I never miss the Super Bowl.
One year, when the big game rolled around, I found myself in Bangkok, where kickoff comes half a day later. At 6:00 on Monday morning, I rolled out of my hostel bed, slid into my flip-flops, and walked downstairs to the lobby, where a TV with antennas caught reception good enough to watch Super Bowl XLII—a matchup between the New York Giants and the New England Patriots. I ordered juice.
The Patriots, my team, were appearing in their fourth Super Bowl in seven years and had become a powerhouse in a league that continually trumpeted parity. Any given Sunday, as they say—words that proved true once again as the heavily favored Patriots lost by virtue of the miraculous “Helmet Catch,” which set the Giants up for a game-winning touchdown.
Had I slept, I would’ve missed the drama. And who wants to sleep through history?
As a product of central Massachusetts—where Patriots quarterback Tom Brady is a deity whose importance on this planet is as vital as that morning coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts—I’ve got football in my blood. Over the last 15 years, the Pats made it to 10 Conference Championships, including this year (they lost)—and in that time, they made it to six Super Bowls, including last year, when they won their fourth title. During that time, my obligation to watch football pushed beyond mere fandom and into religious territory, where it remains....
Continue reading →︎