Welcome to Sixburgh!

I watched the Super Bowl last night with friends over in the next county, just as I did when the Steelers won Super Bowl XL three years ago. I was told I had to come-- I'm good luck.

(What a nice thought!)

My friend Sarah* is a fellow Presbyterian minister, and her husband Larry* is the organist at her church. We also had Jon*, a young parishioner of theirs, Jon's girlfriend who arrived late in the game, and Sarah's 93-year-old mother Branwen*. Sarah's teenaged children and their friends were there, too, but only semi-count since they were watching on a separate set up in the son's room.

(Which made things interesting towards the end, since somehow the cable feed on their TV was ten seconds ahead of ours down in the living room. "Why are they cheering??" we'd ask each other, till we'd figured it out.)

Oh, yes, the downstairs contingent also included Sarah's new cow-kitty, Riley.

Emotions ran high as so much seemed to hinge on camera angles and replays. When James Harrison ran that 100-yard interception return in the last few seconds of the first half, it was like, "It has to be good! They can't take that touchdown away!! It's too glorious!" We were sure he was heading for game MVP-- until that personal foul in the fourth quarter when he was caught using some Cardinals player as a kettle drum. No. Not a good move.

I'm afraid I was rude to Sarah's mom a time or two. She moved over next to me for the second half and started talking to me about things not necessarily connected with the game. Then for some reason, I forget why, she started talking to me in French. And of course I've got to try to answer in the same language. But as the minutes wound down and matters on the screen got more concentrated and tense, I wasn't conversing politely any more. I found myself saying, "Be quiet! I want to watch the game!"

Jon, now. He was funny. He'd swing from the heights of optimism to the depths of dispair. He'd make plans for what the Steelers should do next. It was all the funnier in that I recognized that I did the same at his age. No point in saying to him, "We don't have it sewn up yet!" when Pittsburgh was up by ten or "Don't give up now!" when the Cardinals pulled ahead-- his sort of chatter is all about working off the nerves.

And nerves a-plenty were justified in the last few minutes. When a holding penalty had Ben Roethlisberger passing out of his own endzone, I found myself yelling, "O noes! Do nawt want!" Which evoked the closest thing to a demonstration of emotion we had out of laid-back Larry all evening. He may not be demonstrative at big games, but he luvs him them lolcats!

Sarah still can't believe the Steelers scored for the win in the last two and a half minutes. I couldn't believe Arizona scored to take the lead just before that. But for Pixburgh, two and a half minutes is plenty, o ye of little faith! When they lined up for what would be the Roethlisberger touchdown pass to Santonio Holmes in the far corner of the endzone, I was thinking, "Ben, Gabriela Montero brought you luck two weeks ago at Heinz Hall. Don't waste it!"

And they didn't!

Eruptions of yelling and screaming from the lady pastors and their friends as the clock ran down! Steelers win! Steelers win! I nearly whapped Branwen in the head swinging my Terrible Towel, standing up just in time. We all jumped up and down in the living room and yelled. We went outside on the front stoop and yelled! Big Ben and Co. did it! Steelers win! Steelers win!

As for the commercials? Our vote was for the Clydesdales. Especially the one with the Clydesdale stallion and the mare-of-his-dreams. The movie trailers? What was the point? Five or six upcoming flicks and all of them with dark backgrounds and accelerating zooms and exploding objects. They all looked alike. Except for the animated feature with the old man in the airbourne house. That we've got to see.