Gods and Chili
This past weekend I hosted my fourth Super Bowl Chili Hoohah. It went over pretty well, and I think the chili was my most successful yet, with a marked improvement in the texture of the veggie version. But let me just cut to the chase here: I want to be Larry Fitzgerald, just briefly. When asked what the greatest day of their life has been, most people say the birth of my first child. Caveat to Larry's first: don't be surprised if you get nudged out the top spot, because your dad made an immortal play in the Super Bowl, and unless you emerge singing complete Verdi arias, that play is his best day. Maybe it was the camera angle, maybe it was the crowd's roar - I don't think I've ever seen a person run that fast. When you're a kid playing football with friends, I think the standard for imitating a cool touchdown catch is the Santonio Holmes tiptoe-dragging layout, but now I know that's because when you're 12, you can't say "watch this!" and then accelerate to residential speed limits with your legs! I — lanky, slow and timid — am not good at sports. I've created a nice life for myself wherein senses of confidence and accomplishment are derived from other sources, but my goodness: I want to know what it feels like to make that play. I've watched it about twenty times now, and I think the appeal is how simple it looks. A quick post, hit in stride and he runs untouched. He's momentarily transcendent. And when he pulls up in the endzone and raises his arms, it looks like no piece of the moment escaped him - he knows what just happened - he's man again.