Super Bowl: Pop culture phenom
By Christopher DaCosta
What will we do once Carrie and the gang hang up the Manolo Blahniks? When will Donald Trump get a new hairpiece that doesn't look like roadkill (you'd think the guy would be able to afford the Rolls Royce of wigs)? Why is Clay Aiken's song so stalker-esque? Why have I heard any of Clay Aiken's songs?
Elfish American Idol runner-ups aside, the above are my burning questions â€" not, who will win the Super Bowl? Or my personal favorite: how many carbs will I shovel down my throat while watching men in tight pants tackle each other?
Let's face it; my athletic prowess is rather limited to marathon shopping days and the occasional ab workout. My command of American football is analogous to the Mission Bakery baristas' grasp of espresso recipes â€" slippery. I am ignorant to the vernacular that accompanies this brutish game. Here are some of my guesses for football terminology:
End Zone â€" The follow up to Britney's "In the Zone" and subsequent period leading to the demise of her career.
Getting Sacked â€" What happens at Santa Clara on Friday and Saturday nights.
Face Mask â€" What ugly people need to wear to get sacked.
This year, I plan to make a concerted effort to endure the Super Bowl. I pledge to perform my civic duty by partaking in the Dionysian Super Bowl celebrations. I'm pretty sure I can sit through the game â€" I grew up in Australia; I survived the Super Bowl equivalent of "Cricket." A game which is named after a chirpy insect often clad in a top hat and monocle should be interesting, right? No. Cricket involves crazy little things called "wickets" and usually spans several days.
Although I possess sub-par coordination and an intense dislike for sports (particularly those named for insects), Aussie Rules Football (AFL) players were equivalent to the pantheon of Hollywood celebs and soon the sport was the object of my obsession. The AFL Super Bowl equivalent â€" the Grand Final â€" was a melange of pop culture and svelte athleticism.
The event was met with such fervor and excitement. Time would stop when the winning goal was kicked. But then something odd would happen; team rivalries thawed and a nation of people would be joyously united under the bright stadium lights, celebrating the passion of the moment and a whole season's worth of effort and competition. It never mattered who won. We all did. As spectators we were witnesses to all the little triumphs and defeats the players faced â€" the perpetual career-ending knee injuries, the promising young recruits and most of all the camaraderie which transcended the thresholds of our televisions and unified Australian football fanatics,
I'll put aside my disinterest for American football for the sake of cohesion. Besides, it's not about who wins, it's about bringing us together. What's better than BBQ, laughter and friends on a Sunday afternoon? I don't know, but I'll see you at the Super Bowl.
û Contact Christopher Da Costa at (408) 554-4546 or cdacosta@scu.edu.