Super Bowl Sunday didn’t go quite as I imagined. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious; just a flesh wound, and a bruised ego.  I realized while watching all the pregame hype that fetch isn’t all that much different than football.  In fact I could even argue that fetch is a simplified version of football.  Mom is our quarterback in charge of throwing the ball.  I am, of course, the receiver who catches it.  Now if we were playing Lemmy’s version of Super Fetch, also known as “Har, Har, I Have the Ball and You Don’t,” I would then take the ball and run around the yard in a game of keep away that eventually leads to a tackle by an opposing player.  Although I’m not a big fan of “Har, Har, I Have the Ball and You Don’t,” I admit sometimes my squeaky ball gets intercepted by Asa, and I have no choice but to play by these rules.  I will charge down the field and tackle him, wrestling Asa to the ground until I retrieve the ball.  Then I bring the ball to my quarterback for the game of Super Fetch to continue.  I suppose in our version of football the act of bringing the ball back to Mom could be considered a touchdown because we certainly do score when the game continues.  But dogs don’t believe in winners and losers, and our reward is simply the game continuing as long as possible.  Well sadly my game on Sunday was cut short.

Armed with a brand new bacon scented squeaky ball, Mom, Asa and I headed out to play Super Fetch.  I was very excited for our big game.  At first Super Fetch went exactly as I imagined.  Mom was Tom Brady, I was Rob Gronkowski, and Asa was some guy on the Philadelphia Eagles.  Sorry I don’t know their names.  I’m from New England, so I really don’t pay much attention to the other teams.  Actually, to be perfectly honest I don’t pay much attention to football at all, except on Super Bowl Sunday.  Anyways, throw after throw I ran effortlessly after the ball retrieving it.  In my head I could hear the crowd going wild.  I was the MVP – Most Valuable Pup!  That is until that one fateful throw.  Ok, I got a bit showy, I ran full sprint down the yard, and perhaps jumped with a bit more enthusiasm than I should have to catch it.  Next thing I know, I lost my footing on the ice and slid into the fence.  Don’t worry, the fence is fine.  I’m fine too.  But in the process I scraped the back of one of my legs on the ice.

Like all true football players, I didn’t take notice of the flesh wound.  I was just a little blood.  Mom didn’t even notice it at first, and was too busy needlessly checking me for a concussion.  It was Asa, who for selfish reasons, alerted Mom to the blood.  He knew this injury would take me out of the game, and he could keep playing without me!  But Asa’s plan didn’t go as imagined either, and our game abruptly ended.  Mom took us both inside, and cleaned my wound.   At least I didn’t need stitches like Tom Brady did with his hand.  I ended up watching the real Super Bowl wearing the cone of shame because I couldn’t stop licking my wound.  Such is the life of a Super Fetch athlete.