Superbowl Sunday here and across the pond …
I’m finally (kind of, sort of) over the Colts’ loss a few weeks ago that I think I can finally talk about the Superbowl.
And I promise I’ll make only one catty comment about the Saints. Maybe two.
Some of Rand’s colleagues were over from the U.K. and joined us, along with a handful of our friends, to watch the Superbowl. And over the course of the game, we discovered a couple of things …
- If you aren’t an American, football may be boring to you. Or confusing. Or pointless. Or really, really violent. Thankfully, after decades of it being part of our culture, we have become blissfully desensitized to this.
- Understanding the object of the game only gets you so far. It’s one thing to know that the team needs to move the ball in certain direction. it’s another altogether to understand the rules, the logic behind downs (is there any?), and what, exactly, some of the penalties mean.
- Don’t try and explain the scoring convention. People will just look at you like you are nuts. (“Wait … what’s the reasoning behind the ‘extra point’ again?” Here’s the thing: no one knows).
- Cricket is even more complicated and longer than football. If your guests get a bit ornery, just remind them of that (in all fairness, our guests did not get ornery, nor did they fall asleep, despite being jet-lagged. The only person who ended up crashing was actually a local and a football fan. Go figure).
- The Superbowl actually airs in the U.K., stretching into the wee small hours of the morning (due to the timechange). Also, it airs without commercials, which kind of defeats a lot of the purpose for many people.
Anywho, I felt fortunate that I had the chance to introduce our U.K. cohorts to something quintessentially American. It was actually a lot of fun, despite the fact that the entire country decided to become Saints fans for approximately 2 hours, before sinking back into the woodwork and forgetting Drew Brees’ name. My logic was this: I don’t hate the Saints, but how the hell can you root for another team when you’ve loved Peyton Manning for years? You can’t. Consequently, I defend my choice (and possible ensuing temper tantrum) as morally justifiable, and even noble.
But back to our very American Superbowl party … It was CRAZY.
Babies drank beer:
Grown men took naps:
And, like any good party in the U.S. of A, we had food on sticks. In this case, it was pizza:
God, I love the Superbowl. Even when the Saints win.
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