My brother and I were beyond consolation. How could we miss the game?

This past Sunday, 125 million people from across the globe watched the Super Bowl, the most-watched television event in the United States each year.

Many Jewish (and not necessarily kiruv) organizations offer glatt kosher halftime shows to inject some much-needed Torah and ruchniyus into an otherwise spiritually barren event.

My intent is neither to condemn nor condone the many frum Jews who partake in the game. And I’m referring both to those who readily admit to watching and to those who choose to cover their tracks by furtively finding venues to view the event. I am no longer surprised by the varied array of individuals from all walks of Orthodox life who allow the secret of their viewing of the big game to escape their lips, sometimes when they explain why they were unavailable for my phone call or through some other slip of the tongue.

Yet my goal is neither to critique nor praise. As I have learned from the rabbinate, we all need some downtime — it’s the halftime we can all do without.

Rather, I offer you this information regarding the Super Bowl as I humbly ask you to indulge me as I recall a memory from 56 years ago, a memory that taught me the meaning of love.

This is not a story about the Super Bowl or sports; rather, it’s the story of a mother’s love for her sons, an example of maternal love that continues to illuminate my every waking moment.

The year was 1969.

My brother and I were (as were all the boys in our yeshivah) devout fans of the New York Jets.

That year, amazingly (and I won’t bore you with football history), the Jets earned an appearance in Super Bowl III, to take place in Miami on January 12, 1969. Along with all our friends, my brother and I waited breathlessly for the momentous day.

Finally, Sunday, January 12 arrived, and my brother and I eagerly began planning which snacks would accompany our viewing of the big game.

Yet our dreams were dashed as my parents recalled that the annual meeting of their landsmanshaft (a chesed society of Jewish immigrants from the same European town) was that afternoon at 3 p.m… and opening kickoff was at 3:05!

My parents had to go and, as they had no one to leave us with, we had to join them.

My brother and I were beyond consolation. How could we miss the game? Yet as my parents explained, their attendance at the meeting was mandatory, and missing the game would be collateral damage.

And then something occurred that I could never have imagined.

My mother took my father aside and spoke quietly in Yiddish. They went back and forth until my mother announced, in what could only be described as a Solomonic solution, “We have decided that since you have to go with us, and seeing how upset you are, we will bring along the small portable television set from the kitchen so you won’t have to miss the game.”

And so it was that our portable 12-inch television made the trek from Brooklyn to the Bronx, and two boys (along with dozens of meeting attendees!) watched their favorite team win the Super Bowl.

That was perhaps the last Super Bowl I watched over the last half-century.

Yet its legacy continues to inspire me.

The demonstration of love my mother conveyed that Sunday afternoon continues to be my guidebook as I help parents navigate the great challenge of parenting.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1049)