On Sunday, Jan. 12, 1969, a few hours before Joe Namath and the New York Jets would take the field against the heavily favored Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III, I sat down to breakfast along with 25 fellow firefighters at Bergstrom Air Force Base, located seven miles outside Austin, Texas.

Just as I was about to eat my Corn Flakes, in walked our stationmaster, Sgt. Willie Blackwell. “Hurry up with your grub, boys. We’re off to the pits.”

Hearing this, we let out a communal groan. The “pits,” was a rigorous training exercise where a dozen barrels of jet fuel were poured into a circular muddy basin. Once ignited, our P-2 crash-rescue trucks would lurch toward the rioting flames with their powerful turrets jetting foam over the blistering blaze. Meanwhile, the handlinemen — lucky airmen like me — would jump from our vehicles, open our foam-spitting nozzles and slog our way through the raging inferno, all in our quest to retrieve two dummy pilots from an old fuselage and drag them to safety. A harrowing experience, entirely.

Thankfully, Sgt. Blackwell quickly broke into a smile. “Just joking, boys. As you know, today is Super Bowl Sunday.”

Yes, Super Bowl Sunday. Even our squadron of RF-4C Phantoms and T-38 Talons were grounded for the day. After all, this was the Lone Star State where football was king and every officer’s club would soon be packed to the gills.

“Yes, football in our crash suits.”

Our crash suits, or “silvers” as we also called them, were asbestos-lined bunker suits used for close-proximity fires like aircraft emergencies as well as those dreaded pit fires. Our silvers included a hood with tinted visor, a three quarter-length jacket, trousers, boots and gloves.

We were giddy with excitement at Ike’s suggestion and quickly slipped into our silvers and dashed out onto the yellow grass in front of the stationhouse. Bob Walton, a Bostonian, said we looked like a bunch of astronauts running away from multi-horned aliens.

Twelve of us joined in, six to a side. Those who had rooted for the Colts made up one team, and the Jets the other. Sgt. Shaw from Tulsa kicked the game into play. Well, sort of. He completely missed the football, but his boot went flying 30 yards downfield. Brewer, my teammate, caught the boot and ran it in for a touchdown. Our team insisted that it counted because the Colts had tried to tackle him. After a heated discussion, Sgt. Ike, who captained the opposing team, allowed the TD to stand. Yes, the Firehouse Jets took an early lead!

The game continued in uproarious fashion. We could hardly run in our bulky suits, which left us huffing and puffing beneath our hoods after each play. It also took us a minute or more to untangle ourselves from our mountainous pile-ups. Quipped Sgt. Bill Lyon from the sidelines, “You guys look like a pan of Jiffy Pop ready to pop!”

We were having a grand old time until Sgt. Blackwell called from our front door. “Boys, the base commander just happened to drive by and he’s none too pleased with your horsing ‘round. So, pack it up. Game’s over.”

His announcement wasn’t too disappointing because we were totally bushed out by that time. Besides, the game was knotted at three touchdowns apiece, so no losers.

In the bunkhouse that night, Sgt. Ike, who had scored his team’s tying touchdown by dragging three of us 15 yards across the goal line, spoke up before light’s out: “Most of you young guys won’t be here next year to enjoy the Super Bowl. Nope, you’ll be scattered around the globe, most likely in ’Nam or Thailand. Someday, though, you’ll be safely back home again and might even throw your own Super Bowl parties,” he continued, still cradling the game ball in his arms. “When you do, make sure you tell your friends and families how you once played in the first and only Asbestos Bowl in football history.”

Following his short but spirited speech, we gave Sgt. Ike a resounding cheer, as he tossed the football our way.

Kevin O’Hara, a longtime Eagle contributor, is the author of “Ins and Outs of a Locked Ward: My 30 Years as a Psychiatric Nurse.” This is his 200th op-ed piece for the Eagle, dating back to March 1984.