Super.

You'd think that since I was born just three days after the 1986 Superbowl (Wikipedia informs me that this was Superbowl XX, wherein the mighty New England Patriots were defeated by the Chicago Bears) any Sleeping Beauty-esque fairies that were in the vicinity at the time would have given me the Gift Of Fully Understanding And Only Loving Football. Particularly since, due to my sizable birth weight (just under 10 lbs), curiously dark skin (which my mom and grandmother always recount, every January 29th: "...a full head of hair, and so dark skinned, you were darker than the black family's baby."), and my parents' indecision over what to name me, I was known throughout the hospital as The Refrigerator. That would be after this particular Patriot, whose name, Wikipedia is once again good enough to inform me, is actually William "The Refrigerator" Perry.



Deeply, deeply flattering. As the story goes, I believe we can credit Grandmaman for lighting the flame under my parents to get going and "give dat baby a name" other than one that is shared with that handsome fellow.

Anyway. Despite meeting all the prerequisites necessary for a lifetime of superfandom, I have missed the boat. I don't know how to play football. Or really watch it. However, I DO know that I love bandwagons and chicken wings. So as a result of those loves, hooray for Superbowl Sunday. But since the Tom Bradys are out for the season, I have the next few hours to decide whether to root for the Peyton Mannings or the New Orleanses.