The Super Bowl is all about excess. And I love it.
Unless the New England Patriots are playing, it’s not really the game I’m into. Don’t get me wrong, I love football and I’ll be pulling for the New Orleans Saints this year because the hatred I have for that hayseed Peyton Manning knows no bounds. But ultimately, the football game is not what the Super Bowl means to me anymore.
You see, I’m married. With a kid. And therefore I’ve made a conscious decision to devote 99% of my life to my family and work. I change diapers, I read Dr. Suess books and I watch The Wiggles. And when I’m not doing those things, I’m at work. And I’m happy about that. Truly happy. I love being a husband and father, and although I gripe about it sometimes, I love my job. I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.
But every so often, I need to be unleashed into the wild for a night of debauchery.
It’s like the show LOST when they enter the code every 108 minutes so the whole island doesn’t blow up. Except instead of every 108 minutes, I blow off steam 3-4 times a year in the form of a good old-fashioned sloppy boozefest with my friends.
So on Sunday, I’ll be headed back to my old stomping grounds in Boston to hang out with my old roommates, Jay and Stav. Simply put, they are two of the craziest/funniest/wackiest/drunkest motherfuckers I have ever met in my life. I lived with them for two years and had the most fun I’ll ever have next to college. We all love sports, beer (Busch only) and we have the same fucked up sense of humor. Well, Jay has a similar sense of humor. I’m pretty sure Stav doesn’t know what we’re laughing at, but that’s OK because no one has ever made me laugh harder than him.
Like the time I came home from work and there was a dog bowl in the kitchen, filled with dog food. I asked if we got a dog and they said no, but they thought it would be funny if we made everyone think we did. And then Stav put on the leash and ate the dog food. Or how we built bleachers to mirror Fenway Park right in our apartment, complete with the famed red seat out in right field to honor Ted Williams. We opened a beer and left it there for Ted’s frozen head before every game. Hell, the first weekend after I moved in nearly featured a full blown gang fight that took place between us and a former roommate’s posse right in our kitchen. No party was ever official until Stav was wearing just his Starbucks apron and Jay took a dump with the door open. Truthfully, I think I’ve seen the two of them naked more times than my own wife.
But I digress.
The point is, the Super Bowl is so important because it allows me to remember — however briefly — what it was like before my life revolved around others. Some may think that sounds incredibly selfish, but it’s not. I’m totally devoted to my family and I’m a damn good dad and husband. But every once in a while I need a day that reminds me of what it was like to go crazy and get a little out of control.
So tomorrow, my buddy Alex (TheBear) and I will check into a Boston hotel room, grab a cab and drink copious amount of alcohol. In short, we will be shitfaced beyond belief. It will be the latest in a series of Super Bowls held at their house, dating back to 2003 when the Patriots beat the Panthers and I ended up putting my arm through a plate glass window while bleeding all over the walls and declaring myself a Super Bowl champion in the middle of a drunken hook-up. We will tell old stories like the time Jay and I convinced two girls at a bar we were contract killers. Or when Stav drunkenly challenged an Asian kid to a dance-off at the bar…and won.
And sure the night may end with me vomiting profusely and wishing for death the next morning. But make no mistake, it’ll be well worth it. Not to mention it’ll make me thankful I’m now so much calmer, rational and mature.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare myself for the ice luge and bone up on my Beer Pong skills.