Perverse Americana invades the planet of Super Sunday
Sir Paul McCartney's wardrobe has been checked and rechecked by the FBI, Mi6 and Jeb Bush, all in preparation for the most- watched, single day sporting event on this planet.
That's right ladies, gents and Janet "It-Malfunctioned" Jackson, it is time for Super Bowl XXXIX, or the 39th annual for those who don't do Latin.
American football's championship game is so much more than a sporting event -- it is an over-the-top symbol of Americana in all its extremes, highlighted by two weeks of hype where a horde of journalists (400 foreign, 3,000 U.S.) converge on the city chosen to host the game -- Jacksonville, Florida -- and pose inane questions to the 3rd string bench warmers.
Some of the biggest companies in the world will shell out US$2.4 million each to run a 30-second ad so that the 800 million worldwide viewers in 200 countries can see their clever sales pitches; last year, one featured a large male equine with some very disturbing flatulence-control issues selling beer, which religious rightists swore would corrupt the youth.
For the uninitiated, American football is a different sport from rugby or soccer, so the first thing one must do is stop comparing them and understand that they are separate and unique animals. It is not and has never aspired to be a continuous endurance-oriented sport, so prepare for loads of starts and stops.
It is a series of well-planned battle attacks and counterattacks, with a regrouping and planning session in between each. Think of it as a gratuitously violent form of chess on a large, outdoor playing field, with generals on the sidelines planning each assault for their extraordinarily athletic lieutenants and sergeants to execute.
The helmet and shoulder pads are not defensive protective devices, they are offensive weaponry. When placed upon the frame of 193 cm, 123 kg lineman Jevon Kearse, who runs the 100 meters in 10.4 seconds, bench presses 600 pounds and is a rock hard tower of snarling aggression, that helmet becomes a "warhead", launched at a velocity of 40 kph into a ball carrier.
The ball carrier himself will be a 210-pound Adonis, with 10.2 speed for the 100, and these encounters produce collisions of such sublime magnitude, they have to be seen to be believed.
These aren't your pretty boys of soccer writhing in the grass as if auditioning for the lead role in a horror flick called Spastic Drama Queen when someone merely places a shoe too near their own, nor is it those lumbering rugby guys trotting around listlessly late in a game grabbing an opponent's jersey to bring him down.
Of course, the game is very much intertwined with those ubiquitous and underclothed NFL cheerleaders; "football fans need a bit of sex with their violence," the late Dallas Cowboys owner Tex Shramm once explained.
In this edition we have the defending champion New England Patriots, with Tom Brady as the field lieutenant (quarterback) along with a linebacker named Teddy "Make-Mine-a-Cold" Bruschi.
Opposite them are the hard luck Philadelphia Eagles featuring the aforementioned Mr. Kearse, his field lieutenant Donovan McNabb and the outrageously talented, trash-talking Terrell Owens, fresh out of the surgery ward and with two screws holding his famous ankle together.
The Pats are favored by seven points in Vegas, but my money is on the hungrier, more athletic Eagles, if only for their title- starved fans (the last time they won anything was the 1960 NFL championship, with Chuck Bednarik famously clocking Frank Gifford of the NY Giants with such ferocity it took two years for the latter to recover.)
Their only appearance in the Super Bowl (the first annual was in 1967) was a loss to the Jim Plunkett-led Raiders in 1980. The Philly fans once infamously booed and threw snowballs at Santa Claus during a halftime show, and are as notorious for their lewdness and crudeness as Millwall supporters are for their hooliganism in England.
Unfortunately most of them won't be at the stadium, as the seats were sold years in advance to CEOs, relatives of Bill Gates and Saudi sheiks.
The game will be on at 6 a.m. here on Monday morning -- so pull a sickie, get some frosty brewskies, a plate of nachos, a few friends and put your inhibitions, stereotypes and prejudices aside for a few hours to enjoy, or mock, a wild slice of American pie. -- Rich Simons