Super Bowl Champs

Our son, who'd never paid close attention to football, had been excited about this Super Bowl since his home team, the Giants, were playing for the big title. We didn't want to tell him what a long shot they had of winning. It seemed cruel, even for us, to deflate his enthusiasm by telling him the Giants were going up against one of the best teams in football's history. It was exciting for him, and for us, to have arrived here, a city that has a team, and to have that team go on to the biggest sporting event of the year. It felt much like Cinderella arriving at the big ball, disbelief marking each magical moment.

I baked our chicken as my boys got ready, the big one with his six pack, the little one with his plate of gourmet cheeses and crackers. The game, by all accounts since I didn't watch all of it, was exciting, nail-biting till the very end. Our son finally went to bed, his eyes drooping despite his best efforts to be a big boy and stay up. In truth, I fell asleep, until my husband woke me to tell me the Giants had won. His voice, which I recall, sounded incredulous, a man struck dumb by the lightning bolt out in an field.

The morning papers arrived, each one with a snapshot of the winning team, hoisting the trophy into the air, confetti falling around. This morning's drop off was all about each child having the bragging rights to claim having stayed up to watch the big game. It's funny, how even at such a young age, they understand the significance of such moments. It's unlikely any of them may end up as a player in the NFL, having their lives defined by such a cataclysmic event. Yet, it is the participation in these collective moments, the team's victory hoisting each of us up, even if just for a moment. And even at the age of five, each was now a participant, no matter how peripherally.

All of the parents rushed outside to be met with the falling of big, downy snowflakes. It's the kind of day when curling up with a book, slippers on one's feet, and a bowl of something hot in a mug, is the ideal antidote to such a gray, wet day. We haven't had any significant snow, yet. In fact, my son's in disbelief that it snows in the city at all since he's always asking to go to places where it snows. But as that Prince song goes, it can snow in April, so I'm certain by this winter's end, he will be a convert to the vicissitude of winter here in the city. And when he is much older, we will remind him how his first year as New Yorker was capped off by the fairy tale win of the Super Bowl by the Giants.