I have never felt more “un-American” than on Super Bowl Sunday.  It’s the one day of the year where I feel completely out of sync with all my red-blooded American friends and relatives and wonder what happened to me to make it so hard to get into the football watching spirit.  After all, I have been living in this great country for over 20 years – so it isn’t as though this sport watching tradition is new to me.  As Super Bowl Sunday approaches, literally every one around me starts talking about the big game – at the gym, in the supermarket, at Starbucks and even on the playground.  The Super Bowl seems to offer something for everyone.   For the avid sports fan - there is, of course, the football game – the players, the analysis, the score keeping and the predictions.  But even for the light weights or non-sports fans – there are the endless parties to go to, the people watching, and the unveiling of multi-million dollar commercials.  Sadly, I can’t seem to find a place in any of it, no matter what the angle.   

For a while, I used to beat myself up about my fractious relationship with the Super Bowl.  Surely I could find my niche in this great American tradition?  And so for years I would dutifully go to the Super Bowl parties (many, many parties) and try to ease drop on people’s conversations and pick up the lingo.  I realized quickly that those who were conversing during the game were not typically following it.  I also figured out that those who followed the game weren’t interested in tutoring me.  And those that did were just plain creepy.  Throw into the mix the fact that I don’t drink beer, eat bacon or nachos and it’s all pretty hopeless. And so, about six years ago, (shortly after Dominic was born) I threw in the towel and made peace with my disconnection with this iconic part of American culture.  I scheduled manicures and hiking trips on the big day and felt at peace.   Until this year.

The Friday before the 44th Super Bowl, Dominic came home from school and innocently mentioned that we should watch the football game this weekend.  He earnestly explained that it was the “biggest football game ever” and that we should tune in to see what happens.  I felt a knot suddenly form in my stomach as I thought about how best to break the news to kiddo that Super Bowl just wasn’t our thing.  “Sorry Champ, Daddy has to work on Sunday,”  I told him, deluded in the hope that this comment would dispense with the issue without further discussion. “Okay. Well you, me and G can still watch it” was his cheery response.  He had stumped me.

I stewed about the looming game all Saturday, wondering how to turn my decades of alienation around the Super Bowl into fun, family entertainment.  I had no idea where the game was being held, who the players were or anything about the rules (long suffering husband had long given up trying to teach me).  As though reading my mind, my son piped up that he already knew who was playing in the super bowl (the gold team “the Saints” and the blue team “the Colts”) and that it would be fun to see what was going on.  He suggested we make popcorn and “kid’s beer” (apple cider) and that switch back and forth between the game and Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet (to keep his sister happy).   He had literally thought of everything. 

And so on Sunday, we made batches and batches of popcorn, threw mounds of comfy pillows on the floor and set ourselves up for an afternoon of “game watching” on the big screen T.V. upstairs.  We watched the football intermittedly, pausing to get more cider or play a quick game of Dominoes.  Together, my son and I figured out what constituted a “field goal,” a “touch down,” “yard lines,” and “the end zone.”  We discussed why players rush to tackle the guy holding the football and how coaches are able to communicate to their players through radios in their helmets.  (We ended up talking about the radio in the helmet feature for quite a while – quite a captivating topic for a seven year old boy).  As the game wore on, my son became fascinated with the concept of “unnecessary roughness” and then spent the rest of the game trying to call out examples of it by himself.   (“Yes, slamming your helmet into another man’s crotch qualifies).  He had a terrific time and so did I. 

At half time we placated the baby sister and watched “the kitten half time” on Animal Planet’s puppy bowl.  G almost peed her pants with excitement when she suddenly realized what she was watching and so we ended up having to rapidly switch back to “the Who” to stop her from hyperventilating.  (A three year old can only take looking at fluffy kittens geech around a football playpen with confetti and a disco ball for so long before becoming demented).  My son decided that the puppy bowl was “must-see” TV and insisted we DVR it to watch as some future date.  It was then back to the game after half-time.

By the second half of the game, my own interest in the game started to take hold.  Dominic (along with the expert commentators) had educated me on the New Orleans Saints and although the significance of the game on that struggling city was something that my boy didn’t grasp, it certainly wasn’t lost on me.   The New Orleans Saints were the underdogs of the game and had typically been one of the worst teams in the league until this year.  And yet here they were, standing on the edge of greatness and carrying with them the hopes and dreams of an entire beleaguered city.  The Super Bowl was so much more than simply a game to this team and the people of New Orleans.  Their presence at this event had become a symbol of the struggle and courage of a city that deserved a taste of victory.  By the time the game was over (and the Saints had won), my two little companions and I were cheering, hollering, dancing and waving about the attic in sheer joy and excitement.  We threw popcorn in the air, waved our hands about and half-terrified our dog with all of our jumping and pounding and rolling about. And as I watched that New Orleans Saints quarterback tearfully beam into his little son’s little face, I realized that I had found my niche in the tradition of Super Bowl watching.  And it was right next to my kids.