This Bowl is Super
Rambling on the Rio
By Chris Morgan
Super Bowl Sunday is always bittersweet for me. While it’s the biggest non-Dallas Cowboy NFL game of the year (at least lately it’s been non-Cowboy), it’s also the last game for about seven months of winter. You see, I don’t go out of my way to watch many regular season NBA games, and hardly any regular season baseball games. So, once Super Bowl Sunday is in my rearview mirror it’s talk about the draft, off-season roster moves, rules changes coming from owners meetings, and so on.
Once the bets are settled, the winning squares of Super Bowl pots are paid out, and the whines about the crappy refs from fans of the losing team have bounced beyond the last echo, hardcore football fans will be walking around with that one-sided “oh well” grin we know so well from Tony Romo’s post-losing game interviews. We’re happily thinking back on the joys of the past season, but also sadly know that we’ll be the ones intensely focusing on the NFL headlines scrolling at the bottom of the television screen during Spurs games.
“Football Season is Over” is the title of Hunter S. Thompson’s last essay; written a few days before he took his own life. Now, his health issues and other things going on in his world were much more serious than a game where adult men legally get to assault each other for 60 minutes, but there’s a brotherhood of us that realize the dark message in those four words. It’s no surprise he chose the month of February to exit.
Ah, but you didn’t click on the hyperlink to the DrinkLaredo site and on this article to be bummed out, so enough of my silly nonsense. We have Super Bowl watching to discuss.
One thing Laredo has in common with the rest of the country is that Super Bowl watching is an event in and of itself; greater than even the game for a sizeable fraction of spectators. Sure, some are clutching their slip hoping their lucky numbers hit at the end a quarter, with others having to ask again and again how the plus 5 and “reverse” combinations work. Then, you have the nervous non-gamblers who nevertheless bet five bucks on a team just because it seemed like the thing to do. And, of course, no one is talking to the guy sitting alone in the corner watching every second of every play until half-time when he gets on the phone to ask his bookie for the half-time lines. And that’s not counting the ones there purely for the party. They’ll have their fill of food and drink, and try to quiet down when they are politely (and non-politely) reminded that the game is back on so please stop talking about the funny commercials.
Yes, Super Bowl parties attract many different types, all there for the main reason, and that’s to have fun.
The two most popular gathering spots for Super Bowl parties are sports bars and the homes of brave, generous souls who risk damages and divorce to bring together groups of friends and acquaintances for an event that naturally separates the crowd into two antagonistic groups.
Side note: 95% of the couples that wear matching team jerseys to Super Bowl parties have one trait in common: the woman is the aggressor of the pair. Count on it. If you don’t believe me, walk up to a couple wearing matching Tom Brady jerseys and tell the guy how hot you think Giselle is. Before you can chuckle and wink you’ll have a fork in your eye and something that rhymes with “tinny witch” will be ringing in your ears. Oh, and one other thing: if she happens to be wearing a home jersey and the guy is wearing a road jersey, that percentage goes up to 99.9%.
Okay, back to the venues themselves. Sports bars take on a different atmosphere on Super Bowl Sunday. Unlike the NBA Finals, where the bars are full of patrons dressed to the nines like they’re trying to get into the hottest Vegas nightclub, or the World Series where, uh, well, where a bunch of dudes in faded Astros shirts and brand new Rangers caps are asking the bartenders where all the women are at, Super Bowl Sunday in a bar is like Mardi Gras in February.
Oh wait, Mardi Gras IS in February. Well, you know what I mean. You get a bar packed with groups of strangers all cheering for a common goal – for their team to win, or their numbers to hit, with team colors dominating the attire. (Note: for you hecklers, this year will be a bit tough to pick out which fans to yell at since both teams use blue, white and red on their uniforms).
Anyway, the bar is festive, the noise is loud especially during the commercials, and the staff is busy keeping up with the food and drink orders. Then, the game is over, and half the crowd immediately leaves the bar. Usually the ones remaining are fans of the winning team, and they’ll linger for a bit to take a shot in celebration or just laugh at their favorite plays.
House parties are a different animal – for one, the seating is more fluid. Compared to a bar, where you typically keep your same seat throughout the event, a house Super Bowl party usually has no reserved seating. You get up to go to the restroom, and someone takes your place and then you get to stand behind the sofa until someone else leaves their seat. That’s just the way that it is. Fortunately, house parties also typically have trays of snacks laid out, and typical of our border culture, in the yard hot grilled meats are rolling off the BBQ pit as fast as the designated cook can push them out. So, if you lose your seat, you can wander outside and load up another plate of mollejas and sausage and ask when the next batch of fajitas will be ready.
And don’t forget the keg. No Super Bowl house party is complete without “el barril”. And every party has the dude who brought a 6-pack of Busch in a tiny ice chest, who drinks one, then keeps refilling the empty from the keg until it’s floating and then takes off with his 5 Busch beers after the game. Luckily we tolerate him because he still doesn’t quite understand the concept of point spreads.
There’s so much more I can tell you about Super Bowl parties but all this writing has given me a craving for an ice cold Miller Lite, a steaming plate of fajitas and, oh, yeah, some football.
Keep laughin’, amigos.
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