Not Everyone enjoyed sacred American ritual

By Patrick Reetz

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon on Sunday. I decide that the two rotting apples and the bottle of ketchup in my fridge are not sufficient enough to eradicate my lunchtime hunger. So I make my way over to the local grocery store so that I might cook myself a nice vegetarian meal.

Only upon my arrival, it’s evident that strange things are a brewing this particular Sunday. I’ve never been too fond of the day myself.

I prefer working weekends so I don’t have to deal with the crowds at stores and restaurants and such. However, it’s those very crowds I attempt to avoid at all cost I’m facing today as I pull in to the parking lot.
Immediately I notice cars peeling out of the parking lot at lightning speed as though heaven itself awaits them at home. The police are nowhere to be found—they’re off watching this heaven on the television in the police station downtown.

I manage to make it inside unscathed when I realize my friendly supermarket has turned into some third-world street market complete with ravaged stacks of soda and beer 24-packs, defiled displays of chips and salsa and a ransacked frozen pizza aisle. Yes, today is the one day of the year that it is acceptable for normal, god-fearing individuals to act like barbaric animals.

The people scavenge the aisles, intent on taking home beer, beer, beer, chips and more beer. I easily find plenty of vegetables and soy products to take home. Today is a day of gluttony and complete abandonment of any sort of diet plan for those who participate in the football culture, even if they only participate in it once a year.

I, owning exactly zero televisions, am not a part of the culture and will never understand the joy and camaraderie that screaming at a sporting event can bring to a people.

I get in a line with several anxious individuals. The tension in the air is thick like gelatinous fear. The lady behind me looks like a soccer mom on crank. Nobody dares write a check inadvertently holding the line up for any longer than necessary for fear of being slaughtered. One wrong word could spook these people. I try to keep a low profile.

Even the normally cute girls who bag my groceries on whom I have secret crushes leer at me with beady eyes from behind menacing Raiders jerseys. I try not to show fear when facing these lions, but it’s difficult when you’re the only person in the entire city buying Boca burgers and apple juice.

I somehow survive the checkout line and make my way back to my car. I suddenly fear certain death as the boys running the barbeque outside have no tolerance for any non-carnivorous people today. I buy a piece of chicken for my own safety and pass it along to a homeless guy on the way to my car.

I arrive safely back at my apartment in the Tower District, where they just barely tolerate artsy sober types on this day of days—Superbowl Sunday.

— This columnist can be reached at collegian@csufresno.edu