Are You Ready For Some Futbol?

Stand beside her...and guide her...through the night with the light from aboooove...

Being abroad for the past few months, I've had to deal with some really watered down versions of big important moments back home. My Thanksgiving was extremely odd - not once did I get the chance to lay down on my cousin's floor and sip Miller Lite through a straw that I made my brother bring me because I had eaten enough sweet potato casserole to kill a goat and could no longer sit up. I missed the birth of my nephew and thus far have only been able to watch his smudgy little face over a rather shaky Skype connection. And now, worst of all, I'm missing the Superbowl!

There's something you should know about me. I. Love. The Superbowl. Historically it was always close to my birthday parties, so often the two would be joined to form one amazing Birthday/Football fiasco. It's a holiday designed around making too much food and drinking cheap beer and hanging out with all of your friends. It's about screaming at the television at full volume and not having anyone tell you that you're overreacting.

Appropriate time to yell at the television

And it's about the commercials. OH the glorious commercials! I remember the first Superbowl party I ever went to like it was yesterday, which is impressive cause these days I actually don't remember a lot about my yesterdays. I got to hang out with Star Wars toys and Wolf 3-D in my friend Anthony's basement, checking out the Skins putting it to the Bills on a tiny black and white portable tv and laughing at, without truly understanding, the groundbreaking In Living Color half time show. I ate Doritos without parental supervision. I drank like thirty five sodas. It was glorious, and it really set the tone for the years to come. Since then I've had pizza parties, chili parties, nacho parties, and even holy-crap-we-just-make-twenty-pounds-of-buffalo-wings parties, but they've all been Superbowl parties.

Until I tried to watch it in Geneva. This ex-pst spot up the street called Mr. Pickwick did in fact have the game on the big screen, but kick-off wasn't until like midnight local time. As a result of it stretching until 4 or so in the morning, I had a bear of a time convincing any of my friends to actually come watch with me. Undeterred but somewhat dismayed, I hung tough and went on my own. "Conspire as you might, fates, you shant blow this ship off course!" I screamed to the heavens, daring the furies to stop my celebration, and they responded with a cold and ominous wind to warn me against hubris. This cold and ominous wind took the form of my Sky Sports Satellite Network telecast crew, with in-depth analysis by Jay Schroeder and Cecil Martin. Don't worry, loyal readers, if you're scratching your head and thinking, "I'm not a sports guy, I don't know who those people are," you're not alone. The former a one-time champion Redskins quarterback from the late 80s and the latter a little known fullback who had a short stint with the Eagles in the early 00s, the two hardly formed the powerhouse commentary and hi-def menswear normally exhibited by the crew of Troy Aikman and Joe Buck. This did not bode well for me.

Things started slipping away more rapidly though when I became flanked on the left by drunk 18-year-old Swiss hooligans, the right by drunk 20-year-old Swiss hooligans, and directly ahead by drunk 24-year-old Swiss hooligans who looked like trained MMA fighters. In the distance I heard an echo of hope...the soft and dulcet bitchings of an American accent. Hark! Heed the siren song! I ran headlong to the table of middle aged businessmen discussing the Packers and invited them immediately to join me at my table. In order to de-creepify the situation though, I opened with a larf - "hey fellas, you sound American and I can't imagine a more crushing Superbowl than to watch it over at that table alone listening to French all god damn night, so I was wondering if you might wanna hang out with me so I don't have to throw beer bottles for entertainment." Worked like a charm.

Next step - ordering wings. I went over to the bar dedicated on breaking veganism for this all-important event and satisfied in the knowledge that my 50 year old compatriots would watch my coat for me, and right away I ordered a dozen wings. "26 franc!" yelled the bartender. "Ha I'm sorry, it's loud in here, I thought you just tried to charge me thirty dollars US for a dozen deep fried wings with ketchup and no buffalo sauce, what was that that you said there?"

"26 franc." Fine, if that's how homie wants to play it, gimme a dozen wings for thirty dollars US. I don't care. I waited for my wings, grabbed my beer and joined the boys back at the table to talk about their sons who are about my age and about how football is different than it used to be. There was very little screaming at the television, but I was happy. Hell I'd say I was downright giddy when kick off hit, and then right after the return I was ready to check out all the new awesome...commer..cial..s... wait a minute... Lloyds TSB? Citroen? Oh god, the British network coopted all the ad time! I was going to miss every single new commercial! I was about to become completely out of touch with the memes that would define a generation (for three weeks)!

Needless to say, I was despondent. The wings were overpriced and the commentators terrible. The halftime show in no way stacked up to Men On Football. The company was great to have but it wasn't the same as watching with my friends back home. And the ads? Well, let's just say I reconsidered my plan to throw beer bottles at the screen after the second spot focusing on Barclays commercial reinsurance division. At about halftime, my body started to give out on me but I pushed through as best I could. In preparation for this fantastic event, I continued my normal streak of well intentioned but incredibly misguided attempts to get into game shape, with the following tracking my bedtimes for the days leading up to Superbowl:

Wednesday - 2am, Thursday - 2am, Friday - 4am, Saturday - 6am

By the end of the third quarter I fell apart, yawning openly and closing my eyes for a minute or two at a time, unsure if I could re-open them again. I was imploding faster than a condemned Vegas casino and I had to get to sleep. I excused myself from the table and took off into the night in search of another overpriced taxi.

In hindsight, I clearly picked the worst time of year to leave the country. I've missed a lot of key moments that normally highlight my year...but for the most part, I'm a lot happier with where I'm heading on an everyday basis, so the escapism isn't as necessary. I'm less in need of the big Superbowl party to make me forget the work week - I actually don't mind the work week right now at all.

That having been said though, you're gonna have to work pretty hard to get me to leave the states during Superbowl XLVI.