The Seattle Seahawks and the New England Patriots (again?) will face off a week from tomorrow in what I jokingly call the Stupor Bowl, but which some people refer to as the “Big Game” or the “Superb Owl” Party. Amazing what moving a letter B from the start of one word to the end of another can do to dance around title copyrights.
A match of two winning divisional NFL football teams to declare an annual overall champion will kick off in Santa Clara, California for an evening of tackles, men spouting statistics, Bad Bunny trying for the 19th time since 2007 to be the musical guest to top Prince’s halftime show, and corporate advertisements at eight million dollars per 30-second commercial trying to be the topic at every bar and home party in the nation.
Last year, the Philadelphia Eagles won the championship. It was an exciting game for me, and I normally don’t watch football. Being from within eyesight of the capital of American independence (happy 250th to us this year), of course I sing the fight song and have an official jersey (bought when they won in 2018 to commemorate the victory). Some things you just can’t not bother doing, and when your local team makes the final two, even if you’ve gained a few ounces since you had the shirt made, you hold your breath and squeeze it on.
Football is one of the American “four horsemen” of the sports apocalypse (the other three being baseball, hockey and basketball). Sports were never my thing, and gym class in school was torture because of it. We played a variety of sports, and in one sixth grade class we tried a casual version of football. I somehow got the ball and ran for a touchdown. To the wrong goalpost.
The jersey is just fashion, folks.
Anyway, the intensity with which this frozen final stand of the pro season can’t be denied. The grocery stores are already assembling pyramids of snacks, decking out meat sections teaming with ribs and chicken multi-packs and shuffling around pallets of sports drinks and colas from both of the beverage big two (and if you don’t know them, shame on you). Over the next week leading up to the big broadcast, speculation will be which company ads will be the most popular. Budweiser is a big contender each year with their beautiful Clydesdales often appearing. Occasionally a surprise guest ad will pop up, but the trend these days has been to stick to what people expect and then surprise them with something unexpected. I hear a recent embarrassment on a Coldplay concert Jumbotron may be spoofed in one commercial.
Will I be watching the whole thing this year? No. Last year was enough to last until next time the Eagles go up to, um, bat?
A friend and I check in on the scores occasionally when it’s not the Eagles playing. We snack and watch other programming we’ve grown accustomed to viewing when we get together. We let the guys work it out for themselves, and we buy what we normally do, without the influence of advertisers.
The Pats have an advantage, having won an armload of these matches. If last year’s trend holds, the Seahawks may come out the winners this time. Come Monday, every sports network will buzz with the events of the evening before, and the Monday morning quarterbacks will have their time to cheer or gripe about what went right or wrong. The store pyramids will have been depleted, the hype over like a deflated balloon, and sports fans will turn their eyes toward basketball until baseball returns.
Have I said much of interest here? Maybe not. However, after last week’s post, I’m relieved to say that the worst of the deadly storm system is in the past, and the near permafrost conditions left behind will be around for weeks and unlikely to be melted or dug out. I look forward to Monday, February 2, when a groundhog will hopefully predict an early spring.
Spring. Baseball. I’m not a sports person, but I’ll take both right about now.
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