The Super Bowl is coming up this weekend. I shall be avoiding it at all costs, given that I find it nearly as tedious and boring as golf, tennis, and soccer, but here's my take on the overblown affair.
Super
Bowl Weekend Approaching; Patriots Dodge Uncomfortable Questions
Minneapolis (AP) The biggest party of the
year, as it is sometimes called, is set to go off this weekend in Minneapolis.
Super Bowl LII, the fifty second edition of the championship for the NFL- about the
only organization still using Roman numerals for some bizarre reason- is being
hosted this year in Minnesota, featuring the perennial favourites the New
England Patriots against the Philadelphia Eagles, who haven’t won a league
championship since before the Super Bowl era- 1960. This reporter, who has
never seen much point in the game at all, has been doomed to cover it this week
by a cranky, volatile, and violent minded editor who really needs to (editor: shut up!)
This reporter, whose grouchy editor is the
subject of an ongoing restraining order preventing any contact aside from email
(editor: what did I tell you about
shutting up? Shut up!) has been in Minneapolis as of late where the winter
is cold and the U.S. Bank Stadium is getting ready for the big game. The annual
extravaganza, which seems to take forever and is filled with spectacle, music,
endless big commercials (and a really boring game) somehow manages to pull in
huge audience numbers.
NBC is broadcasting the game this year,
taking its turn as one of the three broadcasting networks affiliated with the
NFL. The pre-game broadcast will start many hours before the evening kick off,
and no doubt will feel far longer, while the game itself will of course stretch
interminably, interrupted regularly for commercial breaks featuring overly
expensive commercials meant to stand out from the crowd. In the days leading up
to the event, tailgate parties and other special events have been taking place
in Minnesota’s Twin Cities, with fans of many NFL teams streaming into the area
Along with this reporter, who frankly hates
the game and is being punished by a grouchy editor (editor: I hate you! Oh, do I hate you!).
Having had already been doomed to be at the Super Bowl by the aforementioned
grouch in previous years (honestly, the paper has plenty of sports reporters
who are already here, and I’m not a sports reporter), this reporter is here,
putting up with plenty of cold temperatures, grateful for two things: distance
from his cranky editor and the awareness that he is also equally far from
another frequent assignment- press conferences by Michael Bay.
Most sports pundits are predicting the
Patriots will repeat yet again as Super Bowl champions. They note that with an
asterix, given the frequent charges in recent years of the team cheating in one
way or another. Led by quarterback Tom Brady, looking to add a sixth Super Bowl
championship to his name, the team has dodged questions in recent days about
their tactics, which have included spying, surveillance, and deflated balls,
all of which have caused a shadow on recent championship years. Head coach and dark lord of the Sith Bill Belichick has gone out of his way to dodge the
press and the questions.
Businessman and team owner Robert Kraft,
who isn’t quite as quick on his feet as the surprisingly swift Belichick,
shrugged off the allegations of previous cheating when cornered by the press.
“Look, it’s not that big a deal. Everybody plays at least a little dirty from
time to time. And if that’s the worst thing a football team can be accused of,
how bad is that? Do I have to remind you that we’ve seen football players
commit murder?”
“Yes, your former player Aaron Hernandez,”
this reporter reminded him.
Kraft looked irritated. “Dammit, why did
you have to bring him up?”
“Well, you’re the one who started it by saying
it,” this reporter noted.
“Yeah, sure, but… look, that’s all in the
past, doesn’t matter, not to anyone, even to the families of whoever the ****
Aaron was accused of killing.” Kraft strode off, perhaps regretting signing
Hernandez.
Anonymous sources suggest that Belichick
and Brady have been busy in the run-up to Super Bowl Sunday spending time with
a voodoo witch doctor. “It’s like this, you see,” Don’t Use My Name admitted.
“They’ve got voodoo dolls made of the entire starting lineup for the Eagles, and
they’re talking about whether or not they should use pins or lighters on them.
It’s spooky, man, real spooky. And I know spooky, all right? I was in ‘Nam,
and I’ve seen some real scary ****. Wait, don’t quote me on the ‘Nam thing,
there are only so many vets in the Patriots organization. You’re not quoting me
on that, are you?”
Entertainment has been lined up for the big
event. Two singers will open things up: Pink will do the national anthem, while
Leslie Odom Jr. is scheduled to sing America The Beautiful. The halftime show,
often described as outdoing the game on pure spectacle, is to feature Justin
Timberlake, back again after being featured twice previously (including the
infamous Nipplegate halftime show of 2004). This leads this reporter to wonder
what it is about Justin Timberlake that has anything to do with football, but
that’s usually been the case with Super Bowl shows. (editor: shut up! Lots of people like him!)
Someone else has been wandering around
Minneapolis in recent days, trying to get attention. The one time football
legend turned one note actor turned notorious murder suspect on trial turned
convict for another matter entirely O.J. Simpson has been seen in recent days
prowling the official functions and the tailgate parties. The seventy year old
former resident of the Lovelock Correctional Center, who was released in
October, having had served a few years of a 33 year sentence for a fumbled
armed robbery and kidnapping conviction (this years after the so called Trial
Of The Century for double murders in regards to his ex-wife Nicole Brown and
her friend Ron Goldman) has been seen here. He’s spent time signing autographs,
drinking with cronies, and ignoring suspicious glares from wary people. This
reporter has some previous history with the Juice, who has threatened to kill
him before.
“It’s like this,” Simpson told a crowd of
reporters, looking worn out and older than his years. Prison has not been good
to him. “I’ve ****ing got to have something to ****ing do. The Juice has got to
make a ****ing living. So I’m here to shake hands with those ****ing team
owners and make my ****ing case. You want me to coach the team? I’ll coach the
mother ****ing team. You want me to play? These ****ing legs have still got it.
You want me to consult with the ****ing players on how to get away with
horrible acts? I’ll do that too. Wait, don’t ****ing quote me on that last one,
okay? I was just joking, right?”
He laughed, being the only one doing so.
The reporters gathered round were looking uncomfortable. Police officers
assigned to security at the pre-game festivities were watching carefully.
Simpson fell silent, as if realizing he was the reason for the uncomfortable
tone in the air. Then his gaze fell on this reporter. He stared, and stared,
and stared some more. And with that, recognition seemed to dawn in his eyes.
“Hey! It’s you!” Recognition changed
to anger. “You’re that mother ****er of a mother ****er who ****ed me over by
saying I threatened to ****ing kill you, mother ****er!”
The police started moving in while Simpson
kept raising his voice. “Get the **** over here! I wanna get my ****ing hands
on your ****ing throat, mother ****er!” By now, four police officers were
closing in on Simpson, wading through the reporters. “You ****ing take that back,
you ****ing hear me? I’ll ****ing kill you
if you don’t take that back!” Simpson was pulled away by the police, out from
the crowd of reporters, kicking and screaming incoherently.
His official spokesman, Kato Kaelin,
stepped in, and simply said, “No comment. Except a reminder to watch my new
reality show, coming soon on MTV. We’re calling it Mooching In Style.”
And with that, the scene was at an end.
Simpson spent the night in custody and was put on a plane back to Florida in
the morning, after being told not to return to Minnesota ever again. Brady and
Belichick continued to evade reporters. Hordes of fans continued to pour into
the city in anticipation of what is sure to be an endless, boring, pointless
game that will not go down in memory. And this reporter, doomed by the
aforementioned cranky editor…. (editor:
shut up, or I give Simpson your home address)
In the opinion of this reporter, his editor
needs a really big bag of weed.
