DeVos: Can’t wait for Super Bowl L
One of the problems with writing a weekly column is that occasionally someone will remember something you once said and hold it against you. It doesn’t happen often with a devoted fan base of three, but I have occasionally let slip in print that I pray for professional sports.
Well, actually what I’ve said is that I pray for a mini-Rapture that would whisk all the franchise owners and their overpaid thugs and subsidized stadiums off to some special warm place. I stay out of sports bars to avoid people wearing foam-rubber cheese hats.
So I was fairly amazed when we got an invitation to a Super Bowl XLIX party. I, of course, pushed the automatic “no” button just in time to hear Madam-President-for-Life say into the phone, “Yes, I just spoke to Jon and he’s very excited about going. We’ll see you there.” She was covering the mouthpiece to muffle the sounds of my theatrical moaning.
Let’s pause for a second and back up to the Bible to help you get a framework for what happens next. On his way to work chopping heads off Christians, this guy named Saul abruptly saw the error of his ways. He hung around Jesus, changed his name to Paul and spent the rest of his life trying to put departed heads back on. That’s exactly like me and Super Bowl parties! Well, except for the missing heads part, I have gained a whole new perspective on professional sports!
Just before the first snap of the ball, I noticed a huddle around the crab dip, so I slanted left, delighted to find an open field all the way to the barbecued chicken wings. I swung wide at the last second to throw off a lady in hot pursuit, smiling to myself as she careened off the sofa, costing her valuable time on the clock. I had the third down by the time she recovered.
The infraction went unnoticed but the commotion got the crowd’s attention and a few of them started for us. The leader feinted right, but I knew that move and instinctively dove left as the rest of them piled up like stadium traffic. Their error exposed the entire right side of the chips and dips. I dove for the Big Scoop Fritos but was denied when some kid blind-sided me. Interception! It was nearly a helmet-tossing dustup but neither of us had one, so I backed off, glaring hard not to forget her face next time. It worked! She sat down next to her mom and sucked her thumb for the rest of the game.
Late in the third quarter, I detected a weakness in the defense around the pan of lasagna. I started with a wide sweep to the right, dove over the family dog and deftly slipped between two defenders, leaving them gape-mouthed and empty-handed. Out of the tossup I came away with the football! At least that was about the size of lasagna on my plate. And garlic bread! Salad!
The end of the game provided breathtaking excitement in a platter of chocolate mousse and a berry compote. The overall experience was something I’m not likely to forget. I’m a changed man.
I take back every scurrilous and mean-spirited thing I’ve ever said about stupid, butt-patting professional sports. In fact, I am already crossing days off the calendar in anticipation of Super Bowl L. See? I’m so changed that I even know what letter it will be.
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