OK, now that we have the Super Bowl behind us we can get on with
the war.
OK, now that we have the Super Bowl behind us we can get on with the war.
Boy, that was really a super game, wasn’t it? I mean, unless you’re a Raiders fan, or you wanted a close game, or you expected to see the best offense against the best defense, or you’re a traditionalist who believes that the manly outdoor sport of football should play it’s January Big Game under climatic conditions a bit more severe than that of an average Spring day in Tahiti. But that endless string of clever commercials, and all that overproduced music, and the fireworks, and the grossly excessive half time spectacle that would have brought tears of joy to the eyes of Caligula – now THAT’S football.
Ah, but even in the small and frequently overlooked area of the festivities that involved an actual athletic contest there was one bright spot and his name is Jerry Rice. The man who owns more records than the Wherehouse snagged one over the middle, juked a couple of hapless Buccaneers right out of their swashbuckles, and flashed into the endzone like a Marvel comics superhero. It was a magnificent piece of showmanship by the NFL’s Most Valuable Geezer, and it made all us old folks feel real pride in our advancing decrepitude. For the Start-The-Morning-With-A-Handful-Of-Pills set he definitely be Da Man.
Myself, just watching him make all those younger guys look bad sent me off into that personal reverie so many of us have of the glorythat could be ours if we were only given the opportunity by a world that somehow steadfastly refuses to recognize our talent, our iron determination, our commitment to excellence. I’m the one down on the field lined up at wide receiver; I’m the one who runs the slant pattern eight yards deep; I’m the one Gannon throws to. And above me I can hear the dulcet tones of John Madden immortalizing the play for future generations.
“Gannon drops back, he’s got good protection. He looks left, but Porter is covered. He looks right and finds Mitchell streaking through the zone coverage. He throws, Mitchell makes a circus catch off his shoe-tops! He head-fakes the safety and gives himself severe neck pain! Now he cuts sharply toward the goal line, badly wrenching his back! The other safety races over to cover him just as he is crippled by agonizing leg cramps! Groaning, limping, panting, his lungs on fire, unable to straighten up or grip the ball, he hobbles several wooden steps in a dead-on imitation of an arthritic chicken in a crosswind and collapses face-first on the turf before anyone tackles him! The paramedics are out there, the helicopter has been called …”
See, just because you’re getting older is no reason not to stay in shape. That’s why Jerry is my role model. Or maybe it’s Ben & Jerry, I forget. That happens when you get older.
