of Super Sunday.

I howled at the top of my lungs for almost thirty minutes, raving and screeching about all those who would soon be cast into the lake of fire for a variety of low crimes, demeanors, and general ugliness that amounted to a sweeping indictment of almost everybody in the hotel at that hour.

Most of them were asleep when I began speaking, but as a Doctor of Divinity and an ordained minister in the Church of the New Truth, I knew in my heart that I was merely a vessel—a tool, as it were—of some higher and more powerful voice.

For eight long and degrading days I had skulked around Houston with all the other professionals, doing our jobs—which was actually to do nothing at all except drink all the free booze we could pour into our bodies, courtesy of the National Football League, and listen to an endless barrage of some of the lamest and silliest swill ever uttered by man or beast ... and finally, on Sunday morning about six hours before the opening kickoff, I was racked to the point of hysteria by a hellish interior conflict.

I was sitting by myself in the room, watching the wind & weather clocks on the TV set, when I felt a sudden and extremely powerful movement at the base of my spine. Mother of Sweating Jesus! I thought. What is it—a leech? Are there leeches in this goddamn hotel, along with everything else? I jumped off the bed and began clawing at the small of my back with both hands. The thing felt huge, maybe eight or nine pounds, moving slowly up my spine toward the base of my neck.

I’d been wondering, all week, why I was feeling so low and out of sorts ... but it never occurred to me that a giant leech had been sucking blood out of the base of my spine all that time; and now the goddamn thing was moving up toward the base of my brain, going straight for the medulla ... and as a professional sportswriter I knew that if the bugger ever reached my medulla I was done for.

It was at this point that serious conflict set in, because I realized—given the nature of what was coming up my spine and the drastic effect I knew it would have, very soon, on my sense of journalistic responsibility—that I would have to do two things immediately: first, deliver the sermon that had been brewing in my brain all week long, and then rush back into the room and write my lead for the Super Bowl story . . .

Or maybe write my lead first, and then deliver the sermon. In any case, there was no time to lose. The thing was about a third of the way up my spine now, and still having at good speed. I jerked on a pair of L.L. Bean walking shorts and ran out on the balcony to a nearby ice machine.

Back in the room I filled a glass full of ice and Wild Turkey, then began flipping through the pages of
A Demon’s Nightmare
for some kind of spiritual springboard to get the sermon moving. I had already decided—about midway in the ice run—that I had adequate time to address the sleeping crowd and also crank out a lead before that goddamn blood-sucking slug reached the base of my brain—or, even worse, if a sharp dose of Wild Turkey happened to slow the thing down long enough to rob me of my final excuse for missing the game entirely, like last year....

What? Did my tongue slip there? My fingers? Or did I just get a fine professional hint from my old buddy, Mr. Natural?

Indeed. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. John Mitchell said that—shortly before he quit his job and left Washington at ninety miles an hour in a chauffeur-driven limousine.

I have never felt close to John Mitchell, but on that rotten morning in Houston, I came as close as I ever will; because he was, after all, a pro ... and so, alas, was I. Or at least I had a fistful of press badges that said I was.

And it was this bedrock sense of professionalism, I think, that quickly solved my problem ... which, until that moment when I recalled the foul spectre of Mitchell, had seemed to require a frantic decision between either delivering my sermon or writing my lead, in the place of an impossibly short time.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Who said that?

I suspect it was somebody from the
Columbia Journalism Review
, but I have no proof ... and it makes no difference anyway. There is a bond, among pros, that needs no definition. Or at least it didn’t on that Sunday morning in Houston, for reasons that require no further discussion at this point in time ... because it suddenly occurred to me that
I had already written the lead
for this year’s Super Bowl game; I wrote it last year
in Los Angeles, and a quick rip through my fat manila folder of clips labeled “Football ’73” turned it up as if by magic.

I jerked it out of the file, and retyped it on a fresh page slugged: “Super Bowl/Houston ’74.” The only change necessary was the substitution of “Minnesota Vikings” for “Washington Redskins.” Except for that, the lead seemed just as adequate for the game that would begin in about six hours as it was for the one that I missed in Los Angeles in January of ’73.

“The precision-jackhammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off the Minnesota Vikings today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stops around both ends . . .”

The jangling of the telephone caused me to interrupt my work. I jerked it off the hook, saying nothing to whoever was on the other end, and began flashing the hotel operator. When she finally cut in, I spoke very calmly. “Look,” I said, “I’m a very friendly person and a minister of the gospel, to boot—but I thought I left instructions down there to put no calls—
No calls, goddamn it
!—through to this room, and especially not
now
in the middle of this orgy ... I’ve been here eight days and nobody’s called me yet. Why in hell would they start now? ... What? Well, I simply can’t accept that kind of flimsy reasoning, operator. Do you believe in
hell
? Are you ready to speak with Saint Peter? ... Wait a minute now, calm down ... I want to be sure you understand
one thing
before I get back to my business; I have some people here who
need help
. . . But I want you to know that God is Holy! He will
not allow
sin in his presence! The Bible says: ‘There is none righteous.
No, not one
... For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.’ That’s from the book of Romans, young lady . . .”

The silence at the other end of the line was beginning to make me nervous. But I could feel the sap rising, so I decided to continue my sermon from the balcony ... and I suddenly realized that somebody was beating on my door. Jesus God, I thought, it’s the manager; they’ve come for me at last.

But it was a TV reporter from Pittsburgh, raving drunk and demanding to take a shower. I jerked him into the room. “Nevermind the goddamn shower,” I said. “Do you realize what I have on my spine?” He
stared at me, unable to speak. “A giant leech,” I said. “It’s been there for eight days, getting fatter and fatter with blood.”

He nodded slowly as I led him over to the phone. “I hate leeches,” he muttered.

“That’s the least of our problems,” I said. “Room service won’t send any beer up until noon, and all the bars are closed ... I have this Wild Turkey, but I think it’s too heavy for the situation we’re in.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I got work to do. The goddamn game’s about to start. I need a shower.”

“Me too,” I said. “But I have some work to do first, so you’ll have to make the call.”

“Call?” He slumped into a chair in front of the window, staring out at the thick gray mist that had hung on the town for eight days—except now, as Super Sunday dawned, it was thicker and wetter than ever.

I gave him the phone: “Call the manager,” I said. “Tell him you’re Howard Cosell and you’re visiting up here with a minister in 2003; we’re having a private prayer breakfast and we need two-fifths of his best red wine, with a box of saltine crackers.”

He nodded unhappily. “Hell, I came here for a shower. Who needs the wine?”

“It’s important,” I said. “You make the call while I go outside and get started.”

He shrugged and dialed “O” while I hurried out to the balcony, clearing my throat for an opening run at James 2:19:

“Beware!” I shouted. “For the devils also believe, and tremble!”

I waited for a moment, but there was no reply from the lobby, twenty floors down—so I tried Ephesians 6:12, which seemed more appropriate:

“For we wrestle not,” I screamed, “against flesh and blood—but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world—and, yes—against spiritual wickedness in high places!”

Still there was no response except the booming echoes of my own voice ... but the thing on my spine was moving with new vigor now, and I sensed there was not much time. All movement in the lobby had ceased. They were all standing still down there—maybe twenty or thirty people . . . but were they
listening
? Could they
hear
?

I couldn’t be sure. The acoustics of these massive lobbies are not predictable. I knew, for instance, that a person sitting in a room on the eleventh floor, with the door open, could hear—with unnerving clarity—the sound of a cocktail glass shattering on the floor of the lobby. It was also true that almost every word of Gregg Allman’s “Multi-Colored Lady” played at top volume on a dual-speaker Sony TC-126 in an open-door room on the twentieth floor could be heard in the NFL pressroom on the hotel mezzanine ... but it was hard to be sure of the timbre and carrying power of my own voice in this cavern; it sounded, to me, like the deep screaming of a bull elk in the rut ... but there was no way to know, for sure, if I was really getting through.

“Discipline!” I bellowed. “Remember Vince Lombardi!” I paused to let that one sink in—waiting for applause, but none came. “Remember George Metesky!” I shouted. “He had discipline!”

Nobody down in the lobby seemed to catch that one, although I sensed the first stirrings of action on the balconies just below me. It was almost time for the Free Breakfast in the Imperial Ballroom downstairs, and some of the early rising sportswriters seemed to be up and about. Somewhere behind me a phone was ringing, but I paid no attention. It was time, I felt, to bring it all together ... my voice was giving out, but despite the occasional dead spots and bursts of high-pitched wavering, I grasped the railing of the balcony and got braced for some flat-out raving:

“Revelations, Twenty-fifteen!” I screamed. “Say Hallelujah! Yes! Say Hallelujah!”

People were definitely responding now. I could hear their voices, full of excitement—but the acoustics of the place made it impossible to get a good fix on the cries that were bounding back and forth across the lobby. Were they saying “Hallelujah”?

“Four more years!” I shouted. “My friend General Haig has told us that the Forces of Darkness are now in control of the Nation—and they will rule for four more years!” I paused to sip my drink, then I hit it again: “And Al Davis has told us that whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!”

I reached around behind me with my free hand, slapping at a spot between my shoulder blades to slow the thing down.

“How many of you will be cast into the lake of fire in the next four years?
How many will survive?
I have spoken with General Haig, and—”