How the NFL Sent me to Photograph My First Ever Football Game
A post in time for Superbowl.
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Even though my teenage years were molded by American culture (I came here at 11), and I was an eager adapter of its many joys — cereal with milk was a revelation, as were Furbies and Twilight Zone — there are some things about me that are staggeringly un-American. I don’t drive a car, nor did I ever get a driver’s license. I don’t like BBQ — not the thick and sticky Kansas City kind, nor the vinegary North Carolina or smoky Texas style. And I couldn’t care less about Superbowl. What amounts to an unofficial National US holiday, Superbowl Weekend’s only distinction in my life has been a careful avoidance of all bars with a TV. And somehow, neither my husband nor any guy I ever dated had a penchant for the sport, making that staple of American life a distant happening in an alternative universe without a portal.