You play football like…An American

The Superbowl was/is our microcosm of politics

My mixed group of friends twitched. Some feigned interest, passion, allegiance; most of us chased different stories, reconnected beyond or despite the blaring grandiosity of the Superbowl.

We grazed on a gluttony of dangerous enchiladas (yes, I live in New Mexico), guacamole, random cocktails and combinations of flavors, textures, and the blinding audio and visual presence of an overdone America in the background. Much like every Superbowl, a cold new year had just begun.

2017 was fresh and full of potential, and fear, and so many unknowns.

We overestimated, over-compensated, overate, drank, stayed — and rolled around in the collective scent of modern ‘Merica.

There was even a ridiculous, male-dominated yoga session at half-time — because we all do that now apparently — to make it awkward for a few new guests and honor last night’s brewpub agreement. Partners and wives watched us with subtle pleasure smirks.

(I may or may not have led a seething mass of bloated stomachs through sun salutations and cat-cow dignity destroyers)

The rise and fall of the mighty-inflexible American male

When we actually watched the game, it was the cliche moments — the rallies and runs down the field, the controversial reviews and…