The Other Super Bowl

Pro football's recent emphasis on conservative tactics has reduced both point scores and thrills. Legislation lifting local TV blackouts also makes the Sunday trek to the stadium less compelling. No such paltry consideration--not even the October climax of big-league baseball--distracts a very special species of spectator. He is the tailgater, a participant in an event that is part block party, part fraternity beer bust, part Shriners' parade and all Middle-American ritual.

Tailgating started years ago at Ivy League games, where alumni would serve genteel picnics from the backs of their station wagons. Cold chicken and Chablis was a typical menu. The Midwestern, professional football version is something else--a Polish polka rather than a minuet, New Year's Eve in Times Square rather than a polite dinner party for twelve. The super bowl of tailgating occurs when the Green Bay Packers visit the Minnesota Vikings. TIME Correspondent Marguerite Michaels attended one such blast in Bloomington, Minn. Her report:

They start arriving on Saturday in trailers, campers, trucks and even old converted school buses. By midmorning Sunday, the 160 acres of parking lot around Bloomington's Metropolitan Stadium is as populous as a small city. Thousands of separate parties are soon under way--sprawling, informal events to which admission costs only a smile.

Bernie Brodkorb, an automobile salesman from South St. Paul, and his wife Lois are two of the more flamboyant party givers. They come in a purple 1951 school bus (the Vikings' colors are purple and gold), laden with the fruits of five weeks of planning--two quarter-barrels of Grain Belt beer, 18 Ibs. of roast beef, a ham, fish, potato salad and home-baked beans. They also bring a flatbed truck to serve as a stage for Joe Tomaszewski's six-piece Polish Show Band. "I don't hunt or fish--I just party," says Bernie Brodkorb. He is wearing a purple vinyl Vikings jacket and a little feathered purple felt hat. "Thank God I like the color purple," says Lois, whose loyalty extends down to her purple fingernails, matching purple velveteen pants and purple satin vest.

Wine Time. While Joe Tomaszewski's boys play the Happy-Go-Lucky Polka, two representatives of the Richfield American Legion Clown Club do their turns for Bernie's 100-odd invited guests and scores of passersby. Bernie figures the festivities have cost him $400, which he paid out of his purple checkbook (he writes in purple ink).

Mr. and Mrs. Rodney Becker and two other couples have driven 90 miles from Turtle Lake, Wis. Becker, a grocer, brings not only food and liquor for 40 friends but also a Xeroxed schedule of Sunday's events: "Wake 8 a.m.--Green Bay fans calisthenics; 8:30 a.m.--Viking fans calisthenics." Wine drinking and "rest" come next, leaving three hours for a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, sausage and more wine.

By 10:30 a.m., Bill Braman, a carpet wholesaler from Minneapolis, and his wife Ginny have their 12-ft. bamboo pole set up, aflutter with a weathered Vikings pennant. It marks their "Outside Stadium Club"--a takeoff on the posh inside Stadium Club for wealthy ticket holders. "Only difference," says Ginny, "is that they have a toilet and we don't." The Bramans, pioneers of Minnesota tailgating, have been throwing parties since 1961. They are traditionalists with rules for their party: no gambling, no chewing out the players after a bad game, no hard liquor. The restrictions do not deter Vikings players from congregating at the Braman "club" after the game, swapping stories, and drinking beer, which the Bramans do permit. "I look for the pennant on the bamboo stick after every home game," says Defensive Lineman Bob Lurtsema. "If I can't find it, I go back to get a pair of binoculars."

There are other kinds of reunions. Insurance Salesman Dave La Vine of Minneapolis is one of the regulars who can always be counted on to hold a great party. This year La Vine blew some $600 outfitting his 40-ft. rented trailer with enough goodies to treat 200 friends, clients and old Sigma Alpha Epsilon brothers. "We flew all the way out here from Manhattan," says Bill Shallberg, who came out with his wife Suzie. "This is where the real pro football fans are."

The level of liquor consumption often calls for some precautionary measures to remind revelers of the dangers of drunken driving. Two trailers from the Hennepin County Alcohol Safety Project offer breath tests to volunteers who want to know their intoxication levels. The police administer the program and drive the vans, but are good sports about leaving before the tailgaters drive off. Says Policeman Don Bowles, "If we stayed any longer, we'd have to arrest half the people here."

Honeymoon Half. The game itself is only an interlude between the morning celebrations and the victory or consolation sessions held afterward. It is time for nostalgia--not for reliving old games, but for recalling old tailgating lore. For instance, many remember the 1971 event when a couple got married next to their Winnebago camper and began their honeymoon at half time. No weddings occurred this time, but still many were reluctant to leave. "Not everyone can get out of the parking lot at once," slurred one hanger-on who kept it up way past 6 p.m., when even the boys in Joe Tomaszewski's Polish Show Band had packed up and left.

"God, this was a great party," says Nick Pavelich, a crane operator who had driven his Winnebago 173 miles from Grand Rapids. "I've heard so much about tailgating I thought just one time I'm going to see one." Nick and his wife Carol, like some others, decided that football tickets were the least important aspect of the day. They and their pals sat in a Winnebago, next to their Grain Belt beer, and watched the Vikings beat the Packers on TV.

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