Confession: I have never watched a football game. I attended an LSU football game a thousand years ago in high school when I was on a date with someone my brother fixed me up with, but alas, I was not a part of the screaming multitude. I don’t know who is playing today. I don’t know the names of the teams. They are as indistinguishable to me as the names of baseball and basketball teams, though philosophically and aesthetically, baseball and basketball are more appealing than football. And so is soccer. I don’t get football at all. Why are these people shrieking over these poor guys who, like gladiators and boxers, have to risk life and limb for all these out-of–shape, chip-eating, beer-swilling fans? Unlike the gladiators, they get good pay for getting beaten up concussed and pummeled, and that’s fine in my book. To me Jerry Sandusky is a natural by-product of the shibboleth known as American football.
In spite of all this, Super Bowl Sunday is the greatest! Nobody at Whole Foods, Nobody at Trader Joe’s. Nobody anywhere. Except for these thunderous roars that emit from open windows when one walks by, nothing is stirring, not even a mouse. We are planning to go eat sushi at the busiest sushi bar in Little Osaka because we know it will be empty. It takes a seven-point earthquake or Super Bowl Sunday to clear the streets in Los Angeles. But every year it’s the same. By 3:25 PST nothing on Olympic, nothing on Wilshire. Nothing on the 10 or the 405.
My husband, God bless him, may not hate Super Bowl Sunday but he is sublimely indifferent. I just went upstairs and asked him who was playing and what time the game started. He has no idea. Though now that I have grabbed the sports pages for the first time in my life, I am now in the know.
Right before we turn on Downtown Abbey this evening I plan to turn to him and say, “how about them Patriots?” and I know he will think this is hilarious.
I am enormously grateful to be married to my husband on Super Bowl Sunday.