The Super Bowl, A Great American Ritual

When the bus driver hits the brakes, my lunch box slides forward a few feet in the tiny luggage rack above my head. Then he hits the gas again and it slides backward.

Inside is a box of frozen Buffalo wings, one Heineken and a bag of cut up red peppers, kept cold by an ice pack normally used to rein in an inflamed lower back.

My Super Bowl party had to hit the road this year, because I have a work meeting early Monday morning. I could go out with a couple friends, pull up a stool at the bar and watch the big game. But I decided to enjoy this one alone, in my apartment, surrounded by bad food.

I plan to watch two or three hours of pre-game, where former NFL stars go into ridiculous detail about the players’ lives, both on and off the field. They will undoubtedly dissect the strengths and weaknesses of the coaches, their game plans, the weather conditions and even Bruce Springsteen’s 12 minute halftime show.

And I’m sure I will love it all.

I have a beer for right around kickoff, which this year is about 6:26 p.m. And I have another that I will hold onto until halftime. I’ll eat my wings and nachos and maybe, just maybe, some frozen pizza. Though I know I shouldn’t.

And I will hope beyond hope the game doesn’t suck and the commercials don’t suck either. But even if they do, I plan to enjoy myself.

I love the whole ritual surrounding the Super Bowl. I always have. Starting in those long ago days, when my two brothers and I would cram into one seat in front of an old TV in the basement. My dad would be out with his brothers or friends. But my mom would be there. She set up a card table nearby and load it with chips and junk food and at least one plate of veggies.

When I grew up, I watched the game with my dad and grandpa and uncles. We ate pizza and bratwurst and drank too much. I also made sure to snag a couple carrots and celery sticks from the veggie plate.

Now, living in the East Coast with Leah, I still look forward to the Super Bowl, just like I used to as a kid. And even if the veggies come in a Ziploc kept cold by an old ice pack, I want my ma to know that I ate a few veggies — along with way too much junk food.