my first superbowl

I watched my first Superbowl on TV this evening. Seattle is a hip city, but there have always been fans, encountered on the light rail after a game, or impeding progress on my favorite sneaky car route when driving from the Northend back down to the Southend, where I live. But now Seattle was playing in the Superbowl, so tonight, I became one of the fair-weather fans, a Superbowl virgin.

Oh, years ago I might have walked into a room once when the game was on, but I think I just dropped something off and went on about my business. Of course, I've watched the original Superbowl ad where Apple Computer intorduced the Macintosh to the world countless times, but not during the actual game. I modified that Ridley Scott ad to make one for PepperSpray. It's one of my favorites of all times. Truth be told, a few years back, at the height of our video activism, I watched the Superbowl ads on my computer, after the game, studying what made them effective. I don't have a problem with sports, other than sharing everyone's concern for the players' health. But watch the football game? Nope, up until now, not even close.

But this evening I was eager to join every person in Seattle drawing breath to watch the game. Kay and I went over to our neighbor Rob's house to watch on his fancy TV. I don't have a TV, and Kay watches on one that somebody purchased shortly after they went from black & white to color. Hardly sufficient for such an occasion. In preparation, I had Rob brief me the other night, so I'd have some sense of what was going on.

The most important part, I figured, was the food. I made two different kinds of chicken wings in the oven; Buffalo wings, made with Franks hot sauce, and some ginger-honey wings that I marinaded overnight, and then topped with some peanuts and scallions after cooking. I also made a big party platter of veggies for dipping, and got Blue Cheese and Ranch dips, along with onion soup dip, hummus, and some home-made asian plum sauce. Couple bags of chips and an electric skillet full of hot dog coins, speared with toothpicks, cooking in BBQ sauce rounded out my contributions. Kay made one of her great all-from-scratch apple pies this morning and had sharp cheddar cheese and vanilla Hagen Das ice cream for sides, while Rob had steaks, beer, and two kinds of Safeway cake at the ready. It might have been overkill, but I heard that the game goes for a long time, and it didn't seem good to run out of anything.

I had barely sat down in Rob's living room, plate full of party food, when the Denver guy hiked the ball right over their quarterback's head. The instant replay was a close-up of the agonized quarterback, mouth gaping, watching the ball go by in slow motion. Wow, this IS fun! I watched every minute from then on.

After each Seattle score, I tried to remember to solemnly exchange a single firm handshake with Rob, whose TV we were watching. I had read in one of the Seattle alternative papers, of an effort to start a Seattle tradition of the dignified handshake to celebrate a touchdown, rather than all that jumping around and banging each other on their already-overworked helmets. So I did my best to be a good Seattle fan, and shake hands.

I didn't have any Seahawks spirit wear, but figured my vaguely-green Boeing sweatshirt would have to do. Silly, I guess, Seattle people think Boeing and Seattle are sort of synonymous, even though everyone else in the world seems to know that Boeing's home is now in Chicago. Zarya's husband, Steve, paints airplanes for Boeing, which makes us--like so many Seattle families--a Boeing family. She gave me the sweatshirt some time ago, probably just to mess with me. So even though Boeing just stole her husband's pension in a power play that would have made the Seahawks offense jealous, still, it signified "Seattle" and it was sort-of green. Besides, it was already dirty, as were my fleece house pants. I've seen enough commercials to know that a guy should be wearing a team sweatshirt, and some loose-fitting house pants, like sweatpants, or in my case, fleecy bottoms. Sports fans and stoners seem to share this affinity for comfortable pants, so that part was easy.

I believe in proper attire. Last night, the three of us went up to the Royal Room, in the Columbia City neighborhood, about a mile from home, to watch a great eight-piece Brazilian band. We were out on a Saturday night, so we all wore black leather jackets, and spiffed up a bit. The crowd was diverse, and dressed really well. We shook our booties until the band shut down. Hell, Rob was dancing with two women at once. Proper attire is always important. I wear an apron when I'm cooking or washing dishes, and I try not to vacuum without my hearing-protection ear muffs. So naturally I suited up for the big game.

The score, in Seattles's favor, kept climbing. At a certain point in the second half, we all started rooting a bit for Denver. Oh, we wanted a Seattle win, but nobody wanted to belittle Denver with a rout. In retrospect, I guess we could have shaken hands when Denver finally scored, but we missed that opportunity for ultimate sportsmanship. Nonetheless, we were relieved when Denver finally got on the board. Seattle always has a heart for an under dog, even while we're kicking their ass. Kind of like those stories of the father who tells the child he is about to whip that "this is going to hurt me a lot worse than it will you!" We especially felt for Colorado, our legal-dope club comrades. We wanted to beat them, not shame them.

After the game, feeling the flush of victory, we went outside while a couple young fellows from across the way lit off a small string of lady fingers, and then peppered the street with poppers, those little "pop cap" balls. We applauded their pyrotechnical rejoicing and called "Go Hawks!." It wasn't exactly a yell, but was loud enough to reward them for their efforts. On TV, local news crews were downtown, covering the victory street party. The crowds, as one would expect, were boisterous, but not violating community standards. After all, Seattle folks often stand patiently in the rain, waiting for the pedestrian light to change, even though there is no traffic.

It was a glorious Seattle evening, cheerful, and friendly, with the gentle aroma of ganja overpowering the scent of gunpowder, a perfect First Superbowl. Besides, they had an actual TV ad for "make love not war" right in the middle of the game. I got to see it, in context, real time, real Seattle. Go Hawks, indeed.