The Big Game
It’s Super Bowl Sunday!
I won’t be watching. I don’t care about the game or the commercials.
I don’t care about football.
I’ve cared at times, and have experienced disappointment over Minnesota Vikings’ losses both large and small. The “biggest” game I ever cared about and experienced the biggest letdown over was the NFC Championship game for the 1998 season. That was Randy Moss’s rookie season, when the team won 15 games. The year Gary Anderson was perfect, up until that last missed kick. So bummed out that they didn’t make it back to the Superbowl, maybe finally to win it.
But why should I care about these guys? The billionaire owners and millionaire players. For entertainment? Maybe. I like violent television programming as much as the next desensitized guy, but this isn’t just make believe. It’s barbaric, the action on the field. The injuries are real. The brain damage is real. But isn’t it their choice, to take part? Of course. And it’s our choice to revel over the lions in the coliseum, or not. I’m not as worried about the players’ physical well-being as I am about our emotional well-being in cheering on this bloodthirsty sport.
Over time, I just lost interest. Why get worked up over it, as if I have some stake in it, as if these games matter to my life? One team wins and one team loses. Who cares. I don’t see the rivalries as healthy, although I don’t doubt their usefulness, to some people.
I’m mostly resentful because we’re duped into funding this wretchedly excessive business as some kind of public “good.” We get to pay for their extravagant showplaces. It really is a big game, and the owners and the players are winning. Yay. Rah.