Last Saturday, the New Orleans Saints were defeated by the San Francisco 49ers in a instant classic playoff game. It was high scoring, full of big plays, and tears were even dripped. Any football fan enjoyed the Hell outta this game. I certainly did, but for more than the awesomeness of the game. A old lesson was reiterated to me: who you watch the game with matters.
I witnessed the first half of the game with a friend o' mine after we completed work-shopping on our stories for class. Hell, I wasn't excepting to watch the football game because I thought this chore would take longer (maybe our shared laziness in outside class work contributed . . . ?). We sat in my basement bedroom and I stealthily turned the game on (for background noise, duh). Soon, she started watching Drew Brees sling the pigskin around. Now, she has a passing knowledge of football: she knows what a touchdown is, understands defense is important, and can appreciate a big play. That's fine, but I wasn't able to emerge myself into the game. When Tarell Brown intercepted a overthrown ball off-balanced with his fingertips, I flipped! She nodded her head. This is going to sound asshole-ish, but I was thankful she had to go and I was clear to run to my buddy's house for the second half.
There, I was in football mode. Loud and animated and dissecting plays while my buddy sung the praises of every big time player. The fourth quarter showcased thirty-four points and three backbreaking, momentum-stealing plays. Our testosterone-fueled yelling probably drew the ire of his neighbors, but we didn't care. IT'S FOOTBALL! America's game! You don't like it call the cops. Hell, they probably would join us and have a couple of beers.
Moral of the story, pick who you watch the game with carefully and work your school schedule around it. Your teachers will understand a paper being a day late on the Monday after the divisional round of playoffs. They're cool like that. My female friend however . . . I'll buy her a Starbucks coffee to apologize.
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