I grew up with a love of sports and a passion for games. Who fostered this characteristic in my psyche I’m not sure, but my love for sport has stuck with me like that of a childhood nickname gleaned from one’s youthful gregariousness; think Pork Chop, Sparky, Bubba, etc.
As an adult, I still have that passion and all though I never excelled at any one sport exceptionally well; I love the idea of a sporting lifestyle; maintaining a proper fitness level, incorporating exercise throughout the day, and exhibiting a gladiator mindset. Most of my modern exploits include some sort of exercise with my kids, whether its trampoline jumping, dog wrestling, or weight lifting and when I am not actively engaged in sporting pursuits, I tune into elite level athletes performing their feats on TV.
The athletes we revere do things athletically that make most common enthusiasts revel in awe. They dunk, tackle, throw, jump, spin, catch, swivel, run, and pound faster, harder, and with more precision than 99% of all people on planet Earth. In essence, they are gifted in ways unfathomable yet we have become accustomed to their performances and even criticize their short comings when the score falls short and our team, “gasp” loses. I know I do.
As proper gladiators, we want to win, even if winning means living vicariously through whichever sporting star we are following at the time. Such a philosophy is vital in fandom and understood throughout all sport. Who plays…the best. Who sits…the second best. Who watches…the fans…because they are either retired or incapable of such a high level of play. We accept it because anything less would weaken the very integrity of sport.
On Super Bowl Sunday, with this mindset fully intact, a 60” TV screen some 7 feet from my nose, and a plate of football food in my lap, I sat comfortably on my brother’s barcalounger prepared to be dazzled with football feat after football feat. And the athletes did not disappoint. Through the glitz and glamour of the most spectacled sporting event on the face of the earth, the players performed like elite athletes should. The hits were hard, the passes precise, and the routes were clever. The skill on the field was unrivaled and 100 plus million viewers were treated to a game that was cleanly played and not decided until the fourth quarter. It was poetry in motion, like beautiful music under a perfect starlit sky, virtual flawlessness on grass…at least until halftime. At halftime, mediocrity crept in like a once vibrant glittering girl behind aged blue eyes still vying for super model status.
As I sat jaw agape and uncertain of the spectacle before me, trying to explain to my eldest daughter why the band was butchering the CSI theme song, I tried the have respect for the once dominant and musically relevant band affably named “The Who.” Settling in, however, I could not contain “The Why.”
Please don’t misunderstand me all you Who lovers, I don’t hate The Who. I merely question the lucidity of showcasing an aged albeit culturally relevant 1960’s and 1970’s English rock band on the most visible stage in the world for the preeminent “super” game between the two best gladiators…er I mean NFL teams of the year. Surely, in keeping with the philosophy of sport, we could have found a musical group still in their prime much the same as the players on the field. Scheduling “The Who” for the Super Bowl is like asking Jim Brown to suit up and run the ball between the tackles. Who among you think that would end well? And that, my friends, is my criticism of “The Who” halftime show. Well that and that darned windmill move I can’t get out of my mind.
But rest assured, “The Who” will continue their European Soccer Stadium Tour for all those that missed the show, enjoying renewed interest from elder fans and reaping new fans who will no doubt revel in “Who” music; inarguably some of the greatest music ever written. I hear tickets are still available.
Meanwhile in upcoming months, the NFL will enter into contractual agreements with “The March King,” John Phillip Sousa and famed lyricist Francis Scott Key for the production of next years Super Bowl Halftime Show. It should be an awesome presentation draped in American patriotism and pyrotechnics…now if only the Patriots can get back on track…maybe with the help of Babe Parilli and a few members of the “Steel Curtain” to shore up the line….Just a thought!
As an adult, I still have that passion and all though I never excelled at any one sport exceptionally well; I love the idea of a sporting lifestyle; maintaining a proper fitness level, incorporating exercise throughout the day, and exhibiting a gladiator mindset. Most of my modern exploits include some sort of exercise with my kids, whether its trampoline jumping, dog wrestling, or weight lifting and when I am not actively engaged in sporting pursuits, I tune into elite level athletes performing their feats on TV.
The athletes we revere do things athletically that make most common enthusiasts revel in awe. They dunk, tackle, throw, jump, spin, catch, swivel, run, and pound faster, harder, and with more precision than 99% of all people on planet Earth. In essence, they are gifted in ways unfathomable yet we have become accustomed to their performances and even criticize their short comings when the score falls short and our team, “gasp” loses. I know I do.
As proper gladiators, we want to win, even if winning means living vicariously through whichever sporting star we are following at the time. Such a philosophy is vital in fandom and understood throughout all sport. Who plays…the best. Who sits…the second best. Who watches…the fans…because they are either retired or incapable of such a high level of play. We accept it because anything less would weaken the very integrity of sport.
On Super Bowl Sunday, with this mindset fully intact, a 60” TV screen some 7 feet from my nose, and a plate of football food in my lap, I sat comfortably on my brother’s barcalounger prepared to be dazzled with football feat after football feat. And the athletes did not disappoint. Through the glitz and glamour of the most spectacled sporting event on the face of the earth, the players performed like elite athletes should. The hits were hard, the passes precise, and the routes were clever. The skill on the field was unrivaled and 100 plus million viewers were treated to a game that was cleanly played and not decided until the fourth quarter. It was poetry in motion, like beautiful music under a perfect starlit sky, virtual flawlessness on grass…at least until halftime. At halftime, mediocrity crept in like a once vibrant glittering girl behind aged blue eyes still vying for super model status.
As I sat jaw agape and uncertain of the spectacle before me, trying to explain to my eldest daughter why the band was butchering the CSI theme song, I tried the have respect for the once dominant and musically relevant band affably named “The Who.” Settling in, however, I could not contain “The Why.”
Please don’t misunderstand me all you Who lovers, I don’t hate The Who. I merely question the lucidity of showcasing an aged albeit culturally relevant 1960’s and 1970’s English rock band on the most visible stage in the world for the preeminent “super” game between the two best gladiators…er I mean NFL teams of the year. Surely, in keeping with the philosophy of sport, we could have found a musical group still in their prime much the same as the players on the field. Scheduling “The Who” for the Super Bowl is like asking Jim Brown to suit up and run the ball between the tackles. Who among you think that would end well? And that, my friends, is my criticism of “The Who” halftime show. Well that and that darned windmill move I can’t get out of my mind.
But rest assured, “The Who” will continue their European Soccer Stadium Tour for all those that missed the show, enjoying renewed interest from elder fans and reaping new fans who will no doubt revel in “Who” music; inarguably some of the greatest music ever written. I hear tickets are still available.
Meanwhile in upcoming months, the NFL will enter into contractual agreements with “The March King,” John Phillip Sousa and famed lyricist Francis Scott Key for the production of next years Super Bowl Halftime Show. It should be an awesome presentation draped in American patriotism and pyrotechnics…now if only the Patriots can get back on track…maybe with the help of Babe Parilli and a few members of the “Steel Curtain” to shore up the line….Just a thought!
2 comments:
I was glad to see those guys perform. After forty years, the Who remain gladitorial giants in the "Coliseum" of pop music because what their music explores resonates with every generation. I would respectfully suggest that Snoop Dog, Janet Jackson, Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears and the like will not only be unable to "bring it" as sexagenarians the way The Who did Sunday night, but if remembered at all, it will be for all the wrong reasons. Besides, that was one killer light show. :-)
I will give you that Bob...I blame Timberlake and crew for the choices made at halftime...forgive me for the fun I poked at the Who...I do enjoy their music...just selfishly couldn't pass up an opportunity for a little satire. That light show did rock...and who is this Snoop Dogg you speak of?
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