Signposts

I’ve used a variety of signposts in my life to mark the passage of winter—the Hall of Fame vote, the Auto Show, the Daytona 500, Pebble Beach.  Only recently did the Super Bowl enter into the mix.

Of course, I was always aware of the game.  Who wouldn’t be?  But it was football, the antithesis of all things warm and pleasant.  More than anything, the last, “super” game of the season reminds me of the bit George Carlin did comparing baseball and football.  The one is about running around the bases in order to get home safe, the other is about marching into enemy territory with a series of bombs and thrusts until you score.  Oh, and the commercials.

I remember one Super Bowl early on in our marriage, 1982 probably, 49ers and Bengals; my parents came over to our apartment, not to watch the game but go out to dinner; that’s how little my father cared about that kind of stuff.  But times change, and the Super Bowl is now played so late—February 5^th this year—that pitchers and catchers report to camp nine days later.  So, today I’ll celebrate the approach of another baseball season by watching the Super Bowl in the company of my daughter and her fiancé, the offensive line coach.  One, or two, of us will have our thoughts drifting elsewhere between the ads and Lady Gaga.