Call me un-American, but I've never been that into the Super Bowl. Sure, I've been to Super Bowl parties; I've watched pre-game coverage, and post-game coverage, and post-post game commentary the next morning. I've watched the halftime show and closely followed the public relations storm following Janet Jackson's infamous "wardrobe malfunction." I've even gone to the store during the game to buy Doritos and onion dip for fans too captivated to tear themselves from the television. But never having paid a great deal of attention to professional football during the normal season, getting all wound up about the Super Bowl just made me feel like a fraud.
Until I got to England. Here is a country that, for the most part, doesn't know the first thing about American football, doesn't even refer to the same sport when they talk about "football," and yet they were excited about the Super Bowl. Additionally, as a native Chicagoan, it was hard to ignore a championship game involving the Bears, as one can never be sure if this will happen again in their lifetime. And so, loyal American, latent Bears fan, I sprung to enthusiastic action.
But the Super Bowl, Euro-style, is not quite the experience of expatriate Americana one might expect. Above all, it's a huge commodity, and every venue for miles around, from upscale nightclubs to tiny neighborhood pubs sells advanced tickets for admission the night of the game or imposes a massive cover charge.
Locations showing the game are packed with every American in a 100-mile radius, in addition to enthusiastic locals, dressed largely in the jerseys of teams who aren't actually playing in the game. Finally, there's the five-hour time difference between Eastern Standard Time and Greenwich Mean Time, so by the time the first quarter starts, nightlife is in full swing, and you might be watching the game to the sound of a techno beat.
I happened to be visiting a friend in Oxford on Super Bowl Sunday, and figured I would just watch highlights from the game online later. On the contrary, my friend informed me that not only were we going to watch the game, but we were going to a Super Bowl party. Off we went, winding our way through ancient cobblestone streets, over a tiny footbridge to a pub hidden beneath a weeping willow, where centuries of brilliant minds must have stopped for a pint of Stella Artois and a frank discussion on the meaning of life. And so, I found myself on Super Bowl Sunday, watching the game in a bar that looked like something out of a Harry Potter movie, in a city built around one of the top universities in the world, and not a Dorito in sight.
The gathering we were attending was being held by the Oxford cheerleading squad, a group of which my friend is a member. When we arrived, a small, friendly cheerleading law student was giving a not-very-favorable critique of the Colts' dance team. The Oxford Sirens, she proudly informed me, were all Bears fans. Burrowed in leather couches on the other side of the bar were the Colts fans, a contingent of young men in corduroy pants, turtlenecks, and blazers. They may have been discussing the line of scrimmage or Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality, but I couldn't be sure.
A particularly heated moment toward the end of the second quarter brought this generally mellow group of sports enthusiasts to their feet.
"ALL RIGHT, COLTS!" shouted the men in loafers, as the candles on each table shook in their silver holders.
"COME ON, BEARS!" shouted a feisty group of cheerleaders about to earn their doctorates.
My heart was still pounding as everyone reassumed their seats. One of the cheerleaders, a particularly vocal Bears fan, tapped me on the shoulder.
"You're American, aren't you? From Chicago?" My heart swelled with pride as I nodded.
"All right, we need to ask you something." I leaned closer in eager anticipation, wondering what knowledge I could possibly have to impart. Nearby on the wide screen TV, Prince was shimmying back and forth in turquoise pants.
"Can you explain what a first down is?" Never having found myself in any group where my knowledge of football was considered anything other than grossly inferior to the point of near nonexistence, I embarked on my explanation cautiously. The cheerleaders gathered closely, and a few men in crested jackets edged closer to our group.
The Bears may have lost that night, uncertain if they will ever again, at least in my lifetime, take the field as championship contenders, but as I gave my first and probably only Oxford lecture, as future policy-makers and Nobel Prize winners drained their glasses around us and rain drenched the Miami Astroturf, I was assured that I was the biggest Super Bowl fan in England.
Kathryn Dill is a Heights staff columnist studying abroad at the University College London. She welcomes comments at dillk@bcheights.com.
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