Yesterday was my first superbowl. And I say that with an added level of sincerity, because we actually did also go to a superbowl party last year, at Mr. and Mrs. Pooks'. However, while last year was all about the munchies and the superbowl adds, this year I graduated to actually understanding the sport itself.
As the game kicked off, Delta explained the rules to us with painstaking patience ("My first Indian superbowl party," he said with glee, looking at Bobbis, Doobs, Ilajna and me draped over the sofa in various positions of TV slouch).
I didn't realise how involved I'd gotten in the game, until I suddenly caught myself shouting at the telly, despite myself, "CATCH THE BALL, BURRESS!!!!" Or maybe it was when the game got over, and we all jumped up, hugging each other with the kind of happiness that just makes you want to burst. Not easy to believe that a couple of hours before, we hadn't even known the rules to football.
Back when I'd just moved to New York, Milo had told me that I hadn't experienced American life until I'd watched Monday Night Football with a Coors Light and chicken wings (that's the night I gave up vegetarianism, if I remember correctly).
I wonder what he'd think now, of this Ficali, whooping and prancing at the superbowl.
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