Well fans, we’ll be lucky to see a Super Bowl as fascinating and dramatic as last Sunday’s again soon, with the Saints recovering from an early deficit to win this game going away. You will remember that your favorite sports journalist predicted this outcome exactly, which proves also his contention that this year marked the swing of dominance from the AFC to the NFC.
Astute fans of the Purple retired that night to a nest of sweet dreams, knowing that a famously indecisive QB from Mississippi watched this game and made up his mind to play another year for the Vikings. This could – no – should have been ours. The Vikes clearly outplayed New Orleans in their own stadium, managing to lose tragically and perversely through a combination of mistakes, misfortunes, and bad officiating, voodoo under a bad moon.
All Brett Favre has to do is get through the 2010 season without serious injury, nor throwing too many of his well-known interceptions, and he will have more than a reasonable chance of playing in another Super Bowl as a favorite. A second of these victories makes him probably the best QB of all time, rather than one of them. This glittering possibility will bring him back to Minneapolis next year, though I doubt Mankato.
I have little comment regarding the absurdly expensive Super Bowl commercials, except that the Bud Light people came up with a pretty good gag about the plane crash victims who refused rescue from the desert island once they recovered the beverage cart from the wreckage. I was otherwise occupied during most of the commercial breaks, the natural result of partaking in the brewers art, although never any of the major U.S. brands such as Budweiser which now languish in Babylonian captivity. And by the way, this is proof positive of the superiority of print advertising, which can accompany the consumer to whatever his destination, at his own desire and leisure.
I was almost brought to my feet by the thrilling performance of The Who, but couldn’t quite make it, being nearly their contemporary and seated in a low chair. I admit they started pretty raggedly, with Roger Daltrey’s vocals thin and a little hoarse with the years. Peter Townshend was energetic as always on guitar, but looking oddly like Jimmy Durante with that plug hat and bulbous nose, shirt bobbing up to reveal the generous tum, and coat getting in the way of his guitar work.
Never mind. As they warmed up, the voices regained that old flexibility, then even the brilliance, guitars ringing out the ancient Celtic magic, and for a lovely moment it seemed like the sixties once again, wherever you were.
I really like this evolving tradition of reviving the great rock ‘n roll acts of the sixties during Super Bowl half times. Next year – Bob Dylan!
And now, in the gathering darkness of deep winter, I bid you all adieu. The barbarian hordes of basketball are at the gates, and the long dark age of no football is upon us. Try to stay warm, and don’t answer the door to strangers.