Game? What Game?

Y'all might have gotten the impression by now that I'm just not much of a sports fan.  The Winter Olympics I watch, because I love the grace and elegance of the figure skaters, and because...well, you just watch the Olympics when your step-nephew is skiing and the camera pans the crowds and oh-my-goodness!-there's-your-sister-on-international-tv!  So, yeah, I watch those games, but as for playing?  No.

Oh, I've hit a baseball or two in my time, I've taken a few whacks at a badminton birdie, and I knocked down all the little pins the first time I ever tried bowling.  The only reason I even tried it was because we had a six week period in PE class in which small groups of us tried a different "sport" each week; bowling was but one.  I had no idea what I was doing, but I was shocked at the heft of that ball and let it just kinda slide out of my hand.  It rolled straight down the alley and knocked over every single pin.  Ms. Coach was astounded, as I had never shown the slightest indication of any physical skill.  Eyes wide, she immediately jogged over and gave me pointers, no doubt feeling that she had at last tapped into some unknown area of my being, that maybe she had a tenpin savant right here on her highly polished gym floor. She excitedly instructed me on the proper way to hold the ball, the stance, the timing and distance.  Little by little, the echoes of balls bouncing off walls and floor came to a halt as lithe agile girls came over to watch the spectacle of their coach's obvious new favorite.  The class closed in around me and Ms. Coach fed me so many instructions, my brain went to mush.  Suddenly, I couldn't remember what I was holding or where I was supposed to throw it.  And why were all these girls wearing identical ugly navy blue one-piece short-alls?

Satisfied that she had helped mold a prodigy of the bowling world, Ms Coach took a step back, urged the crowd back farther, and whispered those little words of encouragement:  "Well, what are you waiting for?!"

I remember stumbling at least half way to the pins, releasing the ball, and hearing it clunk on the floor like a cement block.  It rolled promptly far to the right, completely off the makeshift alley, and toward the bleachers, laughter rolling in tidal waves from a sea of ugly navy blue.

By the next week, I had gratefully once again retired into anonymity and my foray into the world of sports was officially over.

Never did I regret my inability to play any game involving throwing, catching, running, or hitting.  My forte lay in games of a less primal nature, such as Monopoly and Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit.

I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit.

But contact sports have never enthralled me. Which is why, when asked earlier in the week who I would be rooting for in the Super Bowl, I answered, "Is that football or baseball?"

I found that I did enjoy little bits of the game, though: the "Little Darth Vader" commercial was just the most adorable thing ever.  I have no idea what the ad was for, but the whole thing was just adorable.  And I got to see all the celebrities: Harrison Ford without makeup looked totally different, Michael Douglas looked great, Jennifer Aniston looked exactly the same as she has for the past twenty years.  I recognized George W and Laura before Fred did, and I showed off my brilliant knowledge of sports celebrities when I spotted Terry Bradshaw and said, "Oh, I know that guy!  He's the one who played the father in Failure To Launch!"

(I saw his bare backside in that movie - it was a sight to behold.)

But I really excelled by playing Pizza Ball.

Here's the play by play:

In regard to Fred's query about dinner, I get on the phone and order pizza and wings.  After all, isn't that what Super Bowl Sunday is really about, anyway?  The junk food?

The good news: with our coupons from the Clarksville Clipper, we can get two medium pizzas with unlimited toppings, ten wings and ranch dipping sauce, and a 2-liter Diet Coke for $20 even.  The bad news:  delivery in one hour.

After a quick huddle with myself, I decide my next play:  get in the car and pick the pizza up in fifteen minutes.

The pizza place is only seven minutes down the road.  I go to the bathroom, scrounge for my wallet, grab my coat, then spend at least five minutes convincing the dogs that they are to STAY upstairs with Daddy while Mommy goes and gets in the car and GOES FOR A RIDE.  GO FOR A RIDE is a very popular activity and the dogs are determined to be a part of it tonight.  Daddy is sitting on the couch encouraging his team and has no interest at all in helping Mommy out with the dogs.  The dogs huddle; Emma goes straight toward me, Bode goes left, and Jude tries to distract me with a shrill bark.  Emma's left ear narrowly escapes the closing basement door, and I all but fall to the bottom, as I navigate the first three steps backwards.

The pizza is just coming out of the oven as I arrive.  The counter before me is tall, and with some difficulty, I manage to wrangle two steaming hot pizza boxes, a styrofoam wings box, two tubs of dipping sauce, and a 2-liter Diet Coke into my arms.  Slowly, I back toward the door, chin bracing my various boxes, wallet under my left arm, Diet Coke in one hand and dipping sauces in the other.  There are five men in this place!  Doesn't it seem like at least one of them would have the common decency to offer a little old lady a hand with her pizzas?

But their eyes are glued to the tv in the corner.  I guess it's some big important play.

It's Christina Aguilera singing the National Anthem.

Little old lady with pizza difficulty vs Christina Aguilera.

No contest.

A jeep is just pulling to the curb as I hesitantly make my way across the walk and to my car.  I can see a young man inside take his cell phone from his ear and grab something from the passenger seat.  At my car now, I'm placing the Diet Coke on the road so I can reach for my car keys.  Man-in-jeep jumps out and in four long strides is inside the pizza parlor.  "Hey!" I want to shout.  "I'm having a little trouble here!"  He never even glances my way.

I insert my key into the lock, twist, and the styrofoam tray under my chin begins sliding.  I overcompensate and now the pizza boxes are separating and one is dangerously close to falling to the road.  My wallet slips from under my arm and falls just underneath the car.  In my klutzy attempt to catch everything, I've now dropped the dipping sauces; one is right at my feet and the other has rolled...somewhere...I don't know.  I'm not going to stand here in the cold dark night with Christina Aguilera belting out the National Anthem while I search for a missing ranch dip.  Into the passenger seat go the pizza boxes and the wings box.  I stoop and grab the Diet Coke and that one dipping sauce.  My wallet?  Thank goodness, it's just under the edge of the car and I can...just...barely...reach it.  But not without dragging my good green scarf through a small muddy puddle at my feet.

I give the pizza parlor, the men inside, and Christina Aguilera an evil glare as I back out toward the parking lot.  Whaaaa...?  The headlights hit something small, white, and round.  It's my other ranch sauce.  I ponder for only a moment, then continue backing.  That ranch dip can sit there and rot for all I care.

Back in the safety of the garage, I grab an empty Walmart plastic sack from underneath the front seat; into it go my wallet, the wings box, dipping sauce, and Diet Coke.  Two boxes and one bag.  Now, THIS I can do.  The dogs are barking at the top of the stars in anticipation of Mommy coming back home.  They're jumping up on me, Jude almost frantic to get at the pizza boxes, but now I'm in control and I've got those boxes raised high in the air like a waiter at a fancy French restaurant.  Into the kitchen, and with one sweep of my arm, I clear a space on the island for the pizzas.

Touchdown!  The Pizza Bowl is over and I have won!

And Fred?

"Hey, when's that pizza guy gonna be here?"