
This night, as many do, begins with beer. Like a trumpet sounding for war, the beginning of Super Bowl XLIII is signaled by an onslaught of foam and the unmistakable aroma and sound of lukewarm Keystone Light being released from its dented aluminum prison. While Al Michaels and John Madden talk about the same things that have been talked about ad nausea for the past two weeks (or in the case of Kurt Warner’s rags to riches story, for ten years), the group of friends are, for what would be the only time in the next four plus hours, sublimely quiet, indulging in the Slumdog Millionaire of beers (or at least, beer flavored water).
Yet, the story begins, as some do, before beer. It begins with the end of sleep, the rubbing of the eyes and the collective “Holy shit” that practically reverberates throughout the two stories of rickety, smelly, sticky college debauchery. This thought, the “Holy shit the Super Bowl is on in less than 6 hours and the house is a rickety, smelly, sticky college induced nightmare”, plops firmly in each housemate’s consciousness, satisfying the prerequisites for the rude awakening expected every day of the weekend….(to be continued after the bounce)


