Today I watched the Superbowl. This is exactly the second full-length NFL game I’ve watched in my life (the first being the 2003 Superbowl in Shawn Metheny’s basement. I don’t remember who played or who won, but I had fun playing foosball afterward.) I watched it because I got a kick out of the stakes involved: the first perfect season since 1972 was there for the taking.
I don’t have the background to say whether or not the game was any good, but I can say that my heart was beating and felt a little nausea (although that may have been the painfully spicy vegetarian curry pie that I ate yesterday afternoon and fought with all yesterday evening, as the clearly evil pastry attempted to chew itself through my sternum in some kind of Giger-influenced yet non-trademark-infringing way) during the last three minutes.
Long story short, the perfect season was not had. I was cheering for New England to do it, but I wasn’t involved in any way that made me angry (you, know, like when I got so pissed off at Eric Lindros and the Flyers when they not only failed to beat Detroit in the Stanley Cup finals, but instead got swept) so I was happy for the New York Giants.
Anyway, that has satisfied my need for football for some time. If anyone has some invites for a 2013 Superbowl Party, send ‘em my way, I just might show up.
And while I’m here, why did the players insist on referring to the Superbowl as the “World Championship”? I mean, okay, technically it is, but if you’re the only country that plays a sport called American Football, calling it a “World” Championship is somewhat presumptuous.
But, as Bruce McCulloch would say, “America, the land where spelling doesn’t count, people’s pets do!”