For the first time in decades, I missed the Super Bowl, and my life didn't fall apart.
It wasn't by choice. Singapore is 13 hours ahead of the United States, meaning kickoff occurred at 7:30 Monday morning when I'm working, and football doesn't generate much excitement in Asia anyway. Like most of the world, a football in Singapore is that round object that players kick, rather than a brown, oblong ball that players throw and catch.
I must admit I found myself checking the final score on the internet, but that was it. Even though I missed the big game, I didn't feel like I suffered a great, personal loss. After all, it was just a game.
Or was it.
Americans are obsessed with their own particular brand of sport that we call football. Professional football is a billion-dollar industry. Millions of viewers tune in each Sunday to watch their favorite teams, and just as many spend their Saturday afternoons watching college football.
The Super Bowl itself is normally the highest-rated television event of the year, a time to cheer on the teams, a time to party with one's friends, a time to partake of the clever commercials that jam every second of idle time away from the game.
There's much to be gained through sport - perseverance, teamwork, comradery, at least for the participants, although I'm not sure how much it benefits passive viewers who aren't actually playing the games.
Yes, I know that rooting for a team can unite fans and unite a city, at least for the three hours that the game is being played, but how much true joy does a victory bring and how much angst does a loss deliver.
In the short term, it might affect our emotions, but why? Fans don't score touchdowns. Fans don't personally know the players, and the players aren't involved in the lives of the fans. Would Tom Brady welcome a fan in for dinner if the fan knocked on his door? A win by my team doesn't make me a better person or a winner. A loss doesn't transform me into a bad person or a loser.
I haven't always felt this way. Back in 1992 while I was living in New York City, my favorite college football team lost, causing me to slip into a depression for several days. Again, my team lost. I didn't receive a diagnosis of cancer. My dog didn't die. I didn't lose my job.
That was the last time I took sports so seriously.
When I returned to the South, I almost completely stopped watching my favorite college team because I discovered caving. For years, instead of enjoying being outdoors in the crisp, autumn air, marveling at the brightly colored leaves falling from the sky, I spent my Saturdays in front of a television.
Eventually, the price became too high. I wanted to explore caves. I wanted to experience the outdoors, not watch it on an electronic box. Soon, I discovered the college sport that once ruled my emotions meant little to me. I'd broken the habit.
Really, I think that's what the American obsession with football boils down to - a habit. If we're brutally honest with ourselves, we might come to the conclusion that the countless hours we spend watching sports, and all television, is a way to fill voids in our lives, a convenient distraction to avoid looking at more profound, personal questions or personal shortcomings.
And so I won't be able to discuss this year's Super Bowl with my friends. I won't be able to talk about the commercials. Oh, well. One day, I'll return to America, but this time I might miss the Super Bowl on purpose. Habits are made to be broken, even Super Bowl Sunday.
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