Tom BloomI watched Super Bowl XLVI in February by myself, the same way I watch most televised N.F.L. games. Sad? Hardly. Solo watching is a habit I adopted in high school. Although my friends and family were not overtly obnoxious, I often found them disruptive.
When I was in middle school, my father entered the room with seconds left in a tight Cowboys-Eagles game. Having invested hours in watching this game, I was bothered that he was once again joining just in time for the conclusion. This, to me, was like showing up at the end of a long dinner and interrupting everyone’s conversation to ask for dessert.
At that stage, I was a die-hard Cowboys fan. (My analytical side has since suffocated the fan in me.) Because the Cowboys were trailing the Eagles late in a game that they should have had locked up, I was in a particularly prickly mood. Unaware that the Eagles had worn their white jerseys at home to make the Cowboys wear their unfamiliar blue jerseys, my father entered just as Dallas’s Troy Aikman took the last snap; he mistakenly started cheering, quite enthusiastically, for the Eagles to sack the quarterback.
“Get him!” my father barked. “Get him!”
He was just trying to take an interest in my life. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see that at the time.
On many other occasions my family disrupted my football watching. My mother did leg-lift exercises during the 2003 Colts-Buccaneers Monday night game. My memory of Indianapolis’s comeback from a 21-point deficit in the fourth quarter includes her foot flashing across the bottom left corner of the screen.
In the 1998 Cowboys-Vikings Thanksgiving game, my older cousin Travis, who understood football about as well as the typical American understands the nuances of insurance law, vigorously rooted for the Vikings simply because he knew I loved the Cowboys.
During the Patriots-Colts 2004 A.F.C. divisional playoff game, my sister was sewing her jeans. That would have been fine had she not been using a machine. Members of my family often barged into the room during a game and flipped on the lights. Or talked on the phone. Or folded laundry too close to the screen. Normal, reasonable household behaviors. That is why I was wrong to get upset, especially considering that most of the time, the sources of my irritation (my parents) owned the television I was sitting in front of, the chair I was sitting in and the roof I was sitting under.
Nevertheless, a teenager who has been told that having a passion for football and being able to analyze and write about it is great tends to develop an inflated sense of importance. Putting figurative eggshells on the floor around “my television” seemed acceptable.
I did not outgrow this arrogant, controlling persona until college. Although I’ve since come to appreciate the company of others during games, I can tell by the way people act around me that a part of my football-watching demeanor still tacitly tells everyone in the room to tread lightly. I was reminded of this during Week 15 last season when my girlfriend seemed to be mustering the courage to join me in watching the Titans-Colts game on my DVR. I later found out another reason she was acting weirdly: her mother had texted her the final score.
When one person knows the outcome of the game, tension fills the room. Whether that person spills the beans or not almost doesn’t matter; the knowledge that someone knows what happened can stain an entire game. That person’s every facial expression, utterance or normal behavior can be interpreted as a tip. It’s a powerful distraction.
The risks of DVR watching are a small trade-off for its wonders. Fast-forwarding through commercials gives viewers a better feel for the game and its rhythm. No need to dread punts, kickoffs, challenge flags, two-minute warnings, injuries or whatever else prompts a commercial break. It’s liberating.
The only things you actually give up with a DVR are beer commercials and the ability to discuss the game in real time via social media like Twitter. Missing out on Twitter may actually be a perk.
It’s not just the viewing experience that makes recorded football so glorious, but also the nonviewing conveniences. I was blessed to grow up in the Mountain time zone. When I was a child, Monday night games began at 7 o’clock. That was late enough to get chores and dinner out of the way but still early enough to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, even if the game went to overtime.
These days, on a typical Monday, I arrive home around 6 p.m. The games start a little after 6:30, but instead of tuning in, I eat dinner, then go for a bike ride or read a book — anything productive that does not carry the risk of encountering football action. That means avoiding restaurants, the Internet and my phone.
I usually start watching around 8:30. That may seem a little late, but by fast-forwarding through commercials and halftime, the game lasts just a little more than two hours.
Then I erase it, pick up my phone and reconnect with the outside world.
Andy Benoit, a contributor to The Fifth Down blog at nytimes.com, is a writer for Football Outsiders.