Have I Gone Mad?

I watched the Superbowl. I am ashamed to admit this.For the past 44 years, I have been able to stay above this brutality.Oh, I admit, I would sometimes look at their bums in that shiny spandex and gaze on their arms under all that padding, and sigh.Sometimes I would make fun of the stupid men in my life as they wrapped their arms around the TV set in Caveman pose. I would snarkily count out for them (usually the men in my life couldn't count themselves) exactly how long the play lasted before the whistle blew (four seconds. Count it yourself). Then I would feel superior as I began a lecture on how my favorite sports, such as art and culture and great literature, have plays that never end. . .before I was told to shut up and fetch them another beer.So how did I come to watch the Superbowl? And actually (gak) enjoy it?It began with a bet. And a great sacrifice on my husband's part.We won't discuss what the bet was. Cept it was goooooooddddd."Who do I pick for?" I said, eagerly."Tell you what," he said. "I'll give you the favored team. You are Pittsburgh. I will be (oh, geeze, I can't remember now the name of the other team. But they were the underdogs. And I thank and salute them for their game. Truly I do.) that team."We negotiated. Should we do the bet in quarters? Half time? At the end of the game?It all depended on the rules, he said. Of the game. And who sacked whom and first downs and safeties and shit like that.Which gave him the advantage he was lacking. Brilliant bastard.Because, damn him, he knew I did not know the rules of football. How would I? They break so many fashion rules I gave up even wanting to ever know the rules of such a brutal sport. Therefore he could just make up the rules as he went along and (here's the trick) I would never know!!!!Men, take this as a lesson. This is how to get your wife to watch boring football with you.So, we commenced a'watching. After I made snacks, of course.My team was doing great. Especially number 92 on my team (which I mistakenly thought, through much of the game, was named the Green Bay Packers).He is my new boyfriend, that 92. I can't remember his name (Harrison?) but he made a good play. He's a great big fat dude and he shouldn't have done what he did. I believe he's still on oxygen. But I still love him. Because that was a good play.Then I was able to discuss, at length, the fatness of several men of both my team and my husband's team. And wonder how on earth they could walk, let alone run. This led to a great debate about the realtive merits of "fitness" as opposed to "perception" and a whole lecture involving lifting volkswagens.Then came half-time, and it was clear my team was a shoo-in. And lo and behold: there was Bruce Springsteen. This is how I learned what the phrase "I'm going to Disneyland" actually means.Who knew?The first part of the bet was paid out at about this time. But only the first part, due to a complex set of rules and downs and time-outs and sacks. What's a sack? I still don't know. But I believe. . . because I won the first part of the bet.Second half, the anticipation was building. At first, I thought it was over, and started reading The Globe and Mail Review of Books (which, coincidentally, had an article about a new book about The Superbowl, and that review said the second half of the game is usually a disappointment.)It was wrong. Because my husband's team picked up. Some dude named Fitzgerald, with really bad dreadlocks, but who apparently can catch the ball half-way to the moon, and (I learned) was being shut out of the first half, made an excellent play. A really excellent play. Even I had to appreciate it. Who knew big lugs could jump and catch at the same time? With such seeming grace? My husband said he does this all the time.My husband's team (shit, what is their name? Orioles? I know they had a bird on their helmet) took the lead, thanks to bad dreadlock boy. It seemed unassailable. I kept looking for my hero, number 92. But he appeared to have brain damage from running so much as a fat man in the first half, because he kept getting penalties for violence. . .that's okay. I still love him.Oh, and then the fun began. There was less than 2 minutes left. Some guy named Holmes on my team caught the ball, at a really good place, and rolled. Apparently, he had both his feet on the ground, and in the zone, almost as though he was trying to keep them there. I learned that if my husband's team had only grabbed him by the legs, instead of the shoulders, I might now be paying out a bet.But I wasn't. And I didn't.In fact, I collected, yet again.So now I say: Go Green Bay! Good try, Orioles!Thanks to you, I had an ejoyable evening. And I learned what "I'm Going to Disneyland" means.