I don’t know how crazed St. Helenans are about the Super Bowl anymore. Used to be that the best pool in town was at Keller’s behind Ernie’s meat counter. The twenty dollar buy in was steep. Mostly housewives like my mom played. It made them feel naughty.

Steve ran the pool down at Jacquie’s Exxon. Originally, you could get in for a sawbuck. It went up to 10 bucks a shot and I think one of the kids won something almost every year.

Keller’s is no more and with Jacquie and Steve gone, there was no pool this year at the Exxon. No doubt there were pools elsewhere—probably one at Anna’s. I don’t get around Main St. as much as I used to. Of course, I don’t get around anywhere as much as I used to.

Which brings us to the other Bowl which was played in St. Helena this past weekend. Toss out the halftime entertainment, the Budweiser Clydesdales, and one could hardly tell the difference between the Super Bowl, watched by ninety-seven million Americans and the Geezer Bowl, watched by four people—three spouses and one father.

The Geezer Bowl: Not even the Super Bowl was more aptly named.

It all started when one who shall go nameless was having one of those milestone birthday’s. What does one do? Have the traditional Black Tie event? Hire a band and plan a huge feed down at Native Sons. Just have a few friends over for dinner and some Lewelling Cab and Stoney Hill Chardonnay?

Call it a guy thing. On certain birthdays some men climb Mt. Everest. Others run a marathon. Maybe one just writes down a “Bucket List” and starts checking boxes until kicking time arrives.

(Somehow the family had vetoed the red convertible and blond eye-candy four to one).

The Geezer Bowl was the grown up equivalent of asking kids on the block if they could come out and play. Only the thought of a flag football game in the middle of winter doesn’t sit well with many kids--let alone middle aged men.

The idea was to mix in some Gen y’ers and Gen X’er’s, so that they could do the heavy lifting and the boomers could coast along gently protecting those tight hammies, trick knees and bad backs.

With this in mind, the first two invites went to local Medicos Norm Wall and Mike Shifflet. When one is doing something completely stupid, it’s always good bring along the keys to the emergency clinic.

To make sure there was real talent, Mosh was invited. After all, he’d been drafted by the Jets and been an All American at Cal. The only down side was that all this took place before Joe Namath won Super Bowl III.

It was a typical St. Helena mixed bag. A few of the Valley’s greatest wine makers signed on as well as a major winery owner, a vineyard manager, a local merchant, a copy writer, an artist, a gym rat, a cheese guy, a finance guy, and a cattle rancher from Pope Valley.

Was this a ridiculous gesture by an Over the Hill Gang to relive teen age glories of the past? Maybe. Despite Robin William’s movie about the kid who got to go back and catch the pass he dropped to end the streak, nothing was going to bring back that loss to Cloverdale. (And no, that wasn’t me—despite scurrilous rumors to the contrary).

For those of us who once met at McSherry’s Bar for Bloodies at 7am in order to make a 9am kickoff in the NYC Central Park league—football is simply what football has always been. Pure competitive fun with a little physicality thrown in.

The Goobs ordered “Geezer Bowl” shirts, a ref’s shirt, whistle, blue and gold flags, bobble head doll trophies for the winners (Sorry. No participation trophies) and prepared a tri tip sandwich lunch for après game festivities.

She wrote up a politically incorrect program with insulting bios of all the players, to boot. Anything for the laugh.

Though Super Bowl Sunday arrived sunny, bright and clear, Geezer Bowl Saturday was stormy, windy and wet.

We all wanted to move the game to Anna’s, but no one dared mention it.

Matt was hunting pigs in Pope Valley, when he called make sure it was on.

This was a dedicated crew.

We lined up at mid field and Larry led us in a robust Star Spangled Banner.

Ronnie blew the whistle and the game was on.

After Matt returned the opening kick off for a score, we oldsters figured those pigs had a better chance of surviving the day than we did.

The first play from scrimmage left three bodies on the ground. This was going to be ugly.

The temperature decreased as the rain increased and the wind blew harder. No one complained. Balls were dropped, passes went awry, yet TD’s were scored.

Pretty it wasn’t. But football it was.

And what is football? No matter what the trappings are, from fireworks, to rock star entertainment it is still just a bunch of guys adhering to certain rules, getting a little physical between the lines—and competing to see who’s the best on that day.

From Super Bowl to Geezer Bowl, it’s that simple—that uncomplicated—that beautiful. Men are always happiest when they are allowed to be one thing. Little boys.

Yes, football is a game like no other.

The Geezer Bowl: Maybe it’s just a line on the bucket list. Or simply a great excuse to drink Don Julio in the afternoon. No matter. It was perfect.






























Jeffrey Earl Warren
James Warren & Son
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748





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