It’s the Superbowl! We have a casual, passing interest in football around here. My husband was at least able to name the two teams playing this year (perennial bullies New England, and this year’s underdogs, Atlanta), and we’ll probably tune in at some point, at least to watch the halftime show and have an excuse to eat cheese twists.
I was working on backing up some of my writing this morning – an exercise I had put off for too long, but I came thisclose to losing a story I’ve been working on for a week when my computer crashed, sending me into a backup panic. I’m a very fast typist, but really, there’s a lot to be said for old fashioned pen and paper, don’t you think?
Anyway, while backing up my work I came across this goofy little exercise I wrote for a writing class in the fall, when the assignment was to incorporate superstitions into your work. It was so silly I didn’t even bother to submit it to the class for evaluation, but seeing as how it’s the Superbowl, I thought what the heck, let’s put it out there.
Of course the men in my story are fans of the number one team in my heart, the only team that matters. Who are you rooting for this year?
Dave and Pete Watch The Superbowl
Dave opened the front door to find Pete waiting, wearing his hat backwards, thank goodness. Dave began the usual ritual.
“Have you shaved?”
“Of course not, I’m offended that you’d ask.”
“Same pair from the beginning of the playoffs.”
“You may enter,” Dave said, stepping aside.
Pete headed to the kitchen, putting a two-four on the island. “I brought the usual. Ready for one?”
Dave nodded. “You bet, but remember to use the wood handled opener with the G on it, not the metal one.”
Pete snorted. “As if I’d forget.” He popped the top off of two bottles and headed to the couch. “Snacks ready?”
Dave pointed to the coffee table. “Popcorn in the blue bowl, pretzels in yellow, a selection of fine cheeses on the marble cutting board, same as always. Corn chips and salsa in the split Tupperware thing, of course.”
“You didn’t buy the no-name brand salsa again, did you? They only barely scraped by that week.”
“No, learned my lesson there, buddy.”
They headed to the family room, standing at their appointed places, beers in hand. Dave counted to three, and they sat down simultaneously in their assigned seats, Dave at the west end of the couch, Pete hovering on the edge of the red chair. The TV was already tuned to the pre-coverage.
Suddenly Pete swore. “Dammit. Just realized I drove over in the Civic instead of the van. Laura has it for the hockey carpool.”
“Oh jeez, Pete! There goes the whole thing.”
“I’m sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking!”
“We can still save it. The anthem hasn’t played yet. Can you rush home and trade cars?”
“I don’t think I can make it.”
“You have to try, dude! It’s the Superbowl!”
Pete weighed the options. “There’s no way. But how about if I move the car out to the road, so it’s not in the driveway? Might put off some of the bad vibes.”
Dave frowned. “Maybe it’ll work. MAYBE. If they win, consider yourself the luckiest cheesehead ever.”
Pete rushed out to move the car while Dave pulled over the basket of laundry for folding, towels he’d made Sarah wash earlier that day for just this occasion. With Pete returned, the sitting ritual repeated, and each with a dryer warmed towel in hand, they were ready.
“Go, Green Bay!” Pete shouted as he folded his towel, and the game began.