Before you dare slap the label “bandwagoner” on my forehead, allow me to honestly explain myself: I’ve never claimed to be a die-hard football fan, and I still don’t. I’m just one of those folks who’ll watch for the entertainment value of seeing burly men roughing it if I’m at a bar or restaurant or at a family gathering and everyone is too timid to touch the remote. I also loved going to the games at my high school, because I was “cultured” that way, and because I kind of had to as part of the school newspaper and Associated Student Body. But professional football, in particular, has always been a part of my life in the strangest way—mostly the fact that my sister was born in late January, when the Super Bowl used to take place before 9/11. So naturally, my parents threw huge house parties and invited all of our family and their friends to celebrate my sister’s birthday, as well as watch arguably the largest sports event of the year.
As the years passed, and with circumstances moving the Super Bowl a week later, we no longer had those parties. However, my habit of tuning into the telecast annually was already well ingrained. I always rooted for the underdog (My parents or my brother would tell me which team it’d be) but more importantly, I looked forward to which hotshot would be performing the National Anthem, which pop/rock act would provide the (usually) electrifying halftime show, and all those commercials and premiere film trailers. In the end, it wouldn’t matter who’d win because the sights of teams and fans celebrating would move me.
Today marked one small step closer for a team I actually care about to be that team to relish in the ultimate victory.