This piece originally appeared in the St. Paul Pioneer Press in February of 2012. You can find the original online here: http://www.twincities.com/sports/ci_19886914.
The Super Bowl. It is everything. It is the culmination of an entire year’s worth of work for one hundred and six players and their coaches. It is the gladiatorial spectacle writ large, with an entire nation the stage, hundreds of millions of spectators enthralled by sixty minutes of savagery; a chance for three hours to be part of something greater than an individual life. It is a chance for an obscure name to clamber atop the pedestal of greatness, or for a celebrated veteran to ruin a career with one ill-timed drop or errant pass. It is the opportunity to rise above the mundane and the petty and achieve immortality. It is everything.
The Super Bowl. It is nothing. It is the overindulged watching the overcompensated while marketing-company executives rub their well-manicured hands with glee. It is the definition of materialistic consumption, as million-dollar advertisements vie with one another to see who can blare the loudest, bejeweled peacocks and sequined foxes strutting their wares for an insatiable audience drunk with emotion and liquor and too many mini hot dogs (such a steal at only three dollars a box, and, no, don’t ask what’s in them).
The Super Bowl. It is a celebration of life. It is the child who grew up with a blind father and almost had to quit playing football so he could work to support his family now never having to worry about money again. It is the receiver who, despite all odds, was able to fill in at cornerback and make a key play to keep his team in the game. It is the fan who, inspired by his favorite team, found the strength to rise above the miserable conditions at home and become a doctor (or teacher, or mentor) and who is now cheering that team on from the stands. It is that ultimate story of the quarterback no one thought would amount to anything who is now living the Hollywood dream with a supermodel wife and is widely regarded as the best player at his position, and, boy, if you tried to pitch that as a movie script, would you be laughed out of the room.
The Super Bowl. It is the funeral march of despair. It is that same quarterback slowly walking off the field after having come so close to victory only to watch it snatched away by an improbable circus catch, the width of a blade of grass the difference between perfection and an off-season of what-ifs. It is the bitter taste left in the mouth of an entire organization, one some have tasted more keenly than most, to travel so far and walk away with only a consolation Division Champion ring that most would rather melt down than look at, so stinging are the memories. It is the knowledge that on the one day when it mattered the most, at the pinnacle of greatness, you JUST WEREN’T GOOD ENOUGH—GET A JOB, YOU LAZY BUM, never mind that those words will echo through your mind long after the lights are shut down and the last piece of confetti swept away, perhaps to linger the rest of your life. It is the resounding thwack of an angry husband striking his wife, unable to articulate the pent-up frustration and rage he experiences from watching what is, after all, only a game.
The Super Bowl. It is the pathos of the stage on a scale Sophocles could only dream of, a million different story lines all merging and swirling together to form one vast tapestry of drama, comedy, and tragedy; a resonating stillness of chaos that brings the audience and actors alike so close to a transcendental moment that can never be captured, only experienced. It is the shining instant of perfection, but it is not guaranteed, never guaranteed, you have only the chance to participate, and is it any wonder that it happens on a Sunday.
The Super Bowl. It is the ultimate dichotomy, a celebration of socialist equality amid the thunderous roar of a capitalist juggernaut, a dance that any team can attend with that promiscuous belle of the ball Advertising. It is our society, our culture, our America. It is the gloriously triumphant epitaph that will one day adorn our tombstone of decadence, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
It is the Super Bowl.