Every red-blooded American male has heard of this event: The Super Bowl. From the football player’s point of view, it is a chance to prove to the Powers That Be that they can throw and catch an oddly shaped ball. To the eager viewers, both at home and in the stadium, the Super Bowl is a thrilling medley of beer, unhealthy foods, yelling, betting, and generally high levels of testosterone.

Even I, a Korean-American teenager, have experienced this (with the exception of beer). Or more accurately, I suffered through being the neighbor of the most extreme football fan in Los Altos. Honestly, I never fathomed exactly what makes the Super Bowl, or football in general, appealing. However, at nine years of age I was offered a glimpse into the world of most Super Bowl fans as I mulled over this mystery.

My introduction to this alien world was a rude one: a shattering sound woke me up in the middle of the night. Immediately, I was aware of the sounds of men shouting, and loud commentary on… the Super Bowl? A deep voice bellowed: “You threw the ball through the window!” At the time, being nine, I only knew the Super Bowl as something everyone loved. I crept into the backyard, peered through the fence to the neighbors’ back lawn, and was greeted with an odd sight. A single, solitary football, lit up by the moonlight, lay on the grass amid shards of glass. Just then, a meaty hand picked it up, the owner of the hand grunting, and the acrid odor of sweat permeated the air. A monster! Instantly, I was back in the house, panting slightly. I quietly returned to bed and tried to sleep, to no avail. When I did manage to drift off, I was haunted by visions of sweaty footballs with hairy hands. For several months, I was unable to look at a football without flinching. Although, with time I overcame my phobia of footballs, I was filled with dread when I realized that the mysterious Super Bowl would return, every year.

Bellows and screams can be heard from the neighboring house. A skirmish? No. A torture chamber? No again. The day is Sunday, the time of the year almost everyone looks forward to. Or in my case, dreads. As I was submerged in the deep ocean of Physics of the Future on a seemingly normal Sunday afternoon, I notice that a feeling of tension gathers in a dark cloud hovering in the air. Soon, the aforementioned bellows and screams begin, coming from the disappointed fans in the neighborhood. And after those bloodcurdling sounds, advice and encouragement to the players follows: “Don’t give up!” “Watch out!” It’s puzzling to me. I learned this lesson as a young boy, that some may still not know. They can’t hear you through the TV screen. If one were to take a look inside the house these disturbing sounds are coming from, they would find the avid viewers surrounded by large, empty bags of chips, platters of pizza pockets and wings, and toppled bottles or cans of beer.

Perhaps the rise and fall of testosterone levels when one’s team loses has something to do with the ancient pride in one’s tribe. They say that their team represents their hometown, and yet the truth is that their team is comprised of skilled players traded in from elsewhere.  So why exactly, would one support one’s former enemy? Or a complete stranger? But in the end, friends gather on the couch to socialize. Even with the odd fistfight, they’re all having fun in the end.