I like to call it “Proper Football”
The Superbowl, the one game that 83% of Americans said they would choose to watch over having sex, will provide drama which the likes of England will never understand.
Since moving to study in the Merry Isle, I have had the constant task of defending what I like to call “proper football” to those I have met, who cannot understand the intensity behind a game with a clock that constantly stops and players who need the protection of pads and helmets. Your football may involve 90 minutes of constant running with mere shin guards for protection, but it lacks the passion of the clash of metal-on-metal when men lay each other on their backs, ending the play.
The truth is, though the game may constantly stop, the intensity behind each play is such that success depends on inches: the inches of gap through which the running back sidesteps, the inches that the quarterback has to place the ball in order to get through the hands of a defender to a receiver in the endzone, and the inches needed for a first down. In no other sport does the offense rely on a thick book of plays changed weekly to attempt to outsmart the opposition who has studied hours of tape attempting to predict movement before it happens.
Not that the sport itself cannot stand alone, football also offers an amount of spectacle. This spectacle is why the Superbowl is one of the only sporting events sports fans and those who cringe at the sound of ESPN or Sports Illustrated can enjoy together.
Companies spend 1.6 million dollars per 30 seconds for the chance to get their ludicrous slogans and adverts on the screen during commercial breaks to entertain the millions of viewers.
Additionally, there is the half time show, a concert that lasts less than ten minutes, but seems to attract bigger acts each year. The likes of Diana Ross and U2 have performed in the past, while this year MTV boasts an all star line-up of Janet Jackson, Kid Rock, Nelly, P Diddy, and many more.
The average fan, who cannot afford to enjoy the game live, participates at home with 20 of his/her closest friends in the living room. There is nothing like sitting around with a bowl of peanuts, chips and guacamole, and (now that I’m in England where the drinking age is a reasonable 18 not 21) a Budweiser, taking in the year’s most dramatic sporting event. The only problem: this year I will have to watch it at 12:25 am.
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