The weirdest part of this Super Bowl was I was at the same party I was at 5 years earlier. In the same house, with a lot of the same people, but so much was different. I was 22. I could drink. My other childhood friends weren't there. Instead of sitting with them upstairs as we watched the Patriots perfect season go down in flames (hooray!!), I was downstairs with the adults - including some of whom were my friends parents (this will all get explained shortly). The Super Bowl itself was a strange game. I was rooting for the Ravens, decked out in my black Ed Reed jersey. The game was at first a blowout, then a farce with a 30-minute delay by way of a blackout, and then a classic. But this isn't about the game, it is about the night, the experience, the strange feeling of hanging on to childhood memories.
One of the best aspects of the neighborhood I grew up in was there was a handful of other boys in my grade. They were all fairly cool, we were a pretty tight group, from chilling on the bus, to meeting up to play football. One of the kids, Jeff Reimann, was one of the best people I would ever know, a true mensch of a man. His parents were always truly welcoming to all of us. We spent many an afternoon there, and even a few Sundays watching NFL football in their decked out basement, replete with theater seating well before that become a thing. They even had a soda fountain in the basement, a novelty item that in all honesty was much better in theory than practice. That house was our Camelot. I watched many a Super Bowl there (definitely Super Bowl 40-43 in my memory), and a few other games. The first time I actually saw the Red Zone Channel in action was there, in 2007. Needless to say, there were a lot of great moments.
Fast forward four years, with me finished with school, a good three weeks before I would leave on my Round the World Trip. I was home in New Jersey. The neighborhood group was all out at their respective colleges and/or their parents had moved out of the neighborhood. There was a slow, sad exodus from the neighborhood, and it was just starting in 2012. But his parents were still there, and like always, Mr and Mrs Reimann threw a Super Bowl party, literally the most recent one I would ever go to.
By this point I was 22. I was an adult. I could drink. I could swerve past the soda fountain into their large fridge stocked with beer. Besides, this was in our neighborhood. Worst comes to worst, I could walk home - I still knew the backyard shortcuts to my house after years of practice. There were a cadre of adults from the neighborhood that I knew pretty well, either my friends parents (slightly awkward to drink around), or the parents of younger kids (less awkward). In the end, I had to grow up at that moment, I had to disassociate previous experiences in that house, in that basement, and become an adult guest to a Super Bowl party.
The game itself served as some nostalgia. Despite my love for Super Bowl XXXIV (Rams over Titans), the first Super Bowl I really remember watching was the Ravens domination of the Giants. That was Ray Lewis's moment. This was his final moment. Overtime, I grew to love the Ravens for what they represented (INSERT LINK TO ODE TO THE RAVENS), and grew to love Ed Reed as my favorite non-Peyton player in the NFL. That team beat my QB (Peyton), but then hammered my enemy (New England), and took the field in the Super Bowl. I was all in. It helped to have a connection, and a all-black Ed Reed jersey to prove it.
I remember parts of the game, but let's not beat around the bush. The lasting moment from that game will be the blackout. I remember where I was when it happened, crowded around the bar area of the Reimann's basement, chatting with the neighborhood men. We didn't really notice it at first, but overtime there were questions like "why isn't the game restarting?" or "why does it look dark?" At first, we weren't sure what was happening. The immediate thought was the worst - that this was connected to terrorism. Then it became more absurdity, that the NFL could ruin their spectacle by having there be a blackout. It lasted for 30 minutes, and if anything let the men eat and drink more.
Drinking shouldn't be such an important part of this piece, but it is more symbolic than anything. I don't even know what it symbolizes, but unshackling myself that day was important. My old neighborhood friends weren't there more by chance than anything - I had graduated a semester early and had little to do ahead of my RTW Trip. But it sadly represented one last hoorah.
I would posit that half of the people that I conversed with at the Super Bowl party have moved out of the neighborhood since - the hosts, the Reimanns, moved out later that year. My parents are still there, but even that connection is holding on by a tenuous string. My neighborhood was such as instrumental part of my childhood, and the connections I made still last today - and the fortification of those connections often happened at the Reimann's house. From Chris Leyden to Jordan Robinson-Williams, to Nikhil Lakhanpal, to, of course, Jeff Reimann. That grouped watched many a Super Bowl together. It only made perverse sense that the last time I would watch a Super Bowl at a neighborhood party, it would be with their parents, as I too was an adult.
I technically had a semi-party for the following Super Bowl (when the Seahawks ruined the Broncos), having a few friends over to my house. Other than that, I was cooped up at home, out of fear (Super Bowl 50), circumstance (Super Bowl XLIX) or forced indifference (Super Bowl XLI). But for Super Bowl XLVII, it was still in that perfect state where I didn't care too much. My QB, or my most hated QB wasn't in it. And I wanted a last hurrah with the neighborhood crowd. They were the people that, in a way, helped raise me, helped acclimate me, and, when the Reimann's are concerned, helped make me love football.
One of the best aspects of the neighborhood I grew up in was there was a handful of other boys in my grade. They were all fairly cool, we were a pretty tight group, from chilling on the bus, to meeting up to play football. One of the kids, Jeff Reimann, was one of the best people I would ever know, a true mensch of a man. His parents were always truly welcoming to all of us. We spent many an afternoon there, and even a few Sundays watching NFL football in their decked out basement, replete with theater seating well before that become a thing. They even had a soda fountain in the basement, a novelty item that in all honesty was much better in theory than practice. That house was our Camelot. I watched many a Super Bowl there (definitely Super Bowl 40-43 in my memory), and a few other games. The first time I actually saw the Red Zone Channel in action was there, in 2007. Needless to say, there were a lot of great moments.
Fast forward four years, with me finished with school, a good three weeks before I would leave on my Round the World Trip. I was home in New Jersey. The neighborhood group was all out at their respective colleges and/or their parents had moved out of the neighborhood. There was a slow, sad exodus from the neighborhood, and it was just starting in 2012. But his parents were still there, and like always, Mr and Mrs Reimann threw a Super Bowl party, literally the most recent one I would ever go to.
By this point I was 22. I was an adult. I could drink. I could swerve past the soda fountain into their large fridge stocked with beer. Besides, this was in our neighborhood. Worst comes to worst, I could walk home - I still knew the backyard shortcuts to my house after years of practice. There were a cadre of adults from the neighborhood that I knew pretty well, either my friends parents (slightly awkward to drink around), or the parents of younger kids (less awkward). In the end, I had to grow up at that moment, I had to disassociate previous experiences in that house, in that basement, and become an adult guest to a Super Bowl party.
The game itself served as some nostalgia. Despite my love for Super Bowl XXXIV (Rams over Titans), the first Super Bowl I really remember watching was the Ravens domination of the Giants. That was Ray Lewis's moment. This was his final moment. Overtime, I grew to love the Ravens for what they represented (INSERT LINK TO ODE TO THE RAVENS), and grew to love Ed Reed as my favorite non-Peyton player in the NFL. That team beat my QB (Peyton), but then hammered my enemy (New England), and took the field in the Super Bowl. I was all in. It helped to have a connection, and a all-black Ed Reed jersey to prove it.
I remember parts of the game, but let's not beat around the bush. The lasting moment from that game will be the blackout. I remember where I was when it happened, crowded around the bar area of the Reimann's basement, chatting with the neighborhood men. We didn't really notice it at first, but overtime there were questions like "why isn't the game restarting?" or "why does it look dark?" At first, we weren't sure what was happening. The immediate thought was the worst - that this was connected to terrorism. Then it became more absurdity, that the NFL could ruin their spectacle by having there be a blackout. It lasted for 30 minutes, and if anything let the men eat and drink more.
Drinking shouldn't be such an important part of this piece, but it is more symbolic than anything. I don't even know what it symbolizes, but unshackling myself that day was important. My old neighborhood friends weren't there more by chance than anything - I had graduated a semester early and had little to do ahead of my RTW Trip. But it sadly represented one last hoorah.
I would posit that half of the people that I conversed with at the Super Bowl party have moved out of the neighborhood since - the hosts, the Reimanns, moved out later that year. My parents are still there, but even that connection is holding on by a tenuous string. My neighborhood was such as instrumental part of my childhood, and the connections I made still last today - and the fortification of those connections often happened at the Reimann's house. From Chris Leyden to Jordan Robinson-Williams, to Nikhil Lakhanpal, to, of course, Jeff Reimann. That grouped watched many a Super Bowl together. It only made perverse sense that the last time I would watch a Super Bowl at a neighborhood party, it would be with their parents, as I too was an adult.
I technically had a semi-party for the following Super Bowl (when the Seahawks ruined the Broncos), having a few friends over to my house. Other than that, I was cooped up at home, out of fear (Super Bowl 50), circumstance (Super Bowl XLIX) or forced indifference (Super Bowl XLI). But for Super Bowl XLVII, it was still in that perfect state where I didn't care too much. My QB, or my most hated QB wasn't in it. And I wanted a last hurrah with the neighborhood crowd. They were the people that, in a way, helped raise me, helped acclimate me, and, when the Reimann's are concerned, helped make me love football.
