It had been exactly 31 years, 5 months, and 17 days since I had seen the pilot episode of Homicide: Life on the Street. It was Super Bowl Sunday, (for purists: Super Bowl XXVII) and we had been given the prime spot - airing directly after the game. If you can’t remember who played, neither did I. It was the Dallas Cowboys vs. the Buffalo Bills, and Dallas hammered them 52-17. Michael Jackson and ‘thousands’ of dancers, performers, and aerialists were in the halftime show produced by MTV.
I don’t remember much of the game, nor did I clock the irony that the Bills were Tom Fontana’s hometown team. I was at a party thrown by the woman I was seeing at the time. I remember being impressed by what a great host she was. I also remember this gnawing feeling I was having:
As excited as I was that we were in a prize position, we did not feel like a ‘follow the Super Bowl’ kind of show.
Watching it with that drunken group of friends, it felt flat. The show demanded your listening, attention, and sensitivity - instead, people were eating, drinking, and talking over the dialogue. I was pissed, but then it occurred to me, “If this is every household in America tonight, we’re doomed.”
For a guy who was ambivalent about being on the show in the first place, my pride was kicking in. The revelers were missing out on first-rate writing and great performances. The cast had been shown the pilot before we left Baltimore, so I knew how good it was - but these people never would. I left there more than a little sad that night.