Last Sunday, for the first time in the 10 years that I have lived in America, I watched the entire Super Bowl 50, including the half-time shows, post game interviews, and the presentation of the Super Bowl Trophy.
I have to admit that I even found myself rooting for the Broncos over the Panthers, not because they are a better team–that I have no idea–but because I love the horse logo and the colors of the uniform.
Our home is not a crazy football fanatic environment. My husband watches the games throughout the season and plays Fantasy Football with his buddies, but he is not “religiously” committed like most men–and a lot of women–in this country.
For example, my hubby would never sacrifice a round of golf to watch a Sunday game, and I have never found him face-painted with the colors of his beloved team. We don’t have any team flag flying in front of our house, car bumper stickers, or issues with our neighbors because of a team rivalry. However, even though we didn’t plan it, we actually celebrated the Super Bowl 50 All Americana style.
A few days back, we were watching Guy Fieri’s TV show Diners, Drive-ins and Dives and I drooled like a dog during the episode of BBQ ribs. Immediately, I asked my hubby if he wanted to make some the next weekend and he said, “Oh yeah! I’m sure the Lipitor and Plavix can handle a surge in piggy fat!“
So, Saturday he went to the meat market and bought enough ribs for 10 people, even though it was only three of us at home. His ability to measure food portions qualifies him as disabled!
I still can’t understand why, when my husband goes to buy food, he thinks we rescued a family of starving refugees and they are living at our home. He always comes back with two units of everything. Who does he think he is, Noah? Where is the flood?
Nevertheless, my hubby cooked the three racks of baby back ribs to perfection, and I have to say, he didn’t destroy the kitchen. In fact, he cleaned it to perfection. The other beneficiaries of the special Super Bowl lunch were my dogs, Rusty and Sasha.
For the first time in a long time, we gave them two ribs each, even though we knew we would be poisoned with their farts the rest of the night. They never eat human food, therefore, when they do, they can clear a room!
Finally, the game started and the first touchdown was Lady Gaga’s beautiful performance of the Star Spangled Banner. Then, came a series of yellow flags and concussions in the first two quarters, followed by a colorful and politically charged half-time performance.
At the end of the game, came the weird reaction of Eli Manning over his older brother Peyton’s triumph, and last but not least, the awkward victory speech of the Bronco’s owner’s wife who looked like a ventriloquist’s doll due to excessive plastic surgery… know when to say when.
During the game, I knew I was out-numbered by gender every time my husband and my son teamed up against me when I questioned a play. These goofs even planned a surprise for me when I was getting my son ready for bed. In a blink of an eye, my son tackled me on the bed and then my husband jumped and tickled me and made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.
When I asked my little man if he wanted to be on my team and attack his dad, he simply answered, “I am a guy, Mom!” That was a blade through my heart, but seeing the loves of my life adore each other, makes me happier.
This past Sunday I finally understood how the Super Bowl contains the spirit of the United States of America. It is the pride that moves us when the national anthem is sung to perfection and the rumbling over the speakers as the Air Force jets cross the sky in formation.
In one day, the American spirit is reflected in the commercials that generate conversation and also in the staggering 1.3 billion pounds of chicken wings that are consumed all over the country. Regardless if I like the sport or not, from now on, Super Bowl will always be celebrated in our home. Next year though, I will invite more women!
Thanks for reading and sharing.