Guest Post: Superbowl Coverage: Let's Do The Time Warp Again

Super Bowl Sunday is basically a Roman gladiatorial arena for the entire country. Nobody outside of our little hole in the planet actually gives a damn about what we call "Football", but here in the good ol US of A it is a time for male, and, I suppose if you are one of those rare women who likes football, female, bonding.

Which is why rather than sleep off the jet lag, the 3 weeks of constant company, and the glorious night of poor life choice and three hours of sleep (also known as Saturday), I embarked on a journey to the heart of Brooklyn. Not the tail-ass-end of it known as Park Heights were one of my more close compatriots nests his familial egg, but instead to a refined slum for artsy-fartsy types who can't afford Manhattan. (go go familial manse!) After all, it is vital and important to drink the beer, watch the game, laugh at the commercials and generally feel all-American for the first time since Captain America died.

Arriving, I am introduced to a man we will call “Beta” because he shares my name and I actively refuse to call another by it. My close friend had imbibed a single beer and was falling over drunk, which was to be expected. What was the true surprise was that they had set up a gigantic projector and the game was on the screen.

Let me repeat this for you. Beer and a projector on a large white wall in a Brooklyn slum for the fooooooootball. This should have been awesome time, and awesome town, and possibly even awesome nation. Instead it was a slow burning recipe for an episode of the twilight zone.

Perhaps our first clue should have been the text message “Best game ever”. We pondered the boring life of Adam’s friend Chance who was apparently getting off on the score of 7-3 while watching Tom Petty break the hearts of america’s fat older women. Then another friend received a call from his father, who needed to discuss the rent and wondered if he had seen the game.

In retrospect its all so clear.

But no, it wasn’t until 10 minutes before the end of the game, as the Patriots drove down the field, the Giants ahead by a mere 3 points… when out came the blue screen of death. Hovering in front of it “TiVO RECORDING OVER--AND SO ARE YOUR DREAMS!”

We had been watching the Superbowl prerecorded, an hour and a half behind, WHILE THE REST OF NEW YORK CITY WENT MAD WITH VICTORY. We caught the best moments of the game, the “highlights”, if you will, on the local news channels, watching in mute horror until somebody dropped the bag of chips.

The resulting blame game eventually turned to threats of shitting in pillows, a turned over Settlers of Cataan game (We are nerds and play even during our manly time), three spilled beers and a weeping Forbes sports writer who can never, ever, express the sorrow he feels to anyone.

And so gentle readers I am breaking the pact I made not even two hours ago to lie like a lying liar who has never smelt the truth, in order to share my pain with you. But if you come up to me on the street and say, “So how about them Giants?” I will never admit this.

And as you walk away I will weep into my sleeve.

-Samwise Kantrowitz