Football fans & clammy hands (Can't we just get pizza?) [Beyond the Water's Edge, 2/2009]
|1st and Grill to Go|
"Okay, it's almost halftime. Who wants brats, and who wants burgers?" I asked. I stood up to head for the grill on the patio, my tour of duty as Super Bowl party host no longer avoidable. My grilling experience was severely limited, consisting mostly of having watched my younger brother coordinate the placement, rotation, and cooking of multiple cuts of meat on mom's oversized grill. I'd be happy, if a seared surface translated to a cooked meat product and no one got sick.
"What's the matter, Mike?" chorused my red-and-white clad buddies from their half of the living room. "Don't you want to see Kurt and the boys punch it in?" Their uproarious laughter was raucous, sounding not unlike the birds on their sweatshirts.
"What's to see?" I retorted. "They either get a touchdown, or the defense holds and makes 'em settle for three. Either way, we'll have no problem taking back the lead in the second half. Just wait until Ben and..."
My words were drowned out as the Steelers side of the room jumped up screaming, "Intercepted! Go, Harrison, go! Don't let 'em catch you!"
I whirled around to see the not-exactly speedy linebacker dodge a couple of would-be tacklers, cross the ten yard line, finally get hit at about the two, and then fall across the goal line. Stunned, the Cardinals crowd stared at us in dismay as we whooped and hollered and jumped around in delight. The replay booth upheld the ruling on the field, the kick was good, and Pittsburgh ended the half up by ten.
"As I was saying, guys," I said, a definite smirk on my face, "Who wants brats, and who wants burgers?"