An English experience of the Super Bowl

The Superbowl is an American institution which prompts a degree of mysticism from a British observer. Often our only connection to it is through the world of film or television, or perhaps an ill-conceived Superbowl party that begins late and ends in the ungodly hours of a Monday morning. As a sport which goes unwatched by many, the rules and understanding of the game often go straight over our heads. However, currently living in America has spurred me on to investigate this phenomenon. What is it about this event that causes American society to grind to a halt for four hours on a Sunday afternoon? How can they stand these countless advert breaks? And what on earth is actually going on?

I headed into Manhattan to investigate. The first step was to decide on a venue. A quick internet search revealed some attractive food and drink deals at most bars. Ranging from $40 at the cheapest, to around $100 at its most expensive, these offers provided unlimited food, with unlimited access to the bar and, in some cases, unlimited spirits throughout the duration of the game. It’s no wonder that ‘Superbowl Sunday’ is the second highest day for food consumption in the US, only just trailing Thanksgiving.

The next step was apparel. Having decided to adopt the New York Giants as our team, we needed to look the part. We stumbled upon some fake ‘jerseys’; $40 dollars each (£25). We felt this was too expensive – a fake should be nothing more than $20. However, as stocks quickly depleted in the city, official jerseys were eventually going for $120 (£75).  Later in the day, compelled by the hypnotic ‘Superbowl spirit’ and conscious that finding bar space in a rapidly filling Manhattan was becoming increasingly unlikely, my two roommates eventually panic-bought jerseys for this price.

Finding a bar in Times Square, we settled down for the game. The Superbowl is an incredibly long affair. Though only technically lasting for one hour, the whole event goes on for well over four. That is a lot of time for drinking, and leads to a ferocious, incredible atmosphere. Tightly packed inside the bar, hoards of men draped in the baggy blue of the Giants unleash their emotions in raw, primal screams that accompany every pass, tackle or catch. Imagine the explosive eruption that follows a winning goal in football; every other play in the Superbowl produces the same reaction.

A common criticism of the game in the UK is that the constantly punctuating adverts are too disruptive to the flow of the match. In America, these breaks provide a welcome respite from the raucous atmosphere that is created when you mix this extremely masculine sport with an abundance of alcohol in the cauldron of a sports bar. Not only this, but the breaks work to build tension for each play. Following Ahmed Bradshaws touchdown in the final quarter which gave the Giants the lead, for example, these breaks were accompanied with despairing fans clutching each other in an attempt to relieve the shared burden of tension.

The Giants held out to win the game, thanks to an ice-cool performance from quarterback Eli Manning. As a ‘soccer’ fan, this position is perhaps the one I most appreciated. Coincidentally, Manning wears the No.10 jersey, and the style of this position is perfectly comparable to the classic No.10 position in European football. Intelligence, accuracy, creativity and vision are all married to this elegant, game-defining role, which stands out in contrast to so much of the brutality surrounding it.

Beginning the playoffs with 40-1 odds against winning, it is quite incredible that the Giants were able to with, and the final whistle was greeted with a unified outburst of emotion from everyone present. Giants fans swamped the bar as free shots were offered to everyone; random men hugged each other in a display of unbridled joy quite juxtaposed to the macho image that the game displays. Feeling a little patriotic, I decided to bring some British flavour to proceedings; as opposing Quarterback Tom Brady graced the screen, I attempted to start the classic terrace chant of ‘you’re sh*t, and you know you are’. My new American bar-mates, however, were not filled with enthusiasm for this little British invasion, and decided not to deviate from the staple (and hugely uninspiring) ‘Gii-aaants! Giii-aaants!’. Fair enough; this was their night.