You Had Me at Halftime

Let me lay it down for you. I don’t like American football. I don’t like the shiny tights and broad shoulder pads. I am not impressed by grossly over-bulked men running six yards at a time. Not that football’s not impressive or difficult or beloved, because it is. Obviously. But for me, watching the Super Bowl has about the same appeal as attending an optional lecture. I could do it with little to no mental anguish, but I’d really rather not.
 
I used to feel guilty because football is America’s official sport or national pastime or some other manufactured tagline. Whatever. In the 1950s, baseball was America’s sport, and even that only interests me if it’s Frank Sinatra I’m watching run the bases. Yeah that’s right, Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly. Those old guys that sang and danced. But did they even have baseball back then? Good question. Just kidding.
 
It’s not that I’m uninterested in sport, believe me. I’m more than happy to stay up for the 3 a.m. Australian Open Finals. I quite happily eat my eggs and toast with Morning Drive, the Golf Channel’s breakfast show. The one with that useless, just-a-touch-exotic co-host whose only credentials are her C-cups and mermaid waves circa 2004.
 
I sit fixated by the Winter X Games on chilly Saturday mornings, like my niece watches Peppa Pig. What is this magical world, and why am I not a part of it?I’m completely, socially incapacitated for two weeks every other year when the Olympics roll around, a more effective international cooperative than the UN.
 
Soccer, Formula One, Boxing, MMA, Cricket, Volleyball, Rowing. I’m totally a happy camper. I love it. I don’t participate (zerotalent), but I love it.
 
But, football. Football. Ugh. It brings to mind ugly state college campuses, bright orange water coolers, foam fingers and red-blooded, beer-bellied twenty-somethings. I understandthat it’s more than that. I understandhow complex and exciting it is, but that doesn’t mean I like it.
 
And can someone please explain to me why the nation cares so much about thirty seconds of product placement? There’s something terribly tragic about the unity America derives from Super Bowl ads. Did you see the Budweiser commercial, with the really cute dog? Yeah, and I saw the same one five years ago.
 
I get that it’s a palaver for marketers and ad men. Fantastic. I’m impressed. It’s really fulfilling to see Britney Spears drinking pepsiin a gladiator costume. And to watch Matthew Broderick recreate scenes of 1986’s baby-faced Ferris Bueller in a very middle aged 2012. Yeah, you could say I’m excited.
 
If you’re annoyed with me already, it’s about to get much, much worse.
 
Remember who is doing the halftime show? Yeah, that’s right, Madonna. Material Girl. Truth or Dare, high ponytail, Sexcoffee table book Madonna. I’m going to be that girl you gripe about this weekend. The one who will watch five minutes of football on either side of Madonna’s performance and bang on about her visual genius for the next week.
 
I’m totally comfortable arguing that Ray of Lightis more of a cultural contribution than Tom Brady and his fine coif. That Like a Virginis more significant to American social history than a pigskin. I may be taking this point a little far, but it’s not a problem. Madonna is an inspiration, a global icon and a brilliant, beautiful woman, and to everyone who claims her unflapping biceps are scary: go home girl, you’re jealous.
 
So that’s my plan. I’ll be watching Madonna’s twelve and a half minutes of clever, zeitgeist-juggling art on Sunday night while you’re getting more Doritos from the kitchen. Enjoy your football.