By now you will probably have heard that this year’s “World Champions” of that global sport American Football (the clue’s in the name) are the New York Giants. Woop woop.
I think that was expertly apt. For my first ever Super Bowl and my first ever viewing of this sport, I was delighted to see my new-home team triumph. Go Giants.
I actually got down with the rules early on so that I could follow what was happening on screen. My overall view on this game (not match sorry Americans) was a positive one. I saw plenty of play. Not too much standing about as I had imagined. The players were appropriately ginormous. Some of them, however, on the chubby side so that the tight “pants” they were wearing made for a less than flattering view from the rear. Ouch.
After indulging in a bit of Sport’s Bar viewing I strategically escaped (after a stealth-like military move, led by official military personnel) to an apartment party. Now in the comfort of a home with crisps, sorry chips, and guacamole, I was able to de-shoe and relax in front of the action.
And what action. Right to the last minute (which roughly translates into half an hour) the play was jam packed with epic throws and magnificent catches on the run. It was almost reminiscent of a certain egg throwing competition I “World Champion”-ed in my youth.
Picture the scene. Coniston Fair circa 1993. The Ashbridge sisters step up to the mark, egg in hand. After several comfortable rounds and a near miss (noone saw the drop right?) we were down to the last few couples. Now the thrower (sister Jo) was in the distance. I could barely see her stern gaze as she prepared to launch. And then it came, propelled with passion. With determination. With sheer brute force. The egg sailed effortlessly through the air to the sounds of gasps and awe from the crowds (our parents and Nana Mac). Bullet-like, the egg’s trajectory was near perfect. No wait it WAS perfect. I prepared to catch. Mouth gaped open as even I didn’t believe this feat could be achieved without literal egg on my face. And then the receive. Clasping the small round fragility of that egg in both hands I cushioned the blow, protecting our grenade from harm. We were victorious.
No we didn’t win a golden ring of insane bling proportions. No we didn’t sign contracts for millions of dollars. And no Dad did not receive his Harley Davidson off the back of our fame. But for us victory was sweet. Possibly even sweeter (we should maybe ask Team Giants today as they parade through Manhattan to a crowd of thousands of cheering supporters). Pride is enough reward. It is what legends are made of.
Oh and Madonna pranced around with thousands of Gladiators at the half-time show. And I refuse to comment on ads. I can’t do it. It’s weird. Sorry.