It’s Super Bowl time. A bittersweet day for me each and every year. Bitter because it marks the end of the season. But this year’s sweeter than ever because my beloved Denver Broncos have somehow clawed their way to the big dance.
If we win, and I’m praying our defense can slow down Cam Newton enough to let Peyton play (and throw it well, perhaps?), I will surely smile until next August. If we lose, I won’t watch Sports Center or the NFL network for months. The pain from our last Super Bowl performance was too great to see the media recap every moment several million times. That’s like being re-stabbed over and over after you actually lived through a stabbing.
As Americans, the Super Bowl marks the final foray for feasting like carnivorous savages on a Sunday afternoon. I usually bust out my Hobo Smoker and slow-cook some ribs or beer-can chicken. This year, NO! My wife, who loves to host a party, wanted to invite all of our friends, family and coworkers over to celebrate Denver’s appearance in the Super Bowl.
I want to watch the game with little to no disturbance.
“I’d rather watch the game in a dark room — by myself — than try to keep a smile on my face if some dipshit wants to make small talk while we go for it on fourth down.”
This is a big game and a big game deserves my full attention. I will be ordering take out: chicken wings, a pizza and there will be a bag of chips. Come over if you dare…