I
just don’t get the mass appeal of football, or want to. For me, the Super Bowl matters more as a
harbinger of pitchers and catchers than anything else (and next year’s game is
set for February 7, less than a week before most p’s and c’s report to
camp). And the commercials—has it really
come to this, Americans wanting to be entertained through advertising while
stuffing their faces with junk food?
There
must be a lot of prime-demographic guys out there who dream about going to a
bar, drinking a beer and ending up as a real, live version of Pac Man; I
don’t. Hardly anyone complains about the
length of time—just about four hours—of the ad-bloated Super Bowl; I do. And when was the last time a World Series
ended in a fight?
This
is what happens when a game is severed from its roots. With baseball, the ghosts of Ruth, et al
hover over proceedings, always ready to pull the game back from the abyss the
clown powers that be would drive it over, if only they could. But the ghost of George Halas has left the
building, and the Bears don’t play in Wrigley Field anymore. Or the Patriots at Fenway.
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