I DIDN’T SEE last year’s Super Bowl, but at least the reason for that gave me a pretty good column. This year, on Super Sunday, my wife took our kids over to their Super Friends and told me to stay home and do some Super Relaxing. “Watch the game,” she said. “I’ll take them to dinner, too, so you ought to be able to see the whole thing.” A kiss and a wave, and off they went. Now, I’ve been married long enough to know two things: First, she loves me and really does think that a man should spend the occasional Super Bowl, Super Alone; second, she’s just softening me up for a new dishwasher, or a trip around the world. But what the heck, I’ve never looked a gift horse in the mouth. (Or any other horse, by the way. They unsettle me, and it’s not just horses. Cows, lions, hippos . . . My rule is that all animals whose evacuations are larger than a man’s should be avoided. They’re frightening; or, at the least, immodest.)

It’s probably worth saying that I’m not the biggest sports fan in the world, so missing last year’s clash of the titans didn’t send me into a spin. I didn’t catch any games this season, or the one before, or the one before that. No particular reason, and nothing against anyone who watches as many games on a Sunday as Saddam Hussein has palaces. I guess I’ve just drifted away over the years. Fact is, if I have the time for television, I’d rather watch old movies: Sherlock Holmes, war pictures, noir, potboilers, Westerns, pretty much anything in black-and-white. And it doesn’t even have to be the classics; I love them all. The other night the kids came bounding into our bed after a bath to watch a little TV before story time, and asked me to change the channel. I said, “Hey, take a look at this. Just give it a chance. It’s Gene Autry.” Two or three seconds later one of the boys said, “Why is he singing?” I started to protest, but the look my wife shot me would have easily wilted that gal with the snakes on her head. She held out her hand for the remote, and just like that we were watching “Slime Time.” Ah, well, c’est la guerre. I’m not worried. Someday, they’re going to love “The Searchers” whether they want to or not, especially when they find out they were named for the characters in it. (I swear, my wife doesn’t know.)