Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

This is the eve of Super Bowl XLI. For those of you who don’t remember Roman numerals, that’s Super Bowl 41. Roman numerals are often used when one — in this instance, probably football professionals — wants to add status and drama to an event. It’s reminiscent of the glory days of the Coliseum.

The Super Bowl is nothing if not a re-enactment of the glory days. It pits two teams who have waged courageous battles over several months, defeating lesser opponents, until only they remain to claim the prize. It attracts worldwide attention, even though all the teams live and play in the United States. It takes two weeks to run up the hype until the Super Bowl is billed as the largest viewing event in all sportsdom.

Billy Joel will sing the national anthem; Prince will perform at half-time. Almost a billion people will seek a potty break then. City sewer systems will struggle.

This year, the two teams vying for the coveted trophy are — as if anyone out there needs this education — the Chicago Bears and the Indianapolis Colts, with the latter team favored by seven points. I’ve lived in both cities, but there’s no question about it. I’m rooting for the underdog Bears. Earl is rooting for them even more. Thankfully, we’re on the same side.

I’m a fair weather fan; but he’s the real deal. Earl will clap when we do well; scowl in silence when we don’t. He’ll take a victory, as well as a defeat, into Monday morning. Me? I’m stoic about it. It is, after all, just a game. The outcome won’t cure cancer or stop people from killing each other or even put food on one more table. It’s merely an evening of entertainment, and when it’s over we need to move on.