Last night, like most of America, I tuned in to the Super Bowl. I am, at best, a lukewarm football fan, but I tend to at least partially watch the Super Bowl every year. Mostly for the commercials, I suppose.
I actually should be more of a football fan than I am, and, in fact, it is the sport that I pay the most attention to. Though, that is like saying I pay more attention to truffles than any other expensive delicacy--it might be true, but it doesn't take into account the fact that I have almost zero access to, or interest in, expensive delicacies. I have about that much interest in sports. There are many reasons for this, but foremost among them is my complete lack of connection to sports. I am terrible at them, thus I tend to ignore them. I am almost completely devoid of a competitive nature (which makes me an excellent opponent because I've learned to be a very gracious loser), and I have the physical aptitude of a bucket of parsnips. As I think I've stated on here before, the only "sport" that I've ever shown any moderate skill for was bowling, but I feel a little guilty even suggesting that it might be a sport.
Nonetheless, I played football in high school, so I SHOULD have somewhat more attachment to it than to other sports. No, I'm being too generous there. I didn't PLAY football in high school. I went out for it. And, by my senior year, my coaches put me in almost exactly the requisite number of quarters to get me a letter--which is a courtesy they extend to all of us losers who go out for sports but are terrible.
In my defense, though, playing football is a terrible idea. I can't think of any other sport that hurts as much. And I got to feel just about as much pain as any of the people who played regularly. As a second or third (or maybe fourth or fifth) string player, I was best suited to the role of slightly mobile tackling dummy. During our daily practices, I was assigned to play running back and put behind an offensive line of mostly freshmen who were, no matter how you judge them, absolutely terrible. Then we ran plays against the starting defense. The freshmen inevitably got blown off their assignments by the much bigger defensive starters and then I was usually dogpiled about three seconds after I was given the ball. It was great fun, and by the end of the week I was a battered and bruised mess.
Strangely, I don't miss that much.
In all honesty, though, I only went out for football because it got me out of work. I also went out for track for the same reason (I was a "weight man," performing in the almost completely undemanding events like javelin and discus--it was a great scam, really, because those events were among the first ones at track meets and then I was free to wander around the rest of the day talking to girls or playing cards [we even took to bringing a Monopoly board at one point, such was our dedication to how well the others from our school were fairing in their events]). It was simple, really. Sports kept me at school until about 6:00, instead of getting out of class at 3:30. And playing sports was viewed as an acceptable excuse for not being home to do farm work. So that's exactly what I did.
Kind of boggles the mind, really, that I would be willing to sacrifice my body just to get out of about three hours of farm work every day for a few months. I still have terrible leg joint problems (knees, ankles, even my thighs from time to time) from the abuse my legs took, and my butt always hurts when I sit for more than an hour at a time (the only "major" injury I sustained during my years of playing was a cracked tailbone--yes, I broke my butt, and it was one of the most painful things I've ever known, the butt, after all, being one of the things one tends to use many hours every day).
Anyway, despite my background, I never had much interest in football after that. But I still watch the Super Bowl because it is my obligation as an American consumer. I think they might send out S.W.A.T. teams to houses that don't have their TVs tuned to the game. I'm not sure. I've never tested the theory.
And last night, something amazing happened, and I think Mitch Landrieu, the newly elected mayor of New Orleans (he reads this blog, right? I don't see any reason why he shouldn't), owes me some kickback for my contribution to the Saints' win. I was, for lack of any real interest in either team, rooting for New Orleans last night. The Colts have been to a few Super Bowls in the last decade and, frankly, I always root against good teams who have been good for more than a few years (and I root against the Cowboys and the Raiders because both teams are assholes, or so my background has led me to believe). Unfortunately, teams that I root for tend to suck. I am a "luck sink." It is a sad fact, and a terrible fate, but it is a fact of life that I have come to reluctantly accept. If I root for a team, they lose in spectacularly unlucky ways.
And that's what would have happened to the Saints last night. While I watched attentively through the first quarter, the Saints were abysmal. Then, as my attention started to wander, they started doing better. Eventually, it got to a point where they only did well when I left the room. EVERY fortuitous play the Saints had last night happened almost immediately after I left the room. Libby commented on it the first two times it happened, and laughed because she thought it was funny. But, then, when the Saints intercepted a pass and ran it back for a touchdown THE SECOND I left the room, she labeled me and my awful curse "creepy."
So, to benefit the Saints, I left the room frequently. And each time I did, something good happened. If I had stayed, there is no doubt in my mind that they would have lost the game. Thus, mayor Landrieu, I would like my reward sent to me as soon as possible. I will accept cash, but I would prefer something more creative. Perhaps you could send me a supply of one of the things that your lovely city is best known for. Like exposed breasts. I'm quite fond of those. But not JUST the breasts, please, that is considerably less appealing.
Sorry, no video or pictures to include with this one. Gabe started playing football at one point and we coaxed him into doing a touchdown dance, but then when we got the camera and tried to get him to repeat it, he refused. Oh well. It wasn't very well choreographed anyway.
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