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Fair-Weather Fan FareFebruary 06, 2006 I have a personal history with most of the major team sports played and watched in the U.S. of A. As a kid I participated in plenty of pickup baseball games, and a few times went off with my father and brother to watch the Red Sox lose at Fenway Park; when the Sox made the World Series in 1967, we got out of gym class to watch the games on TV. Basketball was my hands-down favorite: being short and dumpy and by no means a jock, I was a mediocre player, but the Celtics ruled in those days and I loved to listen to their games on my transistor radio or on the family TV. Once my father took us to see 2001: A Space Odyssey. My brother and I sat in the front row watching the movie and listening on our earphone-equipped radios to a Celtics playoff game. I played soccer at school and watched hockey at home . . . The game I never got was football. Never played it, didn't like to watch it, still don't know the rules -- what's a "down" anyway? I've got three "I never's" that I want inscribed on my tombstone (provided, of course, that I manage to maintain my perfect records till I take my last breath): I never saw a therapist, I never ate a McDonald's hamburger, and I never watched a football game all the way through. Two years ago I was invited to my first-ever Super Bowl party. Oh dear: major dilemma. I liked the hosts a lot, but could I accept the invitation if I knew diddly about football and cared even less? More important: If I went to the party, could I maintain my perfect record by not watching the game, or would that be considered rude? I asked, and was assured that plenty of attendees didn't like football and would rather hang out around the food, drink beer, and talk about horses, politics, sex, religion, all that other good stuff. I went; it was a good party. Last night I went to my second-ever Super Bowl party, at the same couple's house. Rhodry and I got there late: we'd been looking after someone else's horses and dogs. I was urged to enter the football pool: two bucks a square. "What do the squares mean?" I asked. "Don't worry about it," I was assured; "just pick one." I picked two, and put my four bucks in the basket. I had a fine time: ate two chili dogs, downed three beers, and had interesting conversations with other guests about horses, dogs, island politics, music, writing, and the resurrection of the Wampanoag language. Thought about leaving, but according to a bar at the bottom of the TV there were less than 10 minutes left in the game. Rhodry and Tillo were happily working the crowd for compliments and cookies; I figured I'd stay till the end. With about a minute to go my host remarked that if the score stayed the way it was, I'd win the pool. Good heavens. I watched the razzle-dazzle on the screen, understanding none of it but noting that no one scored. Time ran out. I was presented with $86 -- actually a cool $100 bill; I gave back the change. My host, knowing of my lack of enthusiasm for the game, joked that I couldn't have the money if I didn't know who was playing. "Aha!" I said. "Seattle and Pittsburgh, and Pittsburgh won." You have to get up very early in the morning to put one over on a copyeditor, and even then you'll probably lose. What's Seattle to Pittsburgh, or Pittsburgh to Hecuba? Damned if I know, but Ben Franklin is burning a hole in my wallet.
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