The University of Vermont's Independent Voice Since 1883

The Vermont Cynic

The University of Vermont's Independent Voice Since 1883

The Vermont Cynic

The University of Vermont's Independent Voice Since 1883

The Vermont Cynic

There and Back Again: A Brett Weir Tale

In my opinion, any sporting event that is held in Texas has the potential to be ten or twenty times more interesting than if it were held in any of the other 48 states (excluding New Jersey, because who wants to do anything in New Jersey?).

Even though Super Bowl 38 featured the worst first half of any game in any sport ever followed by the best second half of any game in any sport ever, and a game winning field goal, it was amazing simply because it took place in the Lone Star State.

Why am I talking about the Super Bowl two weeks after the amazing 41-yard Vinatieri blessing? Because that is how long it has taken me to get back to Vermont. As a favor to the Cynic and their dedicated readership, I did everyone a favor and went down to Houston on my own time and my mom’s credit card to experience the game for what it really is.

Getting down to Houston was just a point and click away and I was flying business class with a hot towel on my head sipping the finest ginger ale at 35,000 feet. My mom had trouble understanding why I had to buy $730 worth of “books” from the Delta Airlines website and was unaware of any bookstores that served kosher meals, but I assured her that UVM would buy the books back for at least 10% of what I got them for.

I arrived in Houston on Friday and went right to the stadium where I found a large amount of people tail-gaiting. The game was more than 72 hours away and these people were cooking brats, drinking beer, and playing bocce in the parking lot of Reliant Stadium. Who are these people?

I approached one group of fans sitting in folding chairs watching a portable TV, and before I could get anything out of my mouth a loud-mouthed man with an oversized foam cowboy hat noticed that I was not from Texas and yelled out, “Howdy son, where are you from?” I think my lederhosen gave me away.

“I’m from Vermont,” I said visually consuming this man’s hat and the Mexican family living underneath it.

“WOW, Vermont!” The man looked around at his friends, “Well then, Wel-come to A-mer-i-ca!” He separated his syllables so I could understand his foreign language of English. “This is the Su-per Bowl, ve-ry fun.” He yelled.

I gave him a thumbs up for approval and then pointed at his grill with a perplexed look on my face.

“Brat-wurst,” he yelled as he prepared one for me. I quickly consumed it and without speaking touched his Styrofoam cooler. He opened it and displayed his afternoon’s worth of beverages for me. He explained the contents of the cooler to me while I looked very confused. He opened one up and handed it to me, “Drink it.”

I quickly consumed the first drink and smiled. “Oh no, son, way too fast.” He tried again, but I drank the next one faster than the last.

“Oh no, he doesn’t understand what you’re saying,” suggested someone from underneath the hat. The man poured the drink into a cup and suggested I drink it much slower, and to leave his area. I bowed, then curtsied, and was on my way.

The next 71 and three-quarter hours are a blur to me. I woke up late Sunday night in a holding cell in the stadium with my lederhosen on backwards, both of my socks on my hands while wearing a Panthers t-shirt as a diaper. I had a pounding headache and something smelled like Fruity Pebbles.

But I surely did not care for as I could see through the bars on the television, the Patriots had won the Super Bowl. This came as no shock to me for my intramural broomball team could beat the Panthers who weren’t even an official football team until last October.

This Patriots team was as incredible as the Panthers team was pathetic and for another year I get to gloat to all my friends who are Giants fans about who is really the luckiest team in the NFL without a runningback.

Later on Sunday night, security let me out of the cell and handed me back my belongings which included Yanni’s “Live at the Acropolis” CD and a framed picture of Mike Piazza. I tried to convince him that neither of these things were mine but he insisted that he had to pry them out of my hands at one point.

Now that I was out, I was homeward bound. Security told me that I gave away my mom’s credit card and cell phone to a fellow inmate on his way out because I was trying to be a contestant on my made-up reality TV show “Survivor: Reliant Stadium Holding Cell”.

I called the Cynic office for some funds for their dedicated and hardworking roving reporter but they quickly reminded me that the last time they gave me money for transportation I got stuck in Boston because I paid a street mime to do the robot for two and a half hours. There were no negotiations.

So I put my socks on my feet and started hitchhiking to with my “VT or Bust” sign. I got many comments from Texans like, “My car doesn’t drive over the ocean,” and “When you get home, tell ole’ Chirac we’re comin’ after him too!”

Two weeks later I arrived home and the first thing that I overheard about the Super Bowl was that a Jackson had exposed their breast during half time. Who in their right mind would let Michael on stage at the Super Bowl?

Only in Texas.

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There and Back Again: A Brett Weir Tale