HOME FOR SUPER BOWL XLI

As Super Bowls go, Sunday’s showdown between Chicago and Indianapolis was hardly memorable. Super Bowl XLI, Miami, almost sounds like a trade show that everyone dreads attending. And it rained as well, which made for sloppy play, where both teams refused to take a game from an opponent so eager to give it away. One thing about the NFL though, is that they are consistently prompt. But being that it was the Super Bowl, I figured that a 6:25 kick-off time really meant 6:32. For years the National Anthem has been part of the show, which in this period of inflicted patriotism, is often punctuated by a squadron of F-16’s roaring overhead. Then there’s the coin toss, which, again, can take a few minutes if the commemorative coin is delivered via bald eagle or parachuting Green Baret. This year it came with minimal fanfare as Dan Marino brought out the coin with remarkable efficiency. Too efficient for me however…

In my pledge to remain sequestered from Super Bowl hype this year, I avoided all the milquetoast pre-game schlock, and spent the preceding hours enjoying the Ghost Hunters marathon on the Sci Fi Channel instead. I’ve taken a particular interest in the paranormal lately. For one, I feel like my innate psychic powers have been greatly honed in the past few years. Secondly, I’ve had personal encounters that make me a believer. And lastly, being that I now live in an old Brooklyn neighborhood, and have a blind cat that routinely cries around 3:15 AM every night, I wonder what spirits have me sharing their apartment as well. Naturally, the episode of Ghost Hunters coinciding with the Super Bowl kick-off is a particularly meaty one, and I’m hooked to the end because I just have to see them disclose the evidence of their investigation. I flip to CBS for a second at exactly 6:25…OK, good, Dan Marino and a jittery, first-time Super Bowl referee, Tony Corrente, are gearing up for the coin toss. All should dovetail perfectly with the conclusion Ghost Hunters and the actual kick-off. I flip back to Ghost Hunters to see a murky gray splotch rustling curtains on videotape – very good stuff. I flip back to CBS at 6:31. Chicago is up 7-0. What the hell????

I quickly sensed that it was going to be one of those Super Bowls. You know, the kind that provides comforting white noise while paying the phone bill, sorting through the recyclables, and scooping clumps of cat pee from the litter box. And with my interest already diminished by an opening kick return that I didn’t see, we got onto more pressing matters such as what to have for dinner. We took a pass on pizza, which on Super Bowl Sunday is like going to Philadelphia and ordering a chicken cheesesteak. But so be it, as New Yorkers we take pride in having a myriad of food choices at our disposal. So as the teams kept turning the ball over, my wife and I went through the heaping stack of take-out menus kept in a designated drawer. It’s goes like this:

“You want Thai?”

“Jesus, where’s the pass protection…what?”

“Thai?”

“For the Super Bowl? C’mon…” I reply.

“Well you didn’t want pizza”.

“How about Indian?” I suggest.

“For the Super Bowl? C’mon…”

This went on for a possession or two until we decided to order burritos from a Tex Mex joint neither of us had tried before. My wife took the helm with placing the call. She’s a great qualifier in terms of getting their size, dimensions, ingredients and price; as we all know that not all burritos are the same. She relays the breakdown to me, where we jointly hash out the pros and cons of this major purchasing decision.
We decided to go for it. Still, the game is barely five minutes old.

Twenty minutes later the buzzer rings, where I spring off the couch and hump the air in knowing that dinner is but two staircases away. By now the Colts were moving the ball pretty well. My wife opens the door where an Indian or Pakistani kid of about 17 years holds two bags of food. “Wow, is that all for us?,” she asks. I could see the look on his face. It’s the of look of being confronted with a problem, which up to this moment was previously unknown, and thus, would have appreciated it if we helped him keep it that way. He looks at me; I just shrug because I don’t want to get into problem solving mode while the Super Bowl is played. I delegate this matter to my wife, Ellen, by suddenly taking great interest in what the Colts do next. She starts dissecting the contents of the bags: “wings, tacos…more tacos,” she says, as if doing the annual inventory at K-Mart. It didn’t take a super sleuth to realize that this kid was missing the other delivery ticket. Seeing all this food sprawled on the floor, I now take less interest in what the Colts are doing and join the cats with inspecting the edible goods. They start pawing the plastic bags before Ellen can shoo them away. I get another look from the kid. He’s clearly indicating that his life would be much easier if we just took all the food and paid him what we owed. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the restaurant botched the orders, and besides, why not get two meals for the price of one? I respond, this time with a more sympathetic shrug that lets him know I’m on board with his thinking, however, since my wife just performed autopsies on these two bags, we’re committed to getting this resolved.

“You got the phone number for the restaurant?” the kid asks.

“Don’t you?” I say, adding my voice to this crippled exchange for the first time.

He looks at the ticket, for some inexplicable reason there’s no phone number on it, nor does he have extra menus to hand out. Since when does a business in New York fail to promote itself? He threw it back our way about having the phone number. After all, we didn’t order the food via messenger pigeon, surely we must have it somewhere. Which we did of course, though it meant sifting through the Yellow Pages…again. I could see the gears turning in his head; we should have taken the deal he telepathically offered us a moment ago. Wasn’t all this phone book nonsense a pain in ass? And by the way, you just missed a magnificent 53-yard touchdown pass to Reggie Wayne. What????

My interest in the game just sank further; particularly now after missing that play as well. Nevertheless, we find the number while two homophobes endorse Snickers bars from a garage. “Do you have a phone,” the kid asks. I figured, if the kid doesn’t have the phone number for his place of employ, why would he have a cell phone either? Who knows, perhaps it might come in handy in case he’s got the wrong address, especially on a night where the outside temperatures finally gave us something in common with the Midwest. “Here you go,” I say while handing him my cell phone. Not that I have a choice or anything, it’s not like I’m going to send him down to the corner payphone and catch hypothermia. I mean, as obtrusive as this transaction had become, I hadn’t forgotten what it’s like to be 17. Ellen reads him the number from the Yellow Pages. He’s made himself quite comfortable while locating the phantom recipient who’s dinner still rests on our floor…would you like to take a hot bath? Though a moment later his aggravation starts to resonate, tracking down tacos like a lost Mother’s Day bouquet. Ellen and I look at each other wondering why this was so complicated. Seeing the way he got bounced around, you’d think he was seeking Windows tech support or something. Now the kid starts spewing expletives as the ensuing kickoff gets underway. He’s getting a little too comfortable. And while I can relate to his predicament, it’s time for him to get going. I give him the universal twirl-of-the-index-finger sign that says wrap it up baby. He gets the hint, though I have to remind him that the cell phone he’s holding still belongs to me. It’s an honest mistake, like when you pocket a pen someone’s just lent you, yet before leaving, he gives us a ranting diatribe about what a “f—king dickhead” his boss is. I refrained from telling him that he’s likely to be the first of many, as I believe it’s best to learn those hard knocks on your own. Now they’re calling him back to the restaurant, clearly something has gone very much awry. Still though, we tipped him four bucks anyway…just because. Even food delivery comes with panache in Brooklyn.

At this point I don’t recall what the score was. Our burritos were a little cold and the refried beans had morphed into spackling putty, but they still had plenty of flavor, and flavor is key. By now, the Super Bowl was simply about savoring the last morsel of football season hoping, as I do each Sunday night, that the weekend will hang around just a little longer. Like every Super Bowl, this game will be boiled down to a few plays then looped incessantly during the fortnight before the Big Game in the years to come. As for SB XLI, Ellen went to bed shortly after what’s-his-name from Indy ran Rex Grossman’s interception back for a touchdown. I at least hung around to the end while wet confetti extinguished the final embers of the 2006 season. Out, out, brief candle…it was soon time to hit the sack myself.