[Updated with photos! Scroll down.]
The Super Bowl has been a part of my life since I started playing organized sports. I missed the first two editions of the game because I didn’t know much about it. I do, however, remember my Dad delaying going out with my mother for New Year’s Eve in order to watch the end of the famous Packers “Ice Bowl” NFL Championship game against Dallas in ’67 prior to Super Bowl II. The next year I was playing youth football in the local Optimists’ league – for a team named the mini-Packers.
I watched in dismay that year as Joe Namath and the Jets dismantled the Colts in III, and lost my first sports wager the next year when my Uncle Carl bet me the Vikings wouldn’t beat the Chiefs. Since then I’ve missed watching only two Super Bowls: 1971 when my parents made me go with a church group to tour the local police stations (I was plenty upset, but it turned out to be no great loss as it was the awful Baltimore 16, Dallas 13 game) and 1979 when I was in England (even if there had been something called a “sports bar” back then they wouldn’t have been open at that hour). I also remember having friends sleeping over before VI and us calling a late-night talk show to confidently predict Dallas crushing the Dolphins (correct) — and then laughing our adolescent butts off when a later caller angrily suggested that kids shouldn’t be up at that hour calling radio programs.
I’m sure there are other memories I could dig up with a little more thought, but most of the games kind of slide through my mind in a slurry. The last 10 years or so, while I love the game, it’s been more about the people I spend it with than the teams that are playing — especially if it’s with a group of fans who know when to pay attention. Yesterday we were pleased to have a convivial and well-trained bunch over, consisting of a few friends from church and some new friends from the blogging world who I never knew existed at this time last year.
I moved the TV into the living room because it had the most sitting space and because it was handy to the kitchen and dining room where the food was laid out and the people who only wanted to see the commercials hung out. It was easy for us veteran football watchers to alert the other group to impending commercial breaks, usually setting off a mini-stampede that turned into a threat to smaller and larger children also on the premises. It was a rowdy time that left me feeling a little hungover this morning, and I wasn’t even drinking yesterday (except for about a liter and a half of Coke to chase Kevin’s salsa).
Steeler fans Policy Guy and Gal were there to discuss a fisking of Sid Hartman’s column about the wonders of all the new stadiums Michigan has paid for. I fixed a smoked brisket, while Surly and Sweeter brought a salmon log and a blue cheese mousse. There was also an abundance of bruschetta, brownies, taquitos and all manner of chips and some guacamole. (Speaking of guac, wouldn’t it have been fun if Kermit, riding his bike down the road to promote Ford’s hybrid SUV, had been run over by the Hummer H3 from the monsters-in-love commercial?)
Oh, and Uncle Ben dutifully brought his behind (and salsa) over so it could be stomped by the Mall Diva at Dance Dance Revolution. At least he did get a free haircut for his pain (from the dancing, not the haircut, that is).
| First, the haircut. No blood or brain damage was seen. |  |
| Then, on to the Dance Dance showdown. At no time did their toes ever leave their feet, but the Mall Diva had an extra leg available as a back-up (one of the advantages of being the “home team”). |  |
By the way, the Steelers won.
John, Yes, I dutifully brought my soon to be stomped behind. Thanks for putting on the party. I enjoyed myself. I realized on Monday morning why I had become so sleepy. It was the cat. I have an allergy. Sometimes it makes me wheeze, sometimes sneeze and oftentimes it just knocks me out.
Mall Diva, Thank you very much for the haircut. You did a great job and I might just forgive you for stomping me. The next competition will not be Dance Dance Revolution. Perhaps tackle football or French conjugation?
You forgive me?
Okay, something’s wrong here.
All right now, there will be no tackling of, or conjugating with, my daughter!
Di-va! Di-va!
Oy, the battering doesn’t stop even after the abuse has ended.
Yes Diva, I forgive you. There is nothing wrong with magnanimosity… magnamimousness… er… magnitude?
John, French conjugation is easy. I can teach your whole family. But be warned, I could beat the four of you combined in tackle football.
Jeff, Shame on you!
Bring on the pigskin!
But can you conjugate that in French? That is the question. (I sure can’t, who plays football in France?) Ok, I’ll try: Rendez-moi la peau du cochon! It’s a very literal translation. Perhaps something more apt would go like this, “Allons-y, on jouera.”
Sorry Ben, but as my close personal friend Osama bin Laden likes to say, the people will back the strong horse.
Let’s see, we’ll have the Reverend Mother do the pre-game prayer, I’ll cruise into the end zone with you in my grill like a butterfly on a Peterbilt, Tiger Lilly will use her Tae Kwan Do skills to kick the extra point. And you know who will be doing our end zone dances.
My smack talkin’ credibility might be a little weak right now, but the four of you couldn’t keep me out of the endzone. Granted, defense would be pretty tricky if you had a good gameplan, but I’d only have to stop you once.
Conjugate this, white man:
I ain’t afraid of you!
J’ai pas peur de toi. But that was a softball. Ask me how to conjugate “I will make Barry Sanders look like Moe Williams”.
I grovel and abase myself for all prior Diva kowtowing. Conjugate “I will make Barry Manilow look like Andy Williams” for me and we’ll call it a truce.
*he winks at Diva to indicate a lack of sincerity*
Wait a second! That was kowtowing again wasn’t it?! No translation for you smart guy.
Jeff, you can be on my team.
Conjugate, “I will make Steven Seagall look like Richard Simmons.”
And tacke football? Ben may only have to stop me once, but I only have to catch him once!
Ok, I’ll bite. “Je rendrai Steven Seagall comme Richard Simmons.” Perhaps a better translation would be “Pourquoi voulez-vous transformer Seagall, qui est un homme a une femme?” Loosely translated, why would you wante to transform a man, Seagall, into a woman?
Respectfully, Mr. Stewart, you stand no chance of catching me unless Tiger Lilly joins the Teamsters and bashes my knee with a baseball bat. (Please tell me that you’re not considering it already.)
Ben, I’m sure that’s the type of thing Minnesota once said to the glacier.
I may not be swift, but when I get there it’s going to leave a mark.