The belle of the Super Ball
“Isn’t that Super Ball thing on this weekend?” I casually asked husband-head, as I stared at the calendar.Husband-head looked as if I’d just insulted his mother.”It’s the Super BOWL, and, yes, it’s this Sunday,” he corrected me. “And there will be pregame hype on Saturday as well. It’s the biggest football weekend of the year!”With that, husband-head did a little end zone dance.”Oh, and I’m having some people over for the game, so you might as well go shopping or something,” he informed me.Now it was my turn to be insulted.”I want to be at the party, too,” I said with a pout, not wanting to be left out of the fun.”You don’t like football,” husband-head pointed out. “You don’t understand football. You talk during football.”But I was determined to be included.”I do, too, understand football,” I insisted. “I know that the guys in the zebra costumes play rock-paper-scissors in the beginning to see who gets the ball … “”No, it’s a coin toss,” husband-head said with a sigh.”And I know the quarterback is the guy who’s always bent over trying to touch the other guy’s butt in front of him,” I said confidently. “What’s up with that, by the way?”Husband-head rolled his eyes.”See, you don’t know anything about football,” he repeated.”Do, too.””Do, not.”Husband-head decided to test my so-called knowledge.”What’s a tight end?” he challenged.A slang term for a cheerleader?”What’s a first down?” he continued.”The poor guy on the bottom when they all pile up on each other,” I retorted.”What’s pass interference?” he asked with a smirk.”When you’re parked with your date and the cop knocks on the window,” I said matter-of-factly, getting sick of the quiz.OK, so maybe I don’t know anything about football. But I figured I could at least join in the festivities for the big game.”How about if I serve a nice merlot and make some mini-quiches?” I suggested enthusiastically. “I’ll toss up a healthy green salad, and we can have fruit-filled crepes for dessert!”Husband-head looked as if he was going to cry.”Honey, what kind of commercials do you see during the Super Bowl?” he asked in a voice one usually reserves for a small child. Beer … trucks … tires.”I don’t think you’ll like this party,” he said patiently. “We’ll be eating stuff like pizza, chicken wings and nachos with our fingers and drinking lots of beer and then smashing the cans on our foreheads.”Grunt … grunt … grunt.”Why don’t you just go have a nice lunch with your girlfriends?” husband-head said, patting my hand. “You can drink some tea and eat those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off.”Clearly, my presence wasn’t wanted.”Or you can sit in the bedroom and watch ‘Titanic’ for the 25th time,” he suggested.Yeah, while everyone else is hooting and hollering and having a blast in the next room.”Well, I don’t care about your big Super Ball game, anyway,” I sniffed.”It’s Super BOWL,” husband-head corrected me again. “That’s a stupid name,” I pointed out. “It has absolutely nothing to do with bowling.”Hurt that I wasn’t welcome to the party, I walked away and refused to talk to husband-head. But not wanting to endure the silent treatment for the entire weekend, husband-head finally came around.”All right, all right, if I let you stay and watch the Super Bowl with us, will you do me one little favor this year?” he pleaded.I nodded in agreement.”Please don’t scream ‘HOME RUN!’ every time they make a touchdown … “Heidi Rice is a Western Garfield County reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.
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