Super Bowl is nothing but pure hype

Redemption. Self-obsession. Delusions of grandeur. Sound bites. Revenge. Pageantry. Heroes. Villains. Grown men referring to themselves in the third person. And hovering over everything like a pungent odor from a cesspool, that inescapable, uniquely modern invention called Hype.

Must be the Super Bowl.

The greatest spectacle in American sport offered us all this and more. And hey — there was even a football game.

No, it wasn’t a very good one. Shows what happens when you listen to those sportswriters who act like buffoons. A defensive slugfest, they said it would be, a 7-6 Super Bowl every bit as exciting as the one last year. Well, it was a defensive slugfest, all right. Yep, that Baltimore Ravens’ defense, in a very festive mood, slugged the New York Giants around. Two titanic fighters?

Please. The Ravens were Evander Holyfield; the Giants were more like Holyfield’s ear after an impromptu mastication.

The game doesn’t really matter, you say? It’s not about the game anymore, and it hasn’t been for years. And it’s not even a football game — it’s more like a cultural aberration. Any sports event that not only invites the Backstreet Boys and N’Sync to the proceedings, but also asks them to perform can hardly be considered an entirely valid championship contest. Well, until the great, glorious XFL invites the aforementioned boy bands to their championship game — not to perform, but rather to fight to the bloody death — I’m willing to set the whole cultural aberration argument aside for a worthier recipient. Like “Survivor II.”
Because any argument about the Super Bowl’s inflated ego is just as worthless as it is justified. The Super Bowl, instead of trying to put on airs of false portent, gleefully wallows in an identity as big and stupid as its name. The naysayers, downplayers, critics and faultfinders need to just plug up their yapping mouths with a handle of Tostitos, and be quiet so the rest of us can hear the next E*Trade commercial.

Obviously, the Super Bowl has replaced the World Series as the pre-eminent American sports championship. Which should come as no surprise, given the different circumstances of each era of their popularity. The World Series was a reflection of the American ethos of the early-to-mid 20th century, valuing methodical, strategic and precise hard work over a seven-game period. But since the 1970s, a new period of American excess began, and the Super Bowl provided a more than willing symbol, throwing as many things at the American consumer/viewer as possible, while praying that most would stick to their glazed-over eyeballs.

Even events that surround the Super Bowl itself have come to reflect this badge of overkill. Exhibit A: Media Day, the most wonderfully pointless two hours in the history of mass media. I defy anyone not to revel in the sight of 2,000 overzealous reporters being literally unleashed on pro football players who sit like 17th century European despots beneath canopies, gamely answering the idiotic questions reporters must have scribbled on their pad after doing one too many shots at the hotel bar.

Ordinarily, Media Day at the Super Bowl is pretty useless. The coaches all parrot what any reasonably intelligent football analyst has already said about their game plan, and the players do their part by repeating exactly what coach has told them. That is, of course, unless you ask an out-of-left-field question. Lovers of insightful commentary should stay away. But if a carefully considered answer to the question (as posed to Baltimore’s Tony Siragusa) “Have you been offered a role on ‘The Sopranos’?” is your cup of tea, then Media Day is absolute paradise.

Amazingly, this year’s Media Day had a surplus of story lines and personalities that darn near made it interesting. To whit: there was Giants quarterback Kerry Collins, a former drunk who treated his Media Day question and answer like it was an intervention at AA. There was Baltimore’s ever-voluble Shannon Sharpe who, given the chance to freely air his opinions and grievances, seemed to be gasping for breath at points. Then there were the two funniest men in the NFL, New York’s Michael Strahan (funny because he’s funny) and Baltimore’s Siragusa (funny mainly because of his astronomically large head). Raven Qadry Ismail even walked around with a sign around his neck with his name phonetically spelled out. And as if sensing the absurdity of the situation, even the media seemed to be laughing at itself. Children’s network Nickelodeon got into the act, assigning a 12-year-old cub reporter to initiate staring contests with the players.

Hopefully the kid kept his distance from Ray Lewis, Baltimore’s all-universe linebacker/acquitted double murderer who was far and away the center of attention during the weeks leading up to the game. There hasn’t been a better super villain since Dallas Cowboy “Hollywood” Henderson, a man who actually snorted coke on the field during the 1976 Super Bowl. Lewis, however, cuts a far more fearsome presence than Henderson, simply because the only high he needs on the field is the one you get from pounding the crap out of the ball carrier.

His Media Day press conference, where reporters assaulted him with questions about his murder charge, was live television at its dramatic best. Calm, cold and seemingly remorseless, Lewis’ favorite response to most questions was a terse “Football, football, football!”

What Ray surely meant was “Hype, hype, hype!” Those three critical ingredients, heaped together and nuked in the pop-culture microwave like a hastily prepared and terribly unhealthy bowl of Velveeta chili-cheese dip, are what make the Super Bowl such a wonderful reflection of full-of-itself post-millennial America.

We’re a nation of spoiled, egotistical pro athletes, really. Playing ability doesn’t matter as long as you can talk a good game, as loudly and conspicuously as possible. The surrealism of the Super Bowl is our American reality. And even though jadedness regarding the Big Game is in no short supply, you have to admit that the Super Bowl’s recipe for lunacy makes for some pretty irresistible hogwash.

Jack Bullion is a junior English major from Columbia, Mo.
He can be reached at (j.w.bullion@student.tcu.edu).

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