Today is Super Bowl Sunday. I do not understand football and I can probably be forgiven because, while my mind works in delightful ways, it does not compute sports strategy. In high school I liked to watch basketball but if I was passed the ball in gym class I became confused—there were so many options—dribble it somewhere, pass it to someone, try to get it in the basket, or, as I did quite often, stand there until someone shouted at me with instructions. Girls did not play football in gym. I tossed a football around a bit with my older brothers in our backyard (mostly I tried not to get hit in the head) but that was about it. I am familiar with the weirdly shaped ball, but not the true essence of the game that is named after it.
The sport baffles me—I understand when they throw the ball, and when they try to stop someone from advancing it to their goal post, but it seems like most of time it is a bunch of bodies piling on top of one another—I guess in an effort to stop the ball—but that usually seems beside the point. I watched the movie with Sandra Bullock and the adopted son who became a famous football player, and when the little brother explained strategy with mustard and other condiment bottles, I understood to a point, but when you replace the bottles with people, I am still somewhat ill at ease with the game—which seems a bit violent. A game where head concussions are a regular achievement is not generally my cup of tea.
Today, in all my glorious ignorance, I am going to celebrate Super Bowl Sunday. I got some wings—spicy and mild (for me), a chocolate cake with a football on it, and I am rooting for a local guy who plays on the bird team. For anyone local, the guy’s name is Luke Wilson, and he is from LaSalle, Ontario, only about 35 minutes from where I live.
I have never watched a Super Bowl game in my life. I have been to Super Bowl parties and partaken in the wonderfully bad food, but I have stayed away from the huge television set usually in a place of pride in someone’s family room, and watched a movie on the smaller TV upstairs with those like-minded souls who accompanied their spouses to the party (I am not being sexist here—many a lady I know understands and likes football). I used to go to football games at university but hydrated on purple jesus (sounds so disrespectful now—but it was kind of like grape juice spiced with alcohol) it did not really matter what was going on in the field as long as we did not cheer when the other team scored.
Today I am looking forward to the commercials and half-time and the food. I always get these wonderful ideas thinking my family will follow suit and we will have a wonderfully close-knit bonding experience. These plans usually go awry—but I never give up. I usually find the unplanned times together work best, but I still give it the old college try (without the copious amounts of alcohol).
So, go bird team go. Perhaps I should find out the real names of the teams –what do you think?
(I used the Comic sans font so you would know this is supposed to be funny—did it work?)