Colin Slark | Editor in Chief
I don’t watch many NFL games, so I thought I would give this year’s game a shot. One of the biggest problems for me as an extremely casual fan is that I constantly forget the ins and outs of the game and as well as the arcane rituals that surround the viewing experience itself.
Like I do with every big game – the Stanley Cup Finals, the World Series, the Michael Jordan Intergalactic Basketball Championship Derby, and many more – I went to the Sports Bar. Of course, the Sports Bar is a massive wrought iron bar that bisects the opening of a large cave with the official logos of all the major sports leagues, as well as that of the NBA, engraved onto its surface. Once you have purified your body by bathing in a font of holy water blessed by a local minor league hockey referee and donned a football shaped hat made from the corpse of a real football, you are ready to begin your descent. Wearing a blindfold and awkwardly fumbling down a stairway where sound is lost and forsaken, you must make it to the bottom safely or risk death by statisticians, who claim lost souls and attempt to explain how the possession numbers indicate that really the 2014 Edmonton Oilers were the greatest team in hockey history until the spirit has been flayed from your dessicated corpse.
Once you have arrived at the dank tavern located in the deepest, darkest pits of the cave, you must be ready to offer a toast to the dark gods of probability that makes sports viewing worthwhile. Of course, their preferred sacrament is extremely shitty lager, and they insist that you sip deep from those cavernous pitchers. Thin strips of vellum are attached to poles and stretched until taut with images projected from magic crystals dancing upon their surface. There you are made witness to the holy relic, the Super Bowl, which all mortal men crave. For the next 2-3 hours you sit in uncomfortable chairs, stuffing triangular wedges of baked cornmeal topped with ritually sacrificed meat and decadent cheeses into your gaping maw. Above you images of teams human warriors controlled by rich oligarchs competing for the affections of an unyielding metal statuette ring out and you try not to think about the horrifying legacy of concussions upon these men. Halfway through you are treated to a performance by some kind of song wizard in an attempt to restore the energy of the athletes and to heal a divided country. It will be pretty decent, although it will lack the same charm as the one with the poorly dancing shark. To serve their chosen team, some mutter dark incantations, some make sacrifices, and some attempt to project their life essence into key players to attempt to improve their chances. At least, that’s what I assume happened, because that Patriots comeback was some dark magic.