Really, folks. Is Superbowl Sunday all that different than, say, St. Patrick’s Day? Just another excuse to get soused? Don’t get me wrong, now. Getting soused is a favorite pastime of mine and, generally, I welcome any opportunity to indulge. But this whole, feverish build-up to what has frequently been a pretty mediocre exhibition of a fairly brutal game is a bit beyond my comprehension.
What really amazes me is the way some identify with a team, frequently speaking as though they were also on the field. “We really stopped ’em on that drive, eh?” I think I appreciate athleticism and the strategy and tactics that go into being successful as much as the next person, but I just don’t get the personal attachment so many exhibit; never have.
I once had a girlfriend whose father was the Director of Photography for the Washington Redskins (the relationship got me a sweet seat and all the NFL perks for Superbowl XIX), but she used to scream at the players . . . through the television!! WTF? OK – I’m done. You are now free to hate me for being an iconoclast and speaking my mind over the country’s largest religion – Feetsball. :0P
PS – I can’t wait to see the commercials . . . and downing a bunch of Scotch. I’ll be watching alone, so I can actually hear what’s going on.
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