Stuporbowl

I’m banking on the Giants at +12 to beat the spread; however, just in case, I’m hedging my bet with the over 54 combined score. Either it’s going to be a close game or a blowout; I think.

I’m glad when Super Sunday rolls around, because it means baseball season starts tomorrow. And with the Steelers not in the game, that’s really all I’m looking forward to.

I hope that the Giants ruin the Patriots “perfect” season; it annoys me that a coach who dresses so poorly as Bellechick—what is that look, Flashdance, circa 1984?—keeps being heralded as a “genius.” “Genius” is a term that should be reserved for people who do particle physics, or create great works of art, not some guy who bosses around men in tights and helmets on Sunday afternoons.

I also splurged on a couple of silly proposition bets just to make the game more interesting: I wagered the Giants would be the first team to score, by field goal, to the tune of 5 to 1. And I’ve got five bucks says at least one touchdown will be scored in the first quarter.

I begged off on a few of the weirder props: which team will win the coin toss or who’s going to throw the first challenge flag. It’s too bad there aren’t some really odd ones on Sportbook.com; I’d like to be able to wager on whether or not Tom Petty is going to sing “Refugee,” although I doubt I’d get better than even money on that one.

It was the craggy-faced Petty, I think, that my sister, Deb, once described as an artist she liked hearing on the radio, but would never buy one of his albums; I feel that way about a number of groups—the Red Hot Chili Peppers, for instance—and that’s kinda how I am about this Superbowl: I’ll tune in because it’s there, but I’m not making special sandwiches for halftime or anything.