Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Football Fans
Each year, we say we won’t succumb to it, to the hype and commercialism tainting what should be a meaningful holiday. Super Bowl Sunday. Let us bow our heads.
“How about we keep it simple this year,” I say.
“Good, we’ll keep it simple,” my wife says.
“No gifts,” I say.
“No gifts,” she says.
“Just a small tree,” I say.
“Maybe a nice wreath,” she says.
And that’s how this holiday starts, with the best of intentions. A time for reflection. A time to honor the past and remember what’s really important.
“I’ll make some chili,” I say.
“I’ll bake a ham,” my wife says.
“Maybe I’ll make some stuffed mushrooms,” my lovely and patient older daughter says.
“I’ll eat the stuffed mushrooms,” the boy says.
“Thanks for helping,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
We’re determined to keep it simple this year. No outdoor lights. No nativity scene featuring Lombardi, Shula and Landry. Just the game. A little food. A few friends. This year, we’re returning to what Super Bowls are all about.
“I’ll hang the mistletoe,” says the boy.
“Where?” I ask.
“Over the TV,” he says.
I look at our old TV. It’s seen more Super Bowls than the blimp. New Orleans. Miami. Pasadena. The Super Bowl is the biggest day of the year for a TV. I hope it is up to the task.
In the paper, there are lots of ads for new TVs. Home theaters with 300-watt sound systems that feature front- and rear-firing speakers and built-in subwoofers.
Every morning, the boy catches me lusting after these home theaters.
“Free DVD players,” he reads from the ad.
He leans across the orange juice to get closer to the newspaper. He’s all elbows, this kid. Like a good strong safety. He nearly puts an elbow in my oatmeal.
“See that?” he says. “Free DVD player.”
The word “free” is all over these electronics ads. Free financing. Free delivery. Free DVD player. Free TV stand. “Please, just take this stuff,” the ads seem to say. “We have too much. Please take it off our hands.”
“No,” I finally say.
“No?” the boy says.
“I like our TV,” I say.
“But Dad . . . “ he says, which is always hard to argue with.
“I’m used to it,” I explain to the boy.
“But Dad . . . “
“Besides, I don’t want a TV that’s louder than I am,” I say.
*
Which seems to convince him. He knows how I like to talk to the TV, how I will be sitting there quietly watching the game, speaking calmly to the quarterback, then suddenly leap from the couch and begin screaming--a straight-up leap, with a couple of little hops at the end, the way Walter Payton used to leap over linebackers in goal line situations.
In honor of Walter, I leap.
“OK, Dad,” he says. “Maybe next year.
So, in a few more days, we’ll get ready for this year’s game. We’ll straighten up the house a little, slide the magazines and socks in places where their mother won’t see them. That’s what kids consider cleaning up to be. Hiding stuff.
“How’s that?” they’ll ask after stuffing everything beneath the pillows on the couch.
“Looks good,” I’ll say.
“How about not stuffing things in the couch?” their mother will ask.
“Huh?” they’ll say, faking deafness.
“You heard me.”
“Huh?” they’ll say.
Eventually, they’ll regain their hearing and clean the house. I’ll go to the kitchen and add more cayenne pepper to the chili. I’ll taste it, then add a little more.
An hour before kickoff, we’ll set out the food. I’ll polish the TV with a soft cloth, then pat it gently on the side, hoping it has another game left in its brittle circuits.
“Here’s the white bread and sardines,” the boy will say, carrying in a tray.
“Yes!” the little girl will scream.
“That’s so disgusting,” my older daughter will say.
*
Then, just before kickoff, the children will gather around for the traditional pre-Super Bowl oath of honor. Let us bow our heads.
“Repeat after me,” I tell the kids.
“Repeat after me,” they say.
“I am not a marching band,” I say.
“I am not a marching band,” they say.
“I am a human being.”
“I am a human being.”
“I will not run zigzag patterns in front of the TV when my dad is trying to watch the big game.”
“I will not run zigzag patterns in front of the TV when my dad is trying to watch the game.”
“I will not fight or whine.”
“I will not fight or whine.”
“I will not sing opera.”
“I will not sing opera.”
“I will not ask Dad to diagnose those little red bumps on my tongue, which are probably just taste buds anyway, with two minutes to play in the fourth quarter and the outcome of the biggest game of the year on the line,” I say.
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t think I can promise that,” says the boy.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Those bumps, they might be zits,” he says.
“Amen,” I say.
“Amen,” they all say.
Happy Super Bowl.
Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.
