Monday, January 28, 2008 | 
I've been invited to like 16 different Super Bowl parties in the last week and have respectfully declined every invitation, even those of my best and closest friends. And none of them seems to understand my explanation why.
It's not that I don't like these people, because I do. They're good, well-intentioned folks, all of them. And we go back a long way.
I'm also not one of those crazily superstitious dudes who has to watch the game sitting indian-style in his underwear and a ski mask at a precise 34 degree angle from the television while eating only green m&ms lefthanded. That's not me, either.
It's just that for a game of this magnitude, I've got to be in complete control of my environment. And that means I can't be around people. Even old friends.
Like most lunatics, when watching the Giants in the Super Bowl I am to be considered a danger to myself as well as to others, and cannot be trusted around small children or their well-meaning parents and their homemade, nine layer bean dips.
I am liable to drink heavily, shout obscenities, throw things, pace, spit, fume, swing my fists wildly, head butt inanimate objects, vomit, soil myself, bark like a dog, kick a dog, howl at the moon, wrestle an angel, or murder a pizza delivery boy, all before the end of the National Anthem.
And if I'm at a Super Bowl party, I know I can't behave that way. Not in "mixed company," anyway.
As you are all well aware, many of the attendees at Super Bowl parties don't really care all that much about the outcome of the football game. They'll be perfectly content to sit and talk casually throughout the game about things that have no bearing on what's going on down on the field, comment during game action about commercials and the halftime show, walk (or stand) in front of the TV at inopportune times, be female, or commit any combination of these unforgivable sins. Some might even (*gasp*) attempt to engage me in conversation.
And let's not even mention the "hosts" of these absurd shindigs, who are usually so excited to show off their new flat screens and TIVOs that they decide it's not really necessary to show the game in "real time," instead rewinding periodically so that "Sally" or "cousin Irv" can rewatch some inane ad for Pepsi or Ford trucks or whoever the fuck is spending 2 million dollars for the 30 seconds of TV time I'm using to catch my breath, mop my brow, and attempt to stop dry heaving, if only for a moment. Irv was busy checking on the mini-quiches he brought, see, and missed seeing that computer generated hippopotamus share a Pepsi with that computer generated giraffe. So never mind that it's third and seven from the New England 34 yard line. We can always "catch up with the game later, right, crowd? I mean, what's the big deal?"
Then there are the poseur fans at the party to contend with. The "fans" who don't know Eli Manning from Eli Whitney but, in the spirit of the festivities decide to hold court, spewing their uninformed opinion about all things New York Giants. "The Giants are better off without Shockey," one "fan" says as my ears begin to bleed. "And did you know that Brandon Jacobs is 350 pounds?" Adding insult to insult, This person likely also arrived wearing a jersey, but you'd better believe it had never been worn until that day and may have even been purchased in the last 48 hours, if not on the way to the party. Oh well, you think to yourself. At least he'll have something to wipe up his blood with.
Oh, and there will be blood, sports fans. In the anxious, agitated state I will be in during this game, can't you see how incredibly dangerous it would be for me to be in the same room as a "fan" like this? I mean, I'm likely to snap and cut the motherfucker's throat with a jagged Dorito. But only during the commercial break, of course.
Look, people. I'm invested in this shit. Heavily. Way more than I probably should be. I admit that. But it's just the way it is. I live and die with every snap from center. With the exception of my college years spent in the Midwest and away from East Rutherford, I have only missed four home games since 1982. So yeah, I kinda care more than the average fan does about the outcome of this game. And I remember all too well what happened back in February of 2001, when I allowed my buddy Matt to talk me into attending his Super Bowl gathering out in Queens and had to suffer not only the indignity of a 34-7 final score, but pretty much all of the shenanigans and bullshit I've described above. From my best friends, no less.
So forgive me if you invited me to your Super Bowl party this year and I declined the invite. Other than the fact that it's 100% personal, it's nothing personal.
Enjoy the mini quiches.
It's not that I don't like these people, because I do. They're good, well-intentioned folks, all of them. And we go back a long way.
I'm also not one of those crazily superstitious dudes who has to watch the game sitting indian-style in his underwear and a ski mask at a precise 34 degree angle from the television while eating only green m&ms lefthanded. That's not me, either.
It's just that for a game of this magnitude, I've got to be in complete control of my environment. And that means I can't be around people. Even old friends.
Like most lunatics, when watching the Giants in the Super Bowl I am to be considered a danger to myself as well as to others, and cannot be trusted around small children or their well-meaning parents and their homemade, nine layer bean dips.
I am liable to drink heavily, shout obscenities, throw things, pace, spit, fume, swing my fists wildly, head butt inanimate objects, vomit, soil myself, bark like a dog, kick a dog, howl at the moon, wrestle an angel, or murder a pizza delivery boy, all before the end of the National Anthem.
And if I'm at a Super Bowl party, I know I can't behave that way. Not in "mixed company," anyway.
As you are all well aware, many of the attendees at Super Bowl parties don't really care all that much about the outcome of the football game. They'll be perfectly content to sit and talk casually throughout the game about things that have no bearing on what's going on down on the field, comment during game action about commercials and the halftime show, walk (or stand) in front of the TV at inopportune times, be female, or commit any combination of these unforgivable sins. Some might even (*gasp*) attempt to engage me in conversation.
And let's not even mention the "hosts" of these absurd shindigs, who are usually so excited to show off their new flat screens and TIVOs that they decide it's not really necessary to show the game in "real time," instead rewinding periodically so that "Sally" or "cousin Irv" can rewatch some inane ad for Pepsi or Ford trucks or whoever the fuck is spending 2 million dollars for the 30 seconds of TV time I'm using to catch my breath, mop my brow, and attempt to stop dry heaving, if only for a moment. Irv was busy checking on the mini-quiches he brought, see, and missed seeing that computer generated hippopotamus share a Pepsi with that computer generated giraffe. So never mind that it's third and seven from the New England 34 yard line. We can always "catch up with the game later, right, crowd? I mean, what's the big deal?"
Then there are the poseur fans at the party to contend with. The "fans" who don't know Eli Manning from Eli Whitney but, in the spirit of the festivities decide to hold court, spewing their uninformed opinion about all things New York Giants. "The Giants are better off without Shockey," one "fan" says as my ears begin to bleed. "And did you know that Brandon Jacobs is 350 pounds?" Adding insult to insult, This person likely also arrived wearing a jersey, but you'd better believe it had never been worn until that day and may have even been purchased in the last 48 hours, if not on the way to the party. Oh well, you think to yourself. At least he'll have something to wipe up his blood with.
Oh, and there will be blood, sports fans. In the anxious, agitated state I will be in during this game, can't you see how incredibly dangerous it would be for me to be in the same room as a "fan" like this? I mean, I'm likely to snap and cut the motherfucker's throat with a jagged Dorito. But only during the commercial break, of course.
Look, people. I'm invested in this shit. Heavily. Way more than I probably should be. I admit that. But it's just the way it is. I live and die with every snap from center. With the exception of my college years spent in the Midwest and away from East Rutherford, I have only missed four home games since 1982. So yeah, I kinda care more than the average fan does about the outcome of this game. And I remember all too well what happened back in February of 2001, when I allowed my buddy Matt to talk me into attending his Super Bowl gathering out in Queens and had to suffer not only the indignity of a 34-7 final score, but pretty much all of the shenanigans and bullshit I've described above. From my best friends, no less.
So forgive me if you invited me to your Super Bowl party this year and I declined the invite. Other than the fact that it's 100% personal, it's nothing personal.
Enjoy the mini quiches.
