Not So Super

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 1, 2015 

Every week the ad-matches are sent to me in an email. I always pay extra attention to the ads on shopping week and noticed there was an inordinate amount of soda, crackers, cheeses, Velveeta, RoTel, chips, hot dogs, and party type foods in the ads this week. I thought it was strange, because it’s not July 4^th, but then I remembered: this is Super Bowl weekend.

Or at least…I think it is.

I seem to remember a lot of football-ish type things showing up in my Facebook newsfeed and my kids have been talking about Katy Perry and wondering if she’ll have a wardrobe “malfunction” as others have in years past. I don’t pay much attention to such things. I don’t like football.

There. I said it. I live in Oklahoma and I don’t like football.

I don’t like a single thing about it. I attend one, maybe two, football games a year and only because my niece and nephew are in the band. I was our band’s drum major in high school and Mr. Medders would get frustrated with me because he’d be into watching the game, cheer for a touchdown, then realize that the band hadn’t struck up the school song – because his drum major was visiting with her neighbors, friends, and anyone else who would join in. We finally struck up an agreement that when they got close to the touchdown place he’d give me the high sign so I could at least put a pin in my conversations long enough to lead the band. When Mr. Wall became director my Senior year I had to train him as to my I-only-attend-football-games-because-I’m-forced-to ways and we worked out the same agreement as his predecessor.

Now that I am a recovering extrovert and don’t enjoy chatting as much as I once did, I just pretty much sit and sigh, shift uncomfortably on the bleachers, shell out concession stand money to my children and husband, and text anyone who will text back. If I had a smart phone I could at least play Words with Friends or something, but as it is, I just start down my contacts list and try to remember which of them won’t (willingly) be at a football game and thus be too engaged to text me back.

I don’t understand anything about the game. It has never made sense to me. I know that a bunch of dudes encased in plastic, foam, and spandex capri pants smash violently into each other over an oblong leather ball. I know that they get six points for a touchdown, one for a field goal, and three for “running it in”, whatever that means. I know that sometimes refs throw little yellow hankies on the ground and I am fairly certain those hankies have nothing to do with runny noses. The players touch each others’ rear ends a lot and coaches throw clipboards on the ground rather angrily at times. I have also seen the strange tradition of dumping a cooler full of iced Gatorade over the head of the coach at the end of a game, a behavior that baffles me because I know just how doggone expensive that stuff is. People in the crowd yell, “COME ON D!” and I wonder why A, B, and C are being left out. I have repeatedly asked someone to explain what “1^st and 10” means and no, the explanation of “1^st down with 10 yards to go” doesn’t help. Down where? Yards of fabric?  And if they need to “go” maybe they should ask the ref to throw down a hankie so they can have a potty break. It’s a foreign language I care not learn, thankyouverymuch.

So Happy Super Bowl Day to all you sportsy weirdos. We’ll chat again in March when I’ll be as mad as a hatter while I scream “DEFENSE, BOYS!”

Ohhhhh wait…..I just go that whole “COME ON D!” thing. Heh. Who knew. Anyway, go enjoy your cheese dip and your baffling ballgame. I’ll just be over here playing Words with Friends.