(HOST) In the days leading up to Super Bowl Sunday, commentator Bill Mares realized he wasn’t in a Super Bowl mood.
(MARES) I wasn’t going to watch the Super Bowl this year.
Lately, I haven’t had much appetite for pseudo-patriotism, even on Ronald Reagan’s 100th birthday.
In fact, the thought of Super Bowl Sunday seemed almost absurd when compared to the real struggle of millions of ordinary people in Cairo taking the streets to free themselves from tyranny’s yoke.
I’ve been to Tahir Square. I’ve never been to a Super Bowl.
That’s Super Bowl X-L-V, by the way. The number is in Roman numerals to remind us that this extravaganza has its roots in the Roman Empire. This great American secular holiday is a celebration of excess with its special rituals of foods, parties and plumage.
Apart from the simple question of who’s going to win, the chief intellectual content is the cleverness of the advertisements. And the only real suspense during an interminable half-time is whether a "wardrobe" element will "malfunction."
Then, of course, the venue would be the new 1.5 billion dollar temple to the ego of Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones. Yeah, the Cowboys, "America’s Team," they tell the world, with a record this year of six and ten! Ironically, this would be the first Super Bowl in years without cheerleaders because neither the Packers nor Steelers have teams of gridiron Rockettes.
But late Sunday afternoon my resolve began to slip. Had the Patriots been playing, I probably wouldn’t have been so dismissive. Half an hour into the game, I decided to check the score. 14-3 Packers.
OK, I’ll just watch a few minutes of the second quarter, with the sound off and a good book on my lap. I was only doing this out of loyalty to one of our sons, an avid Steelers fan, who was 6,000 miles away, streaming the game. I quietly preferred the Packers.
Half time came, and the score was 21-10. The grandiose sound and light halftime show held no interest for me. What to do with 25 minutes of dead time?
I put on a coat and boots and crossed my snowy Rubicon. In ten minutes I was in the cozy, crowded sensory overload of a downtown Burlington pub with three huge TV’s, 80 decibels of sound, hot wings and cold beer.
My defenses against this athletic jingoism had melted like a snowman in 60 degree weather.
Despite innumerable replays and breathless cliches from press box and sideline, and some pretty dumb ads, I forgot about the endless snowstorms, the 9% unemployment, and the chaos in Egypt. I groaned at Pittsburgh’s comeback. I pounded the bar at Green Bay’s victory and shook the hand of an anonymous Packer fan next to me.
I trudged home happy, but I can promise you that if there’s a player lock-out in the NFL this year, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. That is, until maybe next November.