On Super Bowl Sunday

As a girl with no interest in football, why am I writing an essay about the Super Bowl? If I’m being honest, I don’t know what this essay says about America or me or both. Interpret it as you’d like.

I’m on the floor craning my neck to lock eyes with the TV inches from my head. Tiny men are running back and forth across the screen, toward the window and then back toward Julia’s bedroom door. Emily is behind me in the rattan chair, letting me lean on her legs while she braids my hair. The crimson rug underneath me needs to be vacuumed; hair, crumbs, and dust don’t quite blend in with the oriental pattern.

I reach for my drink, which I strategically placed next to me on the floor. My thumb hooks into the lip of my wine glass. Fuck.

“Here are some napkins,” Sophie says as she passes me a stack from her spot, also on the floor, leaning against the couch and Moira’s legs. The white wine soaks through the napkins. I scoot over.

I am 21 years old and I am in Washington, DC. I am surrounded by people that I love. Around the room I see my closest friends and their closest friends and partners.

I glance at the spread of cauliflower wings, tofu nuggets, potato salad, cheese, french fries, pizza and chips. The tupperware is representative of all households in attendance. I can’t help but smile. I’m not into religion or Catholic guilt much anymore, but it is the holiest day of the week and this spread looks pretty holy.

You better lose yourself in the music…Our eyes light up at the halftime show performed by a collection of artists I had on my iPod shuffle in 2005. Yo shawty it’s ya birthday we gonna party like it’s ya birthday.

The Super Bowl is one of the most consistent things we have in America. Every February, as promised, two groups of men face off in the most important sporting event of the year. Every February I am crowded around a TV screen, usually sitting on the floor.

The Super Bowl brings people together. Even me, a girl with no interest in football whatsoever, and my friends, many of whom somehow have even less interest in football than me.

The Ghost of Super Bowls Past reemerges around this time every year.

~

I am always wearing a Patriots jersey. Dad is wearing his Tedy Bruschi jersey with the Super Bowl patches all over it. His Mardi Gras beads hang around his neck. They are souvenirs he acquired from attending the Super Bowl in New Orleans in 2002 to support the Patriots. I was too young to remember that one.

Mom is wearing a women’s cut long-sleeve Patriots shirt. She is in the kitchen talking to the wives in our circle of family friends. Patti, Heather, Marianne, Joan, Rachel, Val. The women are pushing and pulling dishes in and out of the oven, oven mitts replacing their real hands.

The men are frowning. The women know when they should not speak to their husbands. The Patriots are losing. They steer clear of the living room.

~

Eventually, I grow out of watching the Super Bowl with my family.

I’m at Marlene’s house watching the game in a co-ed group. Co-ed! I’m in high school and I think it’s super cool to be friends with boys. By the end of the night I will rethink my decisions.

Marlene’s mom set up a grid game where each square wins someone a prize. We each put our initials in ten squares. PM. PM. CE. RB. MM. CH. NC. AA. JD. It’s all fun and games, isn’t it? We are together to watch a game and playing the grid game adds to the fun.

But it’s not just a game, not to the boys we are friends with. If the Patriots fumble, it is a personal affront to them. I thought I came to this Super Bowl party to avoid my father’s passionate viewing, yet I pivot my head and realize I am surrounded by him.

Maybe I was spoiled because the Patriots kept winning the Super Bowl. It didn’t even occur to me that they could lose. Yet, I stare at the TV as the Philadelphia Eagles celebrate their victory. Corey, Jake, and Nick won’t talk to any of us, and they keep sulking for the rest of the night.

For many Americans, the night could end in celebration or in heartbreak, in embraces with family members or screaming matches.

~

At the end of the day, it is just a game. And I will never really care who is playing or who wins. But I always really care about who I am surrounded by when that winning touchdown is scored. Those are people I will never forget.