Getting my Game face on…

01 Feb

“Vive la difference!” said somebody, somewhere, sometime ago, probably just before it occurred to them that “la difference” was pretty much “la same” but in a language they didn’t understand.
In fact it was more likely to be a case of “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”, at least that’s been my experience, because ever since taking the dramatic step of importing a couple of Americans to study at close quarters setting up home with Rhonda and Audrey, I’ve discovered that there may be many things that separate our two nations and cultures, but when you get down to individuals, folks is just folks.

For example;
I know I’ve covered the issue of America’s love affair with firearms in the past, so I’m not going to restart any  arguments here, but it’s recently come as a breath of fresh air to learn (from the horse’s mouth, so to speak) that, despite the impression given by a worryingly large number of comments I see from friends-of-friends in America on Facebook the “pry the gun from my cold, dead hand” attitude isn’t quite as prevalent as we, the pinko-commie-limey-liberal-bastards in the UK have been led to believe.

Watching the TV news over here, filtered as it is through the eyes of  British journalists, Rhonda has had the opportunity to see America as we do; with the leftover skepticism of long-deposed colonial masters, frowning and shaking their heads over how the old outpost is misbehaving and secretly relieved not to have responsibility for it anymore.
That she doesn’t show signs of being any less appalled by the way the world is going than the rest of us is of course not a surprise. We have after all known each other for a few years now and her moderate views are part of why we were friends to begin with.
But she also gets to see the other side, the stories that aren’t as well covered by the American media, concerning the social unrest in Europe and the financial upheavals that will ultimately be affecting her life in a way they never would have done before.

But taking the gal out of America won’t be taking America out of the gal just yet, so tonight I shall be gearing up for the must-see event of the year for American sports fans, the Superbowl. Because “her” team, Seattle Seahawks, are there for the second year running, playing the (apparently cheating and far inferior, not to mention less attractive) New England Patriots, this is a big thing, so we shall be staying up until stupid o’clock in the morning to watch Channel 4’s live coverage.


All of which is of course completely anathema to me, as I’m about as interested in sport as the average buffalo is in quantum mechanics, so while I’m quite happy to take the day off work tomorrow in order to accommodate the late night, the promised pre-match feast and the amount of cider required to make the whole thing more bearable exciting, I can’t help thinking that, based solely on my minimal knowledge of American Football in general and the media hype surrounding this most prestigious of events in particular, whilst I’m nodding enthusiastically at huge men in shoulder pads chasing a pigskin and trying to cheer in the right places, my inner commentary on tonight’s sporting highlight will read something along the lines of a bewildered radio announcer who has wandered into the wrong studio by mistake:

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen.
Welcome to the day of The Game…

All over the mythical land of ‘Merica, Sportsball fans are polishing their Soup Bowls and preparing to watch the years most expensive commercial break.

But that isn’t enough on its own.
Oh no.
In the build-up to the Great Budweiser Show, two teams, disguised as padded furniture, are right now rehearsing how to play catch and checking that they have air in their balls.

As I understand it, they will provide the half time slapstick comedy entertainment for a British television audience that could well run into the dozens.
In between the twin spectacles of the first public screening of The Advert and a performance by A Popstar (who, as we speak, is thinking of some appropriately derisive things to say about Another Popstar) the giant padded clowns will amusingly lumber around the field, occasionally queuing up so the ringmaster can throw a soft leather egg at them and laugh as they fumble about, crashing into each other and falling over, all with predictably hilarious results.

“Go Shitehawks!” as I believe the true initiates will be shouting tonight.

Let’s be careful out there and make sure you’ve got air in your balls”

Ah, it’s so good to have someone to explain these things to me.
Without her, none of this would make any sense.


*{I have just made a deal with Rhonda that I will post a photo of me in the Seahawks sweatshirt I was kindly sent by her cousin for Christmas, if Seattle win tonight’s game. Stay tuned for updates…}


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