Super Duper Bowl

I had intended a light-hearted post today, something medium length and bubbly, just right for wrenching a smile from the lips of my readers who anticipate the Super Bowl this evening with chips and dips stars in their eyes, 3-alarum chili in their loins, and a variety of horrid gut-busting delicacies. I am going to my brother's for dinner. I shall eat well. I was asked if I wanted to watch the game. I declined with fervor. I used to watch the game. My interest in football ended when the local franchise did the Ground-Hog Day bit once too often; team sucks, need new coach,who will be new coach?, we have all confidence in newbie, honeymoon is over, team sucks. Baseball was destroyed in 1993 when owners and players joined in destruction. The intention of replacement players who were not good enough, thus assuring that when the regular players return, no one team will have too great an advantage, was an affront to Sparky Anderson. He would rather sit out the season than insult Baseball by a charade. The owner gave him one more season- for appearances-and he received his walking papers. In the Hall of Fame, Sparky wears a Cincinnati hat. This isn't Cincinnati. The last game I attended was inter-league, the Tigers were awful and I went to see Sammy Socia. It was a bright, hot July day. I went to buy 2 bottles of water. While I was in line waiting, Sammy Socia hit a home-run. That was too bad. Then he hit his second home run of the game. How long was I in that line? Long enough. The owner had such contempt that he fielded a terrible team and he ran a terrible park. I never watched professional sports since. This last year, the Tigers were in the World Series. I watched nothing. I knew the name of one player, Punch Rodriguez, and this was wrong, the correct sobriquet being "Pudge". I suppose it would have mattered had I been in a gaggle of fans waiting outside the locker room, clutching a brand new baseball in my sweaty hands, yelling for "Punch!" to sign it.