Full disclosure: my dad, Art Rust Jr., was a well-known New York sportscaster, but the sports fan gene did not rub off on me and I have always felt a tremendous sense of guilt. Now mind you, when I was growing up, I loved sitting on his knee and watching a game, any game, either at the stadium or at home. His play-by-play was always peppered with interesting anecdotes about icons like Joe DiMaggio, Walt Frazier, or Muhammad Ali , and I got a kick out of his opinions, like exactly why so and so was a “real pr%*#!” Yes, tender father/daughter time.
Apart from a really good boxing or tennis match, the Olympics, or the World Cup (thanks in part to my Italian husband) I am not a too crazy about watching sports. I can appreciate the showmanship and the skills, and can thrill at a great touch down or an amazing slam dunk, but all in all, I can't fake it; I’m just not that enthusiastic. But I so wish that I was! Everyone is excited about Super Bowl XLVII, I want to be part of the club too. My poor family is not much help; not a rabid sports fan in the mix. But we will probably tune in for a little while; like we usually do. Perhaps I’ll use the games as an excuse to make some hot wings, or some other culinary naughtiness. We’ll laugh at the commercials, watch Bey’s halftime extravaganza (live or pre-recorded?), and maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch one of those glory moments that will help me understand what all the fuss is about.