It’s Super Bowl weekend. 114 million people will be watching. $300 million will be spent on Ads. 4 million Pizza will be sold. 8 million pounds of guacamole will be consumed.
I remember the first time I was introduced to this game. It seemed like a magical shared experience that I felt obligated to be a part of. I gathered my contribution to the chips and dips and made my way to a friends house. It started out ok with a spread of the choicest snacks. I sat with the rest of my friends ready to cheer my team to victory. I barely knew the rules or the supposed superheroes playing onscreen, but I made a valiant attempt to immerse myself in it. It didn’t last very long. My natural indisposition to sport soon took over. I had to walk away.
Before halftime, I found myself in a nearby book shop. The rest of game time was spent ambling through corridors of books. It was there surrounded by my own superheroes of the literary world that I broke off with Super Bowl. I dropped all attempts to educate myself on it. I deflected and diverted when people wanted to discuss it. I gave up all pretence of knowing the teams or caring who won. When it was super bowl time, I went hiking, took a dance class, went for a run – I led a peaceful life.
Years passed. It’s Super bowl time again. This time, I find myself surrounded by a sports revering husband and two young boys being initiated into this great American experience. The fight is too close to home, so I have made my peace. There will be a party at my place. My TV will blare the 60 minutes of game time and 60 minutes of commercials. People will come and cheer. I will be serving guacamole.