There’s something wrong in a sport where what happens between the play is more entertaining than the game itself.
It’s even worse during the playoffs. None of the above NFL divisional tilts piqued my interest enough to stay tuned longer than a few minutes at a time. Grown men, squeezed into spandex tights, preening and primping for the cameras while millions watch does nothing for me.
Can you imagine if women wore the same outfits? Stop drooling, guys. Some of those players should extend the girdle-esque ability of the slinky pants to their football jerseys.
A lot of those men are built like tanks, packed with power. That’s no reason not to tuck in the gut, buddy. They do make jerseys with stretch fabric, you know.
To casual observers the Super Bowl is pure hoopla, all style and no substance; it’s the trophy wife of professional sports titles. All glitz, all glamour, looks good on your arm but once the shine comes off the five-carat rock and her roots show…the search for a new one is already under way.
It’s hard to get into an event that was pretty much designed for television ratings and revenue. It costs more for a 30-second spot than many a player makes in an entire season. There are scalpers, lurking under the puka shells outside Raymond James Stadium, who rake in more from selling the 99% of tickets not available to NFL fans than many a player earns on the gridiron that day.
Truth be told, the only Superbowl XLIII appearance that has me pumped is Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Pint-sized guitarist Nils Lofgren is using the event to test out his new hip following surgery.
My apologies to the bookies in Vegas - the only picks I’m betting on belong to Springsteen, Lofgren, and Little Steven.
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