Before I launch into the following assessment of the great 2012 Grey Cup game, I have to preface it with a confession. I'm not really a football fan. I figure any game that takes longer to cover 10 yards than it did for me to give birth to my first son is capital "B" boring.
However, I do enjoy the kibitzing that goes on around the sacred Canadian game. I love hearing how our national pigskin game is one of great strategy almost as demanding on the brain as chess - unlike the American version of the sport, where the only thinking is done by agents, as in what's 10 per cent of a gazillion dollars?
The other aspect of football I like is arguing with my husband on whether or not my thighs are bigger than the gigantic linebacker's arms. After last Sunday, he may want his answer back.
While I realize nothing in the world compares to the pomp and ceremony foisted on the world during the halftime of the Super Bowl, I have to say that unless you were over 70 or under 18, this year's Grey Cup intermission probably moved you as much as cheese at every meal for a week - in other words, very little.
Now, I've been known to warble along with Gordie Lightfoot on an occasion or two, usually after I've had several beverages that had an alcohol percentage printed on the side of the bottles. And I'm not really 100 per cent sure, but I probably sounded better in those sing-alongs than Canada's troubadour did at the big game. Whoever the sadistic so-and-so was who decided Lightfoot should come out with an acoustic guitar and sing that particular song to that large a crowd may just be missing an important mind cog. Kudos to the soft-hearted crowd for acting like they'd just heard music.
My reaction to the crotch-grabbing antics of one Justin Bieber was of equal incredulity. I seriously wonder who in the age group known to be the strongest fans of the Canadian Football League could identify with a teenybopper wearing what looked to be a cross between rubber pants and the breeches the mounted police wear. I kept wondering just what it was he was grabbing for in all his gyrations. Also I wondered if his aged back-up dancers (they all looked to be double his age) were hired as bodyguards and just decided to dance to stay awake. But I had to laugh when doghouse hubby remarked that watching the Bieb put him in mind of the first time his father saw Elvis. Apparently the magic was lost on the elder Roy. His comment on seeing the much-ballyhooed pelvis? "Well, that's just plain stupid."
Some statements really do meet the test of time - ditto, I say.
Lest all of you think I'm just a cranky woman, I will say that Grey Cup Sunday this year did hit one high note for me. My niece made the best macaroni and cheese I've ever tasted, and for a small donation to the local Food Bank, I may be able to get you the recipe. Now that's a touchdown!
