I woke up Sunday Morning, February 5 to a suggestion:
“Can we rearrange the living room today?”
I tried to remain calm. In nearly all facets of life, I’m not a superstitious guy, or believer in ghosts, or luck, or anything of the sort…except in football.
“You think I’m rearranging the furniture, where I watch the games, on Super Bowl Sunday? No.”
“Why?”
I blame my dad (he’s alive and healthy. I’m not Futurama Dog Episoding you, here). When I was a kid and he played bar league sports, he always needed to have the same number. The four years that I played youth football, we’d have the same breakfast every gameday until we lost (which was infrequent), and then start a new breakfast plan. It was little things like that all over the place that added up into some lunacy. After the final game of the 18-1 season, one of my dad’s laments was “We forgot to make the venison chili this time!”, which we had made for every previous Brady/Belichick Super Bowl, as if that lack of preparedness was a contributor to the final score. I still bought in, even in my 20s.
