by Angela K. DurdenThe Most Brilliant Woman in the World
Super Bowl Sunday. February 3, 2019. When the New England Patriots and the Los Angeles Rams came to my town — Atlanta, Georgia — to make history in game LIII. And make history they did.
Besides having not one touchdown in the game until the fourth quarter, the game had the lowest final score ever.
Patriots won 13 to 3.
One touchdown (NE) and four kicks (two field goals and one conversion for NE, and one field goal for LA) were the only opportunities the crowd had for rooting for their teams.
In fact, social media meme legend already has it that fans were catching up on their sleep during the game. All that partying they’d been doing pre-game had worn them out and nothing was keeping them alert.
I watched the game and have to disagree with those lazy, ungrateful fans. The game might not have been full of photo-op action, but my goodness was it ever full of high drama. First, you had your battling game-opening singers (one old, two young) though, frankly, Gladys Knight won that just by being there. When she opened her mouth, the first note told you the other two young thangs had a long way to go. Knight got the screaming ovation and the young thangs got the polite applause. But that’s okay.
Next, you had your battling coaches (one old, one young) pacing the sidelines and screaming when they should and wiping sweat from worried brow. Then you had your battling quarterbacks (one old, one young). One with a supermodel wife, the other lining up for his. Then you had your TV announcers playing armchair psychologists — that is, drumming up reasons — explaining why Brady had only led his team to score 3 points in the first half and had not already obliterated the Rams.
Then there was the schizophrenic halftime show wherein all the pieces were there for a great performance, but no amount of big-hair slinging, tattoo-baring, bling-flashing, smack-rapping, drum-rolling, incendiary-bleeping, guitar-shredding effort saved it. Maroon 5, Big Boi (half of Outkast), Travis Scott, and the musicians and choir that backed them up are fabulous. The artists, singers, and musicians should not have been blamed.
I bet it is was a committee made up of New York apparatchiks in the NFL’s Marketing Department that put that lame show together.
The whole evening sounds boring. I get it.
But I was watching the field closely and let me tell you, there was not one player on that field who was phoning it in. That low score was because you had two teams equally situated in talent, strength, and maneuverability. Each team fought for every yard forward — in one case, mere inches — and did not willingly give up any advantage. Each player’s heart and soul was brought to the temple and sacrificed on the green altar of top-of-the-line monofilament fiber called Revolution 360 from FieldTurf with some sort of padding under it.
In any case, whether running on padded carpet or not, respect was earned that night. Each team should be proud of what they did.
Of course, not everybody agrees with me. First thing I see on Social Media, before the game is barely over, is a bunch of people complaining about the low entertainment factor. These same people must be Democrats, Liberals, Socialists, and pussy-hat wearers. You are correct. That last statement was redundant. Still, I feel like I need to restate it because they miss the fine points of everything. To them, a struggle is having to march in the street without a Starbucks nearby to get their fix of caffeinated Socialism.
So, anyway…
There I was on a fine Super Bowl Sunday, making like a photographer in Downtown Atlanta while Andy Zabinski, a friend of mine who is with the symphony, plays violin on the sidewalks, when this guy walks by. Our eyes caught and I thought, “Wow. He looks familiar. I wonder if I know him from a Jazz jam or something?” And he was looking at me like he knew me, therefore, naturally it would follow I would point and say, “Hey! You! I know you, right?”
The man nodded in the affirmative. He stopped and turned toward me and I was just about to ask him where I knew him from when I said, “Oh! You're that guy on that show.”
He nodded again and held out his hand and I shook it.
By now I totally could see the show in my head but could not remember the name of the show or the guy's character's name, but I knew it completely.
After a few seconds of me not saying anything and trying to think of the name of the show and just staring at him while we kept shaking hands, I realized he was asking me a question. Several times he said, “What is your name?”
I said, “My name?”
Then came another long pause, not because I didn't remember my name (though I have forgotten it in the past), but because I was wondering why he wanted to know my name.
He said, “Yes. YOUR name. What is it?”
“It's Angela.”
“Well, hello, Angela.” And he went to leave.
At which point I said, “Look, don't rush off. Let me say this: I loved your character. You did a FINE job with him. And, you were so good, I cried a few times.”
He said thank you and we parted.
Around midnight, of course, is when I woke up and hollered “Duh! Person of Interest. Detective Fusco!”
The story gets better. On the show, Kevin Chapman (his real name) looks tall and big. Online it says he is 5' 7". Well, if he is 5' 7" then I am 6' 5".
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