I do not get football. It is hard to follow, looks incredibly painful and lacks the narrative quality of more poetic sports like baseball or soccer. My distaste for football has never been much of an issue since I come from a family and town in which nobody gives much of a shit about it.
However, my lack of knowledge about or care for the sport proved to be a bit of a social faux pas when I came to Wisconsin. I did not know the simplest things like how many points a touchdown is worth or who the hell Brett Favre is and why everyone in this state burns effigies of him. My Midwestern compatriots, usually so polite and understanding, would react with the ferocity and vitriol of, naturally, a honey badger.
So, I decided that after three and a half years of defiance in the face of football culture, I would sit through the entire Super Bowl. In public. And sober. Now, as a general rule, I do not approve of torture of other people and especially of myself. But sacrifices must be made for a column about being uncomfortable, and, dear readers, absolutely nothing makes me more uncomfortable than sitting through an entire sporting event. Except Michael Bolton, but that is a beast for a whole other column.
The game plan: watch the whole thing in a public space with an enthusiastic crowd, make people I know watch it with me and have them promise to not let me jump off the nearest balcony. My original plan was to go to State Street Brats, but I am a lady with a weak constitution and... no. Just no. The Sett at Union South was going to have to do. Here are some of my observations from my four hours of brain-melting, spine-crunching agony fun:
This thing is long
Like really stupid long. They did not even do the coin toss until 25 minutes in. And even though there are only 15 minutes in a quarter, each football minute lasts at least five human minutes. It is like some awful, sci-fi parallel universe where everything moves incredibly slowly and nothing moves forward no matter how hard you want it to.
Nobody outside of the East Coast likes East Coast teams
Aside from the tiny cluster of Patriot fans in the corner that, from their accents and frequent use of the word "wicked," I can only assume are from Newton, Mass., the crowd seemed to have no allegiance to either team. They actually seemed to actively dislike them equally. It was like Voldemort battled Sauron. Who cares which one wins? They are both evil!
Halftime is one big WTF
With Madonna appearing onstage like the great and powerful Ra and MIA flipping off the whole world, I just stopped trying to make sense of all of it.
Even haters can 'woo hoo!'
By the end, even I, football-hater supreme, was cheering and gasping and getting into the whole thing. I was even pleased when the Giants, my hometown team, won. Sometimes it is hard not to get caught up in the fun. Maybe I will even do it again next year? Then again, probably not.
