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On average, I’d say I watch somewhere in the neighborhood of
one full football game a year and it just so happens to be the Super Bowl. The large
game. The grande enchilada.
That’s the only football game I’ll
watch from the opening kickoff through the post-end credits scene where Sam
Jackson shows up with a zany plan.
There’s
really no reason for me to watch the aforementioned large game. I don’t have
the stomach to gamble and I’m clearly not much of a football fan. On top of
that, my office doesn’t even have a water cooler, so there’s nothing to gather
around on Monday and dissect the Xs and Os of the game.
And by Xs
and Os I mean the commercials and the halftime show.
Despite
all of that, I still make it a point to watch and have since my days as a small
boy.
Every
year my parents, sister and I would dine on hoagies and wings, eating them off
football-themed plates and napkins. My dad would spend half the game reminding
my mom of how football worked and the other half waving the white flag in the
face of her never-ending onslaught of questions. Every single year.
It
warms the cockles of my heart just thinking about it.
Another
tradition was the decorations. For whatever reason, as a youth I got it in my
head that I needed to be the official decorating committee of my family’s Super
Bowl festivities.
So
starting on Super Bowl eve, I’d cobble together a bunch of hand-made pennants
with crudely scribbled slogans on them: Go Niners! Go Giants! Switzer’s a bum!
And so forth like that.
Then I’d
wait for the first floor of our family home to clear out. I liked to work in
private, so I’d dawdle until everyone wandered to other areas. Perhaps I thought
it was best for artwork of that caliber to hit the audience all at one time.
That way they could drink in the deep-seated commentary I was trying to convey in
one giant gulp.
