We’re not football fans in any sense, but Peter and I have a longstanding tradition about the Superbowl. Each of us has to pick a team to root for, and the person with the losing team has to make or pay for Valentine’s Day dinner. The person whose pick lost the previous year has first choice. Since we know nothing about football, our choices generally hinge on team geography and name. This year I had first pick, so I got the Chicago Bears (“Da Bears!”) and Peter got stuck with the Colts, who I thought were from Denver, or Baltimore, but who actually turn out to be from Indianapolis.
And this year, Greg was throwing a Superbowl party. Did I mention we love parties?
We were the first to show up, so that we could see the show in time to scope out our individual teams. Our general consensus is that the team which has the lower percentage of visible necks has better odds. It ends up having nothing to do with the outcome, but we have to have something to go by.
The rest of Greg’s guests showed up, all male (Tony, Tony’s dad and Sammi). Greg provided the traditional repast for a Superbowl party, namely pungent pizza, chips, and beer. Thanks to our family tradition, we each had a team to root for, and thus something to yell at the TV screen, which (along with trash talking and commenting on the commercials) is the traditional pastime for Superbowl parties. Greg was the only other person rooting for the Bears, so we high-fived each other when they scored. But the Colts surged ahead, and the last minutes of the fourth quarter, all I could do was attempt to squish the head of the Colt’s coach. He just looked annoyed.
But the Bears still lost, so I’m in charge of Valentine’s Day dinner.
