Riding Rockets

No call ever came from the White House, but Swine Flight did score one gem of a PR trip into the civilian world. Dan Brandenstein decided that the STS-26 crew had overstayed their welcome in the “Return to Flight” spotlight and redlined them from the Super Bowl event. Our crew would make the trip to Miami and represent NASA during the Super Bowl XXIII halftime show.

Accompanied by our wives, we flew to Miami the day before the big game. That evening we were the guests of NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle at a party…along with three thousand of his closest friends. The event was held in a convention facility and around its entryway balcony sat a clutch of harp-playing women dressed as cowgirl saloon hookers. The choreographer of that act had to have been on LSD. Later I noticed the ladies were faking their “plucks.” When they took a break, the harp music continued. And their music wasn’t the only thing being faked. Squadrons of silicone-stretched zeppelin breasts, mounted on Pamela Anderson look-alikes, cruised the room. Every escort service in the state must have sold out and then called Vegas for backup.

Mountains of food, rivers of booze, and live bands in every corner occupied the crowd. Donna and I loaded up our plates and searched for seats. I had the great misfortune to find two at a table with a fat, lavishly bejeweled gasbag of a woman who saw our arrival as an excuse to recount how rich and well-traveled she was. There was nothing on my guest badge to identify me as an astronaut and her glances at my cheap suit and Donna’s middle-class wardrobe must have given her the impression I was some NFL groupie she could lord over. Her husband looked up from his food and communicated a “sucker” look to me. He never said a word, just ate, maintaining a grin on his face the entire time as if to say, “Good, now you’ve got her and I don’t have to listen to that runaway pie hole of hers.” I finally wearied of her nonstop travelogue and interrupted to say, “I’m an astronaut, so I’ve seen a little of the world, too.” With that Donna and I rose from the table and departed, leaving her speechless, no doubt for the first time in her life.

The next day, January 22, 1989, found us in a skybox at Joe Robbie Stadium preparing to watch the San Francisco 49ers battle the Cincinnati Bengals. There was just one significant distraction: Billy Joel, who was to sing the national anthem, brought along his wife, Christie Brinkley, and they were ensconced in an adjoining skybox. Just a glass wall separated us. This arrangement created the greatest dilemma in the history of maledom. In front of me was the sports spectacle of the year. Joe Montana and Boomer Esiason were calling the signals for their teams. Seventy-five thousand fans were screaming. Even the STS-26 crew didn’t create a moment like this. But a few yards to our right was Christie Brinkley, arguably one of the most beautiful women on the planet. What was a man to do?

We did what every man would have done. We watched both. As soon as the ball was blown dead, we’d all stare at Christie like pound dogs hoping for adoption. Then our heads would snap back for the next play. Our heads oscillated back and forth as if we were watching a tennis match. The rhythm was only interrupted long enough to get a beer. Could it get any better? Yes, it could. Turned out Christie was a fan of the space program. She came to our skybox to meet us. We all rose as if she were royalty, which of course she was. She was royally, freakin’ beautiful. Hoot, Shep, and I generated more snorts than a hog farm.

“Are you guys astronauts?” We were all wearing our blue flight suits with patches reading “NASA” and other patches with renditions of space shuttles. Then there were our gold navy and silver air force wings, our Mach 25 patches, and American flag patches. We were either astronauts or Epcot Disney characters. It must have been the blonde in her asking the question.

Under my breath I whispered to Hoot, “I’ll be anything she wants me to be.” Hoot, no doubt, was thinking the same lecherous things I was thinking, but he played the gentleman and answered, “Yes.”

“Have you been to the moon?”

I whispered fiercely to Hoot, “Tell heryes !” But he stuck to the truth, damn him. Maybe she would have taken us home if he had lied.

She began to walk down our ranks, smiling and asking questions. At any moment I expected her to say, “You mean you aren’t the famous STS-26 crew? How disappointing.” But she didn’t. She seemed pleased to meet us runner-ups.

To my amazement I noticed the rest of the crew were shaking her hand! Even Hoot. He must have stroked out when she walked into the room. There’s no other way to explain his restraint.What a bunch of weak dicks, I thought. You shake Billy Joel’s hand. You shake Commissioner Rozelle’s hand. But you don’t shake Christie Brinkley’s hand.