Open Writing

So here am I, all droopy-eyed on a rainy Yorkshire morning, after missing half a night’s sleep watching the New England Patriots vanquish the Carolina Panthers in Super Bowl XXXVIII.

Thrilling? I’ll say!

The game tied 29-29 with seconds to go, then Adam Vinatieri kicks a field goal to give the Patriots a three-point victory.

A game scripted in Hollywood, you might say.

But at half time I switched channels to catch up on the action in the African Cup of Nations.

“What relief,’’ thought I. “This is REAL football.’’

Tunisia versus Guinea. The tournament being played in Tunisia, and the crowd right behind the home team.

Exhilarating end-to-end play, with gallant Guinea equalising just before the final whistle.

Your American sports fan would not have liked that. They refuse to accept that two teams can be evenly matched and honourably share the spoils on any given day.

Sport is about winning.

And by God one of you is going to win if you have to play on from now until December!

This year’s Super Bowl TV commentators were aware that the game was being beamed to more than 120 countries.

They kept putting in little explanations for folk who might be watching American football for the very first time.

A necessary service for neophyte viewers who could be excused for thinking they were witnessing heavily-armoured troops engaged in warfare rather than sport.

But to fans of American football, of which I am one, the explanatory asides were mildly irritating.

A figure participating in the ceremonies at the start of the Patriots-Panthers game in Houston last night compelled me to acknowledge just how long I have been an enthusiastic follower of the gridiron code.

Y A Tittle tossed the coin to decide who should kick off and who should receive in Super Bowl XXXVIII.

The great Yelberton Abraham Tittle, now an old man, though always somewhat underprivileged in the hair department.

The Bald Eagle. That’s what they called him during his glorious 17-year playing career.

And I saw Y A lead his team, the New York Giants, to victory over the Dallas Cowboys in the Cotton Bowl in 1962.

Despite that defeat I have been a Dallas Cowboys fan for 42 years.

Yes, I relish American Football. The strategy, strength and violence. The heart-stopping bursts of scintillating action…

But that mid-Super Bowl glimpse of African athletes competing at exuberant full throttle merely confirmed that our football - soccer as the Americans insist on calling it - is far and away the world’s finest football game.

It’s fluid, inventive, for the most part unplanned and constantly thrilling.

No long time-outs. No measuring how far the ball has travelled.

A 90-minute game means 90 minutes of almost non-stop action.

And fans sometimes find that a draw is a very satisfactory result.

American football can be superlatively thrilling - as in this year’s Super Bowl. But Europeans for the most part find it over-choreographed and - dare I say it - somehow synthetic.

Lucky the person though who doubles his or her enjoyment by following both codes.

For my part I shall go on enjoying Super Bowls and continue to support the Dallas Cowboys through thick and thin.

But if you cut me you would see that my blood runs in the blue-and-white of Huddersfield Town Association Football Club.

Now…if you will excuse me…I must sneak away and catch up on some shut-eye.