I like watching N.F.L. football. In fact, I watch more football than is probably healthy. I watched my team, the Kansas City Chiefs, dismantle the Oakland Raiders in the first week of the season back in August. The Chiefs would then go on to disappoint me with a mid season six-game losing streak crushing all hope. I watched Denver go undefeated for thirteen games. I watched Randy Moss leap over everyone as the Minnesota Vikings pummeled almost everyone until a couple weeks ago. I saw contenders like the Patriots, Steelers, Packers and Cowboys wilt as the season went on. I noticed that the Atlanta Falcons were pretty good after beating the 49ers in the mid season. Now, the Super Sunday has come, and I'm already experiencing the come down.

I have a sports watching habit. On some occasions (like when my chosen teams are doing well), the habit takes on addictive measures, but even in an off year (like this one) I still sat down for a game a week. I need a shot of competitive flair, and since my own life has gotten rather mundane, I settle for rooting for the competitiveness of others. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, whatever. It's vicarious living, but at least it's all wrapped up into two or three hour bundles.

It's because of this habit that I watch the Super Bowl. Not because it's what everybody else is doing, but because my five month addiction is coming to a close. Like always, my team didn't make the pinnacle game. The Chiefs haven't made the Super Bowl in my lifetime. This year they didn't even make the playoffs, so I picked a new team for a month. I really thought I had a winner with the Vikings. It was one of those can't lose kind of picks. When Morton Anderson of the Atlanta Falcons kicked the overtime field goal, I knew I couldn't pick winner to save my life. Thank goodness I only gamble with the stock market.

People use Super Bowl Sunday as a social gathering opportunity. An unofficial holiday. They break out their chips and dip and cokes and beer to be in the "football watching spirit" although none of them really watch the game or care. "Now which one is the Falcons?" "I've never heard of them." "How long have they been a team?" "I don't like those uniforms." I try to play it off as not bothering me, but it is slightly annoying answer the questions. I don't watch a fashion designer's show and ask "Who's that model?" "Has she always been that skinny?" "I don't like those uniforms."

I only played one season of organized football. Ninth grade. I was a third string split end for the Yucca Chaparrals (a chaparral is a roadrunner), and my team didn't throw the ball hardly at all in the first place. I couldn't tackle, I couldn't outrun anyone, and I was maturing slowing and rail thin. I caught the only pass they threw to me. It was at the end of the first half during the last game of the season. The quarterback, Jon Thacker (what a great quarterback name), audible-ized our two-minute drill and called a play for me on fourth down and twelve. Willy-95! Willy-95! It was a slant play to the middle. I cut inside, juggled the ball for a moment, and held on. A linebacker, safety and cornerback smacked me at the same time, but I didn't feel a thing. I caught the ball. First down. 1 for 1. 100 percent completion rate. My finest football moment, and I tearfully announced my retirement after the game.

I didn't start watching football because of that one glorious season. Watching football help me achieve my goal of being lazy around the house. For some reason, I could stall doing chores on Sunday if I was watching a ball game. "The game will over soon, Mom." "Let me just watch the end of this game, Mom." "They just went into overtime, Mom." Pretty soon, I actually got interested in what I was watching. The Romans had gladiators, so I could have football. Thumbs down.

So for all of you people who decided to pop in for Super Bowl Sunday, making snide and smarmy comments about testosterone and bizarre touchdown dances, yacking about new commercials, and babbling away throughout the game and asking Monday morning "Who won that thing anyway?," I just want you to know one thing: you're a wannabe junkie. See you next year for another hit.

Chris Jungle has already begun to lessen his withdrawal symptoms with quick doses of watching college basketball.