I feel compelled to say something about the Super Bowl this Sunday. It is the most American of American holidays — billions spent and made on a sport that only Americans understand or enjoy (and, more recently, Canada … but, you know).
The San Francisco 49ers, a team named for gold prospectors from a city known for gay rights, play the Baltimore Ravens, the only U.S. sports team named for a literary reference: “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe, who died drunk in a Baltimore gutter.
The irony, of course, is the American football is the last bastion of swaggering masculinity, a sport still reconciling with the social progress of the 1970s. There is almost no way the sport survives unless it figures out how to stop the horrific violence and head trauma common to its players. But right now it’s the most popular thing in the world’s most powerful country.
I will drink Diet Coke, eat chips and salsa, and fight my wife and three sons for the remote as my household’s only football fan. I am parked just 46 tweets away from 4,000 — and I am to scorch my way over the threshold with Super Bowl snark.
Because this is America.