Super Bowl XLIII: A Work of Fiction

I have this problem: I’m a writer, a fiction writer at that. As a writer—and, subsequently, as a reader—you learn that there is no such thing as a “wasted” word, sentence or phrase. Everything means something; everything is advancing the plot, directly or indirectly, foreshadowing things to come, even the blue and white tennis shoes a female character wears to work out in.  Because of this, however, I read into things...check that...I read into everything. It is both a blessing and a curse. I can tell instantly whether the girl at the bar is legitimately into me or if she is a secretly insecure cutie seeking validation in the form of male attention.  Earlier this week, I spoke with a gentleman from Minnesota wearing a green Boston Celtics hat, and instantly knew he was one of two things: A Kevin Garnett fan that followed his hero to Boston or an Irishman. During our conversation, he revealed to me how proud he was to be Irish.  This also works ... (link)