OK, here we go.
I’ve got my beer stacked neatly in the fridge, a huge sack of Cheez-its snack mix, and friends coming over to watch me flip out at the screen.
Apart from the half-time show, the ‘bowl’ usually sucks. It’s almost never a real match-up, for some unknowable reason, and watching a 28-3 game is never much fun. This year, I have high hopes for a real game. Some action on the field. Some heart. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? There is a real sports ethic, Virginia, and the American game isn’t just about money and sponsorship.
Ah, a girl can dream, can’t she?
Hailing from a strange background – being an inhabitant of Indiana, New England, and New York for equal lengths of time – I have feelings about both these teams. Usually, I root for New England. But my dad loved the Pats so much, that he actually soured me on them. However, that being said, I have fond memories of Superbowl showdowns.
My dad and my mom divorced when I was less than a year old. She was born and raised in northern Indiana and rooted for the Bears (that being the only game in town before the Hoosier Dome even existed). The year before my mom died in a car crash, I met my father for the first time. That was the same year that the Bears and the Pats met in the bowl.
You remember that year, it was the year of the Superbowl Shuffle and the Fridge. And McMahon. (Actually, McMahon wasn’t half as talented as Tom Brady and was an even bigger ass, so I guess I should stop complaining about Brady so much.)
Anyway, my parents had finally put away their differences and I had plans to visit my father that spring. Camped out in our living room, my mom and I watched the game together as a unit. She was delighted with the Bears’ performance. Each time they scored, my mom leapt off her chair and dialed my dad.
“Did you see that touchdown, Jim?” she gleefully asked. “Well, did you?”
Sadly, my dad didn’t get to make many opposite “in-your-face” calls in return that year. But, it was the first time that I saw clearly that my parents at one time actually liked each other. Up until then, I had started to believe that I might have been an immaculate conception, because I couldn’t picture two more opposite people together than my mother and my father. Apparently, they shared a love of football.
That summer, my mom died and I went to live with my father. I attended Patriots games, back when they weren’t good at all. It was an education in the game, given by a brusque and hard-to-love man.
I used to root against the Patriots just to watch my dad steam up under the collar. Tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of him as I root for Eli Manning and the Giants against his favorite team. Just like when he was alive, I was sixteen, and we were sitting in the stands of Foxborough Stadium.
Love you, dad.
But I still hope that they lose tomorrow. Even if I know they won’t.
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