Since I have avoided ESPN and NFL Network over the last two weeks, I’ve spent the time reflecting on the Super Bowl memories of my youth. Those strange and terribly beautiful memories of Joe Montana and the brutal failures of Jim Kelly have washed over me. And amidst these memories, I’ve been trying, quite unsuccessfully, to pinpoint the exact point when the Super Bowl jumped the shark. In doing so, I’ve tried to figure out whether, like I’ve done this year, I will avoid all media leading up to the Super Bowl in the future. 

It’s hard to say when the game became more about the people covering it, more about the individual personalities—I’m looking at you, Ray Lewis and Randy Moss—than about the actual contest itself. Perhaps when the NFL realized—like those snake-charmers of network news and reality TV—that they could make Hurds of cash by turning the whole works into a tasteless freak show. 

Or maybe the whole thing was doomed and tainted from the beginning when Max McGee admitted that the night before Super Bowl I he got completely hammered and played the game—in which he had seven catches and two TDs—with an Ed Jones-sized hangover (if you’ve ever been hungover—and I hope to God you have—the feat has to rank right up there with Dock Ellis’ acid no-hitter). 

“When it’s third and ten, you can take the milk drinkers and I’ll take the whiskey drinkers every time.”— Max McGee”

The sad fact is the game has become secondary to the antics and hype. And I can’t decide whether I’m alright with that.

Read More