How strange: I spent most of my life in a world of drizzle, a perpetual blanket of slate-colored cloud, where pints of cider reign and football meant David Beckham and Michael Owen, slogging down a massive field in the mud. There is no cheer like the cheer of 30,000 British men; it is monophonic, cool, and sustained. Under no circumstances did my childhood include imagery of American Football––not on television, and not in person. OK, maybe I saw some football movie starring James Van der Beek, but that was it.
So imagine my surprise when I was, this winter, lured into a high-definition world of underdogs and a Wesleyan grad (Bill Belichick) with a penchant for fleecy Patriots sweatshirts with cut-off sleeves. Here I am, drinking ginger ale, two large cats lounging by the fire, immersed in another family’s tradition, for which I feel vicarious affinity and a level of discomfort and boredom that–would you believe it–faded as the weeks wore on. Still, I could not commit. I did not watch the Giants beat Green Bay in yet another upset away game (I think I was running at the time). But the anticipation of the Super Bowl was palpable, especially over at FindingDulcinea. I climbed on board. My reservation was only that I felt like a phony.
Love one sport, love them all. That’s what I learned the other week, rejoining that family to witness one of the greatest Super Bowl moments in history (lucky me). Because I have been an enraptured fan of pro tennis since I was 7, though I rarely play the sport myself. Watching Rafael Nadal face Roger Federer in 2007’s Wimbledon final was almost as exciting as watching the long-suffering, soft-spoken mama’s boy Eli Manning rise to the challenge and beat an undefeated team in the final 35 seconds of a game. In this sport, every second counts, and I deeply respect that about it.
Ironically, it was a terribly played Homecoming game at Wesleyan in 2002 that hinted at my future interest in the sport. Being that close to the action, caring about your team, no matter how bad they are, and having autumn as the backdrop to a bustling Sunday morning, it’s then that you finally start to accept, OK, I hold an American passport and have for two decades. It’s time I started acting like it.
Playing football…at West Canaan, was not my opportunity of a lifetime….I don’t want….yo life.