Folks get a little certifiable when it comes to our unofficial official American holiday, Super Bowl Sunday. Especially if, like Philadelphians this time around, they haven't had a vested interest in it for a time. And especially because it happens in February, the '72 Ford Pinto of months.
It is, after all, a holiday constructed for and consecrated to the celebration of excess, which is why it is so uniquely American. The Event overwhelms the event, which after all is nothing more nor less than 60 minutes of plain old football, the same game you played in your backyard when you were a kid. Sometimes it's worth watching; sometimes the commercials are worth watching.
You learn this quickly when you've been on the ground for a Super Bowl, as a participant, fan or chronicler. I was the latter for three Supes, and the only thing notable about them was the spectacle. There are the Three Rings Of Fun that is Media Day; there are the subsequent days when players and coaches are trotted out to say the same things over and over; and there is that mind-boggling moment (at least for me) when you wander into the Super Bowl media center in the midst of all this and see table after table stacked waist high with press conference transcripts.
I was always struck, seeing that, by how many trees had to die so Bill Belichick could tell us what a challenge (insert opponent here) posed, or Tom Brady could tell us what a test (insert opponent here) posed.
But we've gotten off the beaten path here.
("No lie," you're saying.)
The point is, everyone gets swallowed up by the Super Bowl when they're involved in a Super Bowl, no matter how often they've been involved in it -- or, in Philly's case, how seldom.
And so you will be utterly unsurprised to learn that, in Philadelphia, the Medical Examiner's Office is auctioning off dead people's Eagles pendants. Everything around town is coming up green. Clergymen in Boston and Philly have made a gentleman's wager on the outcome of the game; the mayors of Bangor, Pa., and Bangor, Maine, have made a similar wager; and someone, of course, did that old journalistic reliable: Traveled to Philadelphia, Ohio, to find out who they're rooting for.
Shoot. Even April the Giraffe has gotten in on the act.
April, alas, chose the heathen Patriots.
No one, presumably, has thought to ask the famous statue of Rocky who he's picking. But then it's early. We're still a good 77 or so hours from kickoff as I write this.
The Blob's prediction: Rocky, not understanding the question, will pick Adrian. Of course.
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