Mr. Huizenga will see you now pt. 2

After dragging this tale out for the better part of 2 weeks, I almost tempted to remind folks there was a game I went to. Given the first couple of posts on this trip, the game would appear to have been secondary. Given that Tech lost, it was. Such is life. On with the story and an otherwise Semitic-free post.

Miami is generally thought to be a fairly tropical place filled with def bods, most of whom wear next to nothing and stay up most nights binging on cocaine. In fact, that's probably why most people go there. Were I ever to find myself in a state of cocaine-fueled paranoia, I'd probably take some comfort in knowing the last thing I'd ever see was a spray-tanned, roid-raging mook beating me to death with a lead pipe for eyeing his heavily siliconed lady friend on South Beach.

But that's not why I go to Miami. Oh, no. Who needs beaches, babes or cocaine when I've got Yellow Jacket football in the Orange Bowl?

So after a rather uneventful drive from West Palm Beach down some stretch of interstate, we ended up in Land Shark Stadium. A stadium that, I believe, is named for a thoroughly unnecessary beer created by the thoroughly unnecessary Jimmy Buffet. Those would be strikes 1 and 2 for any scoring at home. The fact that the scenery on our particular route had the beach and all its beautimus trappings cleverly disguised as your basic barren, concrete landscape would be, if not strike 3, at least a foul tip. Thus far not quite the hot, sexy scene Miami I was envisioning. Of course, since our convertible Ferrari turned out to be a 2009 Chevrolet Aveo, that's probably just as well. Sensible? Yes. Sassy? No.

(BTW, I know that as the scenery was en route to the stadium, technically, that would be strike 1, making Jimmy Buffet strike 3. But this was the first time Tech had played in the Orange Bowl since 1967 so I'll be damned if I was going to let that Hawaiian-shirted goofball ruin my evening. He's already ruined too many ears.)

We were told to arrive early, so we did just that. I can only assume that the powers that be suggest early arrival to allow for the maximum tailgating time since, being a rather professional operation, entrance to/from the stadium was rather painless. What this all means is that given our inability to find even a McDonald's on the way--seriously, Miami, what gives? Doesn't all that cocaine make you slightly hungry?--we pulled into our spot an impressive 2+ hours before game time. This gave us maximum to watch everybody else do their tailgating and pretend that we actually had something to talk about. It's hard to adequately describe the overwhelming sense of failure that accompanied sitting in a rented Chevy Aveo, watching folks set up grills and prepare food that you know you'll not be getting. Especially when it's a somewhat un-Miami 45F.

In our favor was Two for Tuesday on the local rock station so I got to remember how much I hate radio. But at least I heard some Foghat. Andy decided if ever there were a prime situation to roll down the windows and crank "Slow Ride" this was it. I agreed and decided the time for action was now so I took off my jacket, leaving me only a sweatshirt, a sweater, an oxford and a t-shirt from being shirtless. Go wild. Indeed.

But after one too many Van Hagar songs we decided to take our chances inside the stadium. While the parking lot seemed fairly secure it was perilous enough that a fellow just this side of stable was warning of impending eternal damnation. Figuring that Hell, in fact, had already frozen over, Andy went back to the car to retrieve his jacket.

In the meantime, I stood and listened to a somewhat convoluted theory on how this game, the death of Michael Jackson, and I'm sure if I'd stuck around long enough, the Jews (sorry) all meshed together to ensure that God's wrath would be visited upon us. The would-be victims seemed to be taking the news rather well. A fact that can either be attributed to the stoic piety of the attendees or general boredom with life in their hometowns.

After riding the tallest escalator in the world, (really, like 10K feet) and an acceptable meal of chicken strips, we found our seats. And after all sorts of announcements and pregame mumbo jumbo, what would turn out to be the highlight of my evening occurred: an appearance by Alto Reed (possibly a stage name), former(?) sax dude for Bob Seger's Silver Bullet Band, playing America the Beautiful.

Much like the previous sighting of Romeo Crendel in the terminal in Atlanta, Mr. Reed's appearance had a randomness that really made me wonder just how he'd got to that point. Though I missed much of his almost certainly soaring rendition of ATB pondering such a thing, I decided it probably involved an Orange Bowl official aimlessly driving around Miami, probably looking for cocaine, and finding Mr. Reed playing on a street corner instead.

I'd hoped Mr. Reed would pull out his patented playing two saxophones at one time bit or at least play that smooth bit from "Turn the Page". Alas, he didn't do either. Andy and I decided that the dual saxes was a bit too physically dangerous to be attempted nowadays. Just as well since I subsequently learned the move was actually banned in 1985 for fear it would encourage youngsters to play the saxophone. But man, it would have been awesome and a childhood dream would have been fulfilled. Admittedly, a childhood dream I'd not thought about since childhood, but a childhood dream nonetheless.

And then some lady sang the national anthem and the game started and during any stoppage of play, they used the PA to thank everyone who'd ever come to any event in the history of the world. A safe bet that poor bastard is still sitting in the announcer's booth thanking corporate stooge after corporate stooge for helping make your 2010 Fed Ex Orange Bowl such a bitchin success. Oh yeah, did I mention it was cold?

Since the game was turning out to be not really that much fun for Tech fans, I began to pin my hopes on what was sure to be an amazing halftime show somewhere around five minutes into the game. For my patience (and $125), I was rewarded a mini-concert by Kool & the Gang. Or at least Robert "Kool" Bell and some dudes who probably were in grade school the last time The Gang had a hit. You takes what you can gets.

I was nonplussed but since the temp was no hovering around 40F, I really didn't care. I certainly wasn't going to shake my groove thang anyway. The fans from Iowa, however, really seemed to enjoy this unexpected treat. Not really sure whether this is because Iowans really do love "Ladies Night" and the other classics of that funked-up catalog or they just couldn't believe their good fortune at getting to see a real, live, black man in person.

(Jeepers creepers! Marge will never believe this. They really are like us, but with darker skin.)

But kudos to Kool & the Gang for bringing the funk. But more so for being able to keep a straight face while hordes of uber-white cheerleaders scattered about the entire field, did what I'll generously call a routine to the sounds of "Jungle Boogie." Simultaneous, organized, mass, spasms were more accurate.

It's the small moments like these that make trips like this worth it for me. Sure, I was ticked because Tech lost. I didn't see the beach. Didn't see any cocaine. And I'd really preferred Miami have lived up to its end of the deal, temperature wise. But when irony just plops down at one's door like that, it's all one can do but say, "Thank you."

Thank you.