Can you boycott the Super Bowl and still call yourself a man?
This is the situation I suddenly find myself in after yesterday’s conference championship outcomes. Given that I’m from Philly, all I can do these days is treasure moments that are chock full of schadenfreude. Hell, if I can’t watch my team win, the next best thing is to watch someone pull a chokejob of epic proportions. So, when the Eagles bit the dust this season, I set myself up for a glorious post-season of rooting for New England fans to endure a level of choke artistry that I’ve grown so accustomed to during my years of Philly fandom.
It doesn’t need to be said, but a Patriots loss in the Super Bowl would be the greatest choke/collapse/dropping of the soap of all time. And while that may not be as satisfying as a championship for my city, it comes as close as I can get these days. Misery loves company, and I’m pretty fucking miserable.
Then, in one fell, Brett Favrian swoop, it all came crashing down. This is not the Super Bowl match up I had in mind. On the one side sit the New York Fucking Giants, playing David to the Goliath that is New Fucking England and their perfect Patriots.
Disaster. Is there some sort of obscure David and Goliath story that involves both characters mutually destroying each other? No? There should be, dammit.
So what the hell do I do now? Where do I place my loyalties? Can I actually boycott the Super Bowl? Because I’m pretty sure me rooting for the Patriots to go 19-0 in a Super Bowl is the equivalent of rooting for Oedipus to sleep with his mother… there’s no fun in cheering for a stomach churning inevitability. But, as an Eagles fan, me rooting for the Giants to win the Super Bowl is like rooting for Oedipus to sleep with my mother instead.
Hooray, I’m screwed!
So it’s in times like these that a man seeks comfort in the wise words of friends. And damn it all if Erik didn’t say it best when asked about the team to root for:
“We root for beer. And lots of it.”
Amen to that.