Today marks the annual mindless American media-driven utterly
idiotic total waste of time, commonly known as "Superbowl Sunday".
Oh, please. I am unwaveringly content to be the truly rare, straight, American
male who doesn't care in the least about this "event", other than
what it does to television programming, and conversation among strangers. And I
don't care at all about television programming, either.
I'm not even going to waste cranial steam on a tirade or
fulmination here, either. I'm still getting over a particularly sapping
respiratory infection that's kept me under the weather for over a week now...
and I have better things to do with my remaining reserve of
energy than give the so-called pastime of football further attention.
So with no further ado, I'm actually going to post a rerun of
one of my own blogs (why not? it's mine, and I just recently passed the
one-year mark), this from last year's "Super" Bowl event. My
name is Aging Child, and I fully endorse the opinions expressed below, and have
no interest in giving this silly endeavor further mind, since...
...I DON'T CARE.
Got that, Booboo? I don't
care!
Here I am: the American man,
leaving my mid-forties later this year. I am a US citizen (heh-heh, with German
citizenship in my back pocket), I vote in every election I can get to (missed
the big one in 1996 because I was overseas… but fortunately the election turned
out all right), I once owned a car with fins on it, I prefer to buy
American-made, I eat hot dogs in the summer and apple pie perhaps a little too
often (though in the autumn, pumpkin's my downfall).
I am straight, reasonably
intelligent, open-minded, college undergrad; I go to Mass every Sunday (and
sometimes in between), I love my kids and my mother, miss my dad, try hard to
listen to my boss; and if I weren't so heaven-bent on entering a monastery or
seminary, I'd be on the market for one more open-minded ( = desperate) woman to
finish my life with.
I SIMPLY DON'T CARE about
bloody football!
I don't care that today is
(let's all bow – no; you bow; I'll tap my toes impatiently) Super
Bowl Sunday. I don't care about any sport – professional, academic, amateur,
olympic, whatever. I grumble when the latest "Simpsons" episode is preempted
by yet another screenful of overweight, overpaid men in tight pants chasing
each other and a weird-shaped "ball" up and down a striped field.
Do please understand that I'm
not anti-football; rather, I simply don't care for it, and care little
about it. This has called for much patience from my mother, a brother-in-law,
and my older daughter, all of whom are very sports-focused and seem happiest
yelling at a fumble or dropped pitch.
Nor have I any desire to see
this sport wiped out of our universe, or relegated to pick-me-up games in the
park on fall weekends. A lot of time, money, and economy are tied up in sports
of all levels and – aside from where it fills too much of many children's
schedules – their loss to the powerhouse of western civilization would, in all
likelihood, be of near-catastrophic impact.
In school, I did play some
football in gym class… and fortunately the other players never looked
to me for anything pivotal during our games. This was not a bad
experience, folks; I didn't know how to play, didn't want to learn, and
fortunately was not pressed to be a great part of it.
In 1996, I actually enjoyed
watching a high-school game in north New Jersey with a girlfriend, whose niece
(IIRC) was a cheerleader there. But I couldn't follow the action, was baffled
by a yellow flag thrown onto the field more than once, and totally confused
when suddenly each team began defending the other end of the field.
Bless my daughter's heart;
during one game a few weeks ago, which was being shown on one of the
large-screen TVs at my brother-in-law's house, she explained some of the
basics, and objectives, translated the yellow line and the blue one, and so on,
with great patience and no condescension. She enjoyed being my tutor for this
impromptu class, and I do have to admit that – while noncaring about the sport
– I am mildly curious about it… just not curious enough to tune into a game
under ordinary circumstances. So Dear Daughter Shellie's information has
since evaporated again from my cranial grooves; this is not her fault, of
course, and I do appreciate her effort.
At about this same time of
year in 1991, I suggested to a girlfriend (not the one I attended the
high-school game with) something for the tiny minority of straight American men
like me: on this particular hallowed Sunday evening each year, throw a "Superb
Owl Party", complete with stuffed, wizened bird in the corner. My
girlfriend suggested the slogan: "For those who don't care a hoot
about football!" We could have the usual football fare – beer, beans,
bucket o' wings – and put on an action film or "chick-flick".
Heh; we guys would be in a
delicious minority there, too, because (I suspect) most of the attendees would
be the football-widow type, and nonmarried gals who've been shoved aside for
the day by their obsessed men.
Anyway, I never held one of
those parties, but every year I give it some thought, and likely will continue
do so. But the point would not be to make a point; it would simply be to
provide an alternative get-together with friends, and friends of friends, who
care as little about football as I do.
But when it comes to a good
football game, I'll pass.
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