ELItorial: Super Bowl more of a Super Bore

By Alison Morris

TOM ROBERTS/NEWSMAKERS Despite the performance of the game's MVP John Elway, the Super Bowl didn't live up to its billing.

There are some things at Yale that have become in stitutions: drunken guys in sweaty white wifebeaters at Toad's, girls in spandex waiting endlessly for treadmills at Payne Whitney to work off Commons' ranch dressing, and greasy Chinese food from Main Garden that somehow always hits the spot right before it makes you sick. In the world of sports some things are sacred as well--and the Super Bowl is the absolute pinnacle of every male's testosterone-driven fantasy. Bottom line, it's a day to sit around with your buddies, eat pizza and wings, drink beer, soak up commercial hoopla, and even watch some great football. Being somewhat in touch with my masculine side, I consider the Super Bowl one of the greatest days on the sporting calendar. But this year the NFL and its respective sponsors proved that even the Super Bowl can go wrong--very wrong.

I'm not just talking about the fact that the point spread in Denver's favor nearly sent Dan Reeves into cardiac arrest again. Granted, the game itself left much to be desired, but the Super Bowl is an entire package. This year, it seemed like an empty box. I don't care how dedicated you are to football. Even Mike Myers and his Saturday Night Live Ditka-junkies will admit that the celebrity anthem, the commercials, and the halftime show are what make the Super Bowl complete.

Something seemed awry from the very beginning when I sat down to watch the game this year. Maybe it was the fact that for once I wasn't watching the Dallas Cowboys' dream team and whiny Jimmy Johnson stomp all over their competition. Or maybe it's because somehow the Buffalo Bills didn't manage to show up and lose as they always seem to. Whatever the real reason, the Super Bowl and everything it stands for seemed half-assed this season.

Cher was clad in her finest vintage 1991 acid-washed jeans, a pink-sequined bolero, and Hard Candy hair mascara, and she barely mouthed the words to a lukewarm, pre-recorded national anthem. It made me long for the days when Kathie Lee Gifford's over-Catholicized mouth at least started off a football game the way it should start: with respect. Forgive me if I'm wrong, or if I've simply spent too much time with Herald fashion columnist Jamil Moen, BK '01, but if you've accepted the honor of singing at the most widely viewed sporting event of the year, leave the trailer-trash jeans and the digital recorder at home. Don't wear something that looks like it was purchased with the Marlboro money off your last pack of cigarettes, and set up a TelePrompter if you can't remember the damn words. Show some respect and at least sing.

The disappointment didn't end with the national anthem. Instead, it was only the beginning. Normally, the Super Bowl is a veritable bonanza of commercial exploitation. Everyone from Nike to Budweiser joins in the battle for a few laughs in the hope of launching a world-renowned marketing campaign. It's the one time all year when people actually run to the fridge during the game so they don't miss the good commercials. But this year, they were just a bunch of ads. There wasn't a new idea in the house.

Budweiser may have been the only saving grace. The beer company's lily pad frogs and bitter lizards were particularly charming as they slapped each other around with their tongues, but they disappeared early in the first half, leaving no storyline behind them. And can someone explain to me what exactly was going on with Cuba Gooding, Jr. meeting the Reservoir Dogs, who basically wanted to kill him until he offers them a Pepsi One? The remainder of the night was filled with meaningless and unimpressive technological mumbo-jumbo. Whatever happened to Michael Jordan's slam-dunk demonstrations with Bugs Bunny and his friends? For God's sake, what happened to the Bud Bowl? Once, Super Bowl commercials were almost worth the billion-dollar price tag on their airtime. This year, they were only useful for hitting up the bathroom and grabbing a cold one.

As for the halftime show, it looked like I was watching the opening ceremonies for the Olympics gone bad. Although Gloria Estefan, the queen of Miami, was a perfect choice for a Floridian Super Bowl, I have two words for you: Stevie Wonder. Didn't his last hit originate in the same year Cher's jeans hit the market?

To move on and rip apart the game would be an endless venture. Atlanta simply proved that when Cinderella hits the Bowl, she has to get back before midnight. This year midnight hit somewhere short of the second quarter, and man, did that football turn into a pumpkin. Instead of being the drunken testosterone festival that is the traditional Super Bowl, this year's game was more like waking up with a nasty Budweiser-induced hangover that just wouldn't go away.

There are some things in life that should remain sacred --and the Super Bowl is one of them. I think it's time we should all check our millennial watches, because we may have just witnessed the end of an era. Come this Saturday, when I hit Toad's, I'm wondering if there'll even be a wifebeater in the house.

Back to Sports...