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Football is the new national pastime. Whether it's the steroids scandal, the strike of '94, or Barry Bonds, something caused baseball to be eclipsed by football in the last couple decades. And why not? Football far better represents Modern Pax Americana. It is violent and quick and boasts mindlessly loyal fans who stand by their faction regardless of feat or folly. The losers may not be as vocal as the winners -- where are those 49er fans of 20 years ago now, with their Joe Montana jerseys gathering dust in the gloomy rear of their closets? But in any case, they remain loyal. Believe me, ace, I know whereof I speak. I am a New York Giants fan, and today, I am damned vocal. But if football is a homage to the New American Character -- the jingoistic, my-way-or-the-highway New Dumb that has permeated our country in the Bush years, The Era of Bad Feelings, then I am a poor representative of the fan. It hit me all at once last night, but you have to believe me when I say that I started out with the best of intentions.
My wife and I caught our most recent Netflix -- the Petey Greene biopic Talk To Me, which I highly recommend -- and then I explained to her that her viewing pleasure had ended. It was time for the Packers-Giants game, and I needed the TV.
"Fine," she said. "But if we're watching football, you have to go get me wine."
It seemed a fair enough trade -- we were, after all, out of vino -- so I hopped in my car and drove down the street to Walgreens, where I picked up the usual 1.5-liter bottle of Cavit Pinot Grigio. However, knowing that Mrs. Razor would want an immediate cold glass, I also dropped by the refrigerated section of the store, because whatever else I may be, I'm a good husband. That may be because I'm still new at all this -- we've been married for just a couple months now -- but I like to think I'll keep it up over the years. Anyway, my options were limited, as far as the chilled wine went. I could blow $24 on the ridiculously overpriced Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio, choose from a selection of craptastic rotgut, or else go for the 2005 Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuissé. I chose the latter.
My wife and I had spent the earlier part of the day on a cleaning binge, and only a few things had yet to be put away when I got home. One of them was the large hookah I had received in my office's round of Secret Santa at the Christmas Party -- yeah, I've got a pretty cool workplace -- and seeing the thing standing on our dining room table, I figured this would be a good time for a smoke. After throwing on my old Lawrence Taylor jersey, I loaded up the hookah, poured myself a glass and got to watching the game.
Everyone with a passing interest in football already knows how that turned out. I roared in joy and then horror when McQuarters intercepted a pass by Favre in the third, only to fumble the ball immediately afterward. I cursed Tynes' name again and again, only to sob with lust and greed as he made the game-winning field goal, at once dooming the Pack and putting an extra $100 in my pocket, courtesy of several Packer-fan friends of mine, who were all foolish enough to take the Pack and no points.
And just as I reached for my cellphone to begin a round of calls, informing all of these people that payment must be made within a week, or else be subject to a five-percent-per-week vig, it hit me. Here I was, watching the blood-drenched, proxy war of New America. And I was doing so while drinking French wine and smoking a hookah. Leave it to a liberal to turn watching football into a terrorist-sympathizing, French-loving affair. Terrible, terrible. What would Vince Lombardi say?
Not that it matters, of course. Those Pack fans still owe me $100, and I'm still a fan of the game. And maybe that just goes to show that it truly is the New American Pastime. If a French-wine-drinking, hookah-smoking crazy can get into it, who the hell can't?
Go Giants!
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