Through the Eyes of A Ten-Year-Old, 1960

I know it's been written about, researched to death, and editorialized both honestly and through the eyes of every known columnist's printed persona - but watching the 1960 Democratic National Convention with Grandma (secretly sharing sherbet from the Pick 'N Pay for supper), picking up on her kind school teacher's lessons on the political process, on LBJ from a Texan's standpoint at the time, and later, back home at Mom's, thrilling at JFK's Inaugural Address in late January, 1961, this ten-year-old boy saw nothing but promise and inspiration for all the days to come. The Colts were still in Baltimore. John Unitas was a god. The Cowboys were just getting started in the NFL. "The Alamo," filmed in Todd-AO was the talk of the neighborhood. And Doo Wop reigned supreme on radios up and down the east coast.

Things were different back then.

The possibilities seemed endless to me. Commercial bombardiers had yet to seriously invade the lives of everyone, near and far. The Civil Rights Movement was gaining momentum. And the Cuban Missle Crisis was an unforeseeable speck on the horizon.

But things hadn't been all that rosy as I grew to learn the lay of the land in the 1950's. I was a child born during a war, The Korean War. McCarthyism raged, the Cold War was on, everyone had to line up for the polio vaccine, "duck and cover" drills really meant duck and cover, Sputnik was circling the globe, and we had yet to see the new Boeing 707 at Friendship Airport.

So, as I get ready to watch the Super Bowl this evening, I'll be making a piano player's deft use of the remote control to minimize the bombardment. I'll be rooting for The New England Patriots, because no true Baltimore Colts or Dallas Cowboys fan could ever cheer on Philadelphia (unless it helped our chances).

I won't be:

Thinking of the "Patriots" in today's terms.

Avoiding the game because I'm "above it all."

Looking back at the 2004 election and shaking my head.

Wondering how many generations will suffer before the Tsunami fades into memory (I'll continue to obsess over that nightmare later).

Forgetting that February is Black History Month.

Fuming at all of the "experts" who continue to portray either JFK or LBJ in some one-dimensional, revisionist, Roveian way.

I'll just enjoy the game. After all, there's still a ten-year-old boy inside me who hasn't been tended to in a long time.