I wonder how many members say, “I’m not going to watch the Super Bowl because I want to keep the Sabbath Day holy.” Or how many actually TiVo the game so they can watch it on Tuesday (Monday being FHE). Is the Super Bowl really a violation of the Sabbath Day? Well, then slap the cuffs on, copper.
I don’t watch football games on TV, but I love the Super Bowl. It’s a national event; a quasi-holiday dedicated to the ultimate spoils going to the ultimate warriors. It’s watching award-winning $3 million commercials (that’s the actual price tag on a 30-second spot this year, folks) that everyone will talk about in office kitchens and revisit on YouTube. I like the little Bud bottles with football helmets and the Go Daddy girl. But I’m sorry to hear that, for the first time, no American car companies will run spots. I guess if they did it would be like flying to a Congressional meeting in a private jet.
Finally, the Super Bowl is about ingesting a sumptuous fare of taste bud-assaulting, artery-clogging delights– so many types of foods which have no business co-existing on the same plates– which, once gone, continue to haunt stomachs and colons for the rest of the week. I hear heart attacks and other cardiac emergencies double in Munich, Germany when their soccer team plays in World Cup matches. It’s gotta be something like that with the Super Bowl (especially since it’s on Sunday). Bolting from the couch in excitement, nacho lodged in your throat, your team scoring the winning touchdown– that’s how I’d want to go.
Sadly, I won’t be able to share in the gastronomic orgy this year because I’m competing in my office’s Biggest Loser contest. The pot’s $1,100 and, subsisting on a carefully planned, meager diet and going to the gym three times a week, I’m hellbent on winning. I’ll probably nurse non-fat cottage cheese, tuna and grapefruit while the ambrosial 7-layer dip and Extreme Doritos get passed back and forth over my lap.
Yes, I will transgress on the Sabbath, but not on my diet.
In years past we’ve usually gone to others’ homes to watch the game; the women gravitating into the kitchen or a back bedroom to watch a Colin Firth movie, and the men spread out on sofas, La-Z-Boys and bean bag chairs making their own commentary on players, plays and coaches– spontaneously erupting when, on the field, something actually happens. Like I said, I’m not big on football and I usually have nothing to say about the actual game itself . Fact is, there’s a lot of things about football I don’t understand, and haven’t been interested enough to try. But I do get enough that I enjoy watching the battle, and there’s usually at least one other metrosexual guy in the room who’ll stay with me to watch the commercials while the others pile on more food and drain the sea monster.
This year we haven’t made any Super Bowl party plans as of this writing, and may very well stay home. That’ll be fine with the Mrs., and I wouldn’t mind it either. If an invitation does spring up, though, I’ll be all over it.
It is, after all, a very special event.