She vs. Her: Why I Love/Why I Hate Super Bowl Sunday

BlogHer Original Post

Step Off My Super Bowl.


If asked, I would vehemently deny being obsessive. In any way. Except maybe the Super Bowl.

The Super Bowl is when champions are born, legends are made, records are broken -- and oh, the pure pigskin bliss if your beloved team {heavy sigh} should be fortunate enough to find their name on the marquee.

A single season lasts nearly a year, beginning mid-spring with the draft, moving to training camp and preseason games in summer, marching into fall with the main season, and finally, in the wee months of winter, those final two teams who survived the weekly gridiron showdowns are invited to football's grandest stage.

You pray to the football gods that when this day dawns, it's your team that stands shoulder to shoulder, holding their shiny helmets in their gloved hands, mouthing the words to "The Star-Spangled Banner," waiting for the chance to make football history.

When I attend a Super Bowl party (or host one), I make sure to secure a first-class seat near the screen where I can witness the action, play by play. Anyone who gets between me and the television may be subject to a few expletives -- not to mention vigorous arm waving to get the hell out of the way!

Obsessive? One of my most prized possessions is an officially licensed NFL jersey, signed by my favorite, two-time league MVP quarterback, Rich Gannon.

I have a "football husband" and he's not the one I've been married to for nearly 18 years.

I owned season tickets when I lived in the City of Angels and my team played at the Coliseum.

At the top of my bucket list is "Attend a Super Bowl."

And...I have my team's logo tattooed on my backside.

This year, Dallas is the host city. Cowboy Stadium is a state-of-the-art, unbelievably awesome football-watching stadium -- truly a sportswoman's Nirvana.

I am baffled by people who cannot appreciate the dedication, hard work, skill, and pinch of luck it takes to make it to the Super Bowl. Get out of the way. You're blocking the screen.

An Authentic Life, written by Katie Walters, is a proud member of the BlogHer network, contributor to Montana Parent and founding member of the Montana Social Media Network. Katie attended her first professional football game at age 10, and has never looked back. As a life-long, die-hard football fan, Katie pledges never to invite Lynn Forbes to a Super Bowl party, unless large, frivolous and expensive gifts are offered prior to game day.

Super Bowl: Ain't Nothing But a Party


You don’t want me at your Super Bowl party, really you don’t. I’ll chit-chat, I’ll laugh too loud, I’ll drink like a sailor and wipe out your onion dip and Doritos. I’ll play with your dog, flirt with your husband, and walk by the big screen many times on my way to the bathroom because, like I said, I’ll be drinking like a sailor. I’ll ask a lot of questions about offsides and inquire every 20 minutes about the score just so you think I’m paying attention.

If you must know, I could give a flying you-know-what about the score. The only time I will focus on what’s happening on the TV is at halftime -- you know, semi-amusing commercials, Janet Jackson’s boob, Black Eyed Peas, stuff like that.

And before you tell me I do the female species an injustice by acting like a girl -- just don’t. I love sports; I hate football. I have tried to like the game, really I have. My ex-husband was the sports editor of a major newspaper for forever and I was surrounded by all things sports, including football, for a long time. My boyfriend loves football, and I am often in the room when he is watching. So the game has had more than enough time to woo me, but no deal. Nice job, Football.

Here’s my truth: Outside of quite a few cute butts (sorry, but dammit, it’s true), all I see is smashing, bashing, mucus, concussions and gore. A bucket of Gatorade poured over a coach’s head -- ha, ha, ha! -- and a segment about somebody going to Disneyland cannot put a big enough smiley face over the cold hard fact that football is a bloody war. All I see is violence (and yes, I’ve watched the slow-motion clips set to classical music illustrating how graceful the players are, how beautiful their moves. Oh please.)

It’s a good thing I only had daughters because if I had had a son, I would have forbidden him to play football, which would have created a huge thing with his father and would have led to a divorce. Luckily, this mythical lad’s dad and I got divorced before he was born. Whew.

So have a great day, football fans, and pay no attention to that woman stuffing chips in her mouth and doing that happy dance thingy when the whole thing is over. Tennis anyone?

Lynn Forbes is BlogHer's very own Vice President, Product. Raised in a household in which the family awoke on Sunday mornings to the sounds of a golf match on TV and surrounded by hole-in--one trophies and a portable putting green in the basement, football was but a blip in Lynn's formative years. She was assailed by the realities of the game as an adult -- too late for the development of the deoxyribonucleic acid molecules necessary for rabid fandom and basic appreciation. Many thanks to Katie Walters for her bribe, I mean, invitation to her Super Bowl party on Sunday. I bet she'll have a great time.

 

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