I am a football fan. Not in the rabid, DirecTV Sunday ticket, watch-every-game-and-obsess-over-my-fantasy-stats sort of way, but I watch. I was nuts as a kid, and part of me retains that nutsery when the Giants play in the Super Bowl. Especially when the Giants won in 2008 over the heavily favored Patriots, and I spent the next hour in the streets of Manhattan, high-fiving strangers until my entire upper body was in full-scale rebellion.
This was an important victory, because the Giants are a virtuous and good, owned by a venerable NFL family that gave us The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.
Anyway, the Giants are back in the Super Bowl, against those same Belicheats. And I want very much to watch the game and share the lunacy with my sons, who will be with me while their mom is out of town.
The only problem is, I don’t have cable. And normally, I don’t miss it.
A big part of this stems from the area’s predominant cable company, whose name rhymes with Bomb Blast and whom every single customer I’ve talked to agrees is … not an optimal service provider. But more importantly, avoiding cable was a big part of my new-town, new-life strategy. I was starting my life over, and I wanted to get out and explore it without such a tangible excuse to stay home and park my arse on the couch.
Most of cable is circumnavigable. The few shows I still care about? Hulu and DVDs. Award shows? Twitter. I’ve even been able to watch some live sports through Yahoo! and ESPN3. But the Super Bowl, with all its circ and pompumstance? That’s gotta be seen, live, on the big screen. If I were alone, I’d be over at a friend’s house or a bar, living my single bachelorhood and bending my elbows. But I have the kids, on a school night. So desperate times called for desperate measures.
I asked my ex-wife if I could we could watch at her place. And she said, “Sure.”
So now, this Sunday, the Three French Men will be over at mom’s house, watching the Super Bowl and being super careful not to spill on anything, while their mom is in Vegas.
My life is weird.