The ref made two diagonal motions towards the turf, raised his hands in a point above his head, and with that the crowd was lost. Or maybe they were just falling asleep. Such was my experience on Super Bowl (mostly) Monday at an Australian pub … in England. Although statistics have recently borne out that only the UEFA Champions League Final draws a larger worldwide audience than the Super Bowl—which caused much excitement among my new British friends who had proven the “American” wrong—(American) football fever was alive and well in the United Kingdom late Sunday night.
I learned early on that watching the Super Bowl in a foreign country is a sort of duty for American expats: you might not enjoy it, but as a proud Yankee you’d better be there. Surrounding me was a fashion show of NFL jerseys, many of which were of teams that hadn’t even made the playoffs. One was even wearing a New York Jets shirt … with Brett Favre on the back no less. Logically, this guy should have stayed home for a night of self-reflection rather than proudly displaying his allegiance to the one organization in the NFL with a deep hatred of both teams playing in the big game. “I went to New York last year and bought this shirt [clearly at a discount] and I thought I’d wear it because it’s not often you get to watch American football,” he said.
Perhaps that’s why everyone there “just didn’t get it.” It is understandable then, that on the largest stage of them all, I may or may not have overreacted to certain things. Patriots stop the Giants short of a first down? Stand up and cheer. Ahmad Bradshaw breaks free for a big gain? The world is coming to an end. Very quickly, my actions began to raise the ire of the passive fans around me, including one wearing a Tom Brady jersey and 2004 Super Bowl champions hat. Either they didn’t recognize the magnitude of these plays, didn’t understand the game in general, or just didn’t care—probably all of the above.
After biting my tongue so as not to disturb the atmosphere of traditional English politeness, I could no longer contain myself as Eli Manning drove the Giants down the field. My hands were chilled, I was shaking, and it’s possible that the words coming out of my mouth were incomprehensible (and we won’t even get into how difficult it was for those surrounding me to understand the astute decision to let the Giants score a touchdown and preserve the clock). I had become as much of a spectacle for many in attendance as the game that was gripping me and toying with my emotions.
When the contest came to its tragic end, I made for the exit like the building was on fire; not wanting to be subject to ridicule, and trying to get home before the clock struck four (in the morning). But no one said a word to me. Despite the fact that I was—as a friend later described it—”in a dark, dark place,” no one, not even the token Giants fans in attendance, felt it proper to rub salt in my wounds. The politeness and ambivalence towards the game that had annoyed me just minutes before ultimately helped ease my post-game depression.
American football came with all the excitement of a one-night-stand and appropriately left by the time the sun rose. By morning, all eyes were turned closer to home: on Friday, John Terry had been stripped of England’s captaincy, and by Wednesday, national team manager Fabio Capello had left his job. Now it was my turn to watch the spectacle as an entire nation became consumed with its favourite pastime.
