Superbowl Sunday/Monday

They say that the most patriotic people in the world are expatriates. No matter what country they hail from, once they leave, their sense of national identity is beaten into them by the onslaught of foreignness. It begins with handing the passport to the customs agent, who inevitably judges you by its cover, and ends, in my case, with the Superbowl.

Yes, you can’t get any more American than the Superbowl. In a select number of bars across Edinburgh, American expatriates, of one form or another, sought out the company of other Americans in order to partake in the time-honored tradition of imbibing copious amounts of the cheapest beer they can get and watching men in tight pants jump all over each other. On a big screen TV, no less.

Which is what Jonmikel and I selected to do on Superbowl Sunday, 2008. The US embassy was nice enough to anticipate sportsmanlike interest and posted the names of bars in the UK that would host Superbowl parties. This was actually a much bigger deal than one would suppose at first, if only because kickoff was at 11:30pm. PM. Most bars only have liquor licenses until 12 or, at the latest, 1, so to find a place serving until 4 in the morning was, well, kind of a big deal. The Pear Tree House, close to the university and containing a large beer garden complete with German-style benches and a giant TV screen, was our venue of choice. No cover and 3-for-2 beers. Extended liquor license. American friendly. We had never been in before, and the flattering wooden wall paneling gave the Superbowl and traditional, upper-crust Scottish feel. Every American football game needs that, don’t you think?

I’m not sure what it is that drives Americans to search out their own kind, to congregate for sporting purposes in a tiny pub to watch a game that most don’t understand or aren’t even remotely interested. Such was the case with one girl, who looked to me startlingly like a Tiffany, who sat cattycorner to us. She had thick brunette curls, a nice yuppie sweater, and an air about her that declared her to be far superior to the cheerleader-type girls who accompanied her. She even looked soooo (said with a swish of the neck and the nose held high) embarrassed when her companions sang loudly and proudly to Tom Petty’s half-time show. Because, of course, sporting events are perfect places to people watch, I observed her finally finding an intellectual-looking British man with slight shaggy, intellectual-looking British hair and an intellectual-looking British wool sweater over his shoulders with whom she could discuss the pressing issues of grass harvesting in Kiribati, or perhaps some other equally fascinating topic. Football was the last thing on their minds.

There were also two Japanese guys on the couch in front of us who didn’t drink much and barely spoke English but who completely understood the concept of football. They were often some of the first people cheering when their (losing) team made a good play or got lucky. I guess the fact that they rooted for the Patriots (who does that?) could be forgiven because they were Japanese. There’s no other excuse.

We had the perfect seat, too. When we first got there, the place wasn’t packed, but all the seats were either already occupied or being unfairly saved. That’s, like, the second rule of sportingdom: you can’t save seats for more than one person. But alas, my good friend Tiffany was saving FIVE choice seats for her good friends who never showed up anyway (which I guess left room for her new British friend to come along and woo her). For a number of harrowing minutes, we thought that we would have to make our football home directly under one television and about 30 feet from another, which would leave us squinting to see uniform colors and scores. Way not cool. I’m waiting for Jonmikel to grabs us some beers, when all of a sudden, a group of people, looking might unhappy that their usual dusty and dreary student hangout had been Shanghaied by American sports lovers, turned up their noses, quaffed their beers, and moseyed on out, leaving me to pounce on a plush pleather couch with a direct and very short line to a TV screen. Score!

And so, we enjoyed our game. For those of you who also watched it or are at all aware of how much the world hates the Patriots, you will find it quite enough to know that I was totally stoked that the Giants won, and it was a very good game, and I was disappointed only that I didn’t see an actual fight (which seemed imminent at various stages). At one point, a stupid Scottish man, there with an American buddy, yelled out “Jihad!” during a particularly good play for the Patriots. How ignorantly distasteful, to yell that out not only in a room full of Americans but also in a room with a spattering of Middle Eastern looking people. I mean really. His American friend finally took him home after he repeatedly yelled “Goal!” at inappropriate times, which leads me to believe that perhaps it was the Tennents lager declaring a jihad and not his own bad taste.

And now, after a night of bonding with my fellow Americans, I feel quite patriotic. Go Barak Obama! That’s how patriotic I feel. But I do feel closer to the US population in Edinburgh. We all experienced the downfall of the New England Patriots together, and that means something. And Tiffany found herself a British dude. I mean, what more could you ask for?