When I think of the Super Bowl, I think of Shania Twain. Hey, you try to figure it out. I'm busy.
There is no better day for sports in the world than Super Bowl Sunday. That includes the World Cup Final.
I’m not talking about how many people watch. By that standard, the World Cup Final beats any three Super Bowls put together. But there’s more to a great day than the event around which it is built. It’s all the goodies that have accumulated around the event that ultimately makes the day.
The Super Bowl has everything you could want in a day built around a game that children can play. No day has more meat on its metaphorical bones.
A big part of it has to do with when the Super Bowl is played.
The Super Bowl is played on the first Sunday in February. Before the NFL settled on that day for its biggest game, it was known for absolutely nothing. Among all the Sundays of the year, the first one in February was like the year’s mail-room clerk — anonymous, unrecognized, unappreciated; a day as dull as a public reading of the tax code.
There is so much nothing happening that the NFL can take a full two weeks to build up for one football game, knowing that the media has nothing else to talk about. There is no more perfect a day for it.
Then there’s the name: the Super Bowl. If it were called the NFL Championship Game and didn’t bother to separate one from another with Roman numerals, it wouldn’t be nearly as popular with the great masses of non-fans.
Sporting events become great when they attract the attention of those who normally don’t watch sports. That’s why the Olympics are great. It’s what makes March Madness so much fun. It’s why the World Cup is so magnificent.
I know; I can't get through that without rolling my eyes and wanting to go outside and throw things into the trees in order to make the snow fall onto the ground. That's why I had to find a picture of Shania Twain, Cletus. You'd be asleep right now if I hadn't.
That is the absolute worst piece of sports writing I have read in my entire life. Full stop. The. Absolute. Worst. Piece. Of. Sports. Writing. Ever. That makes me want to slap my cheeks and try to pull my face off. That makes me want to hurl cookies through a plate glass window. That makes me want to stomp through a flowerbed with someone else's shoes on. God, the pain of reading that makes me want to take a telephone pole, shave it down to the size of an icepick, and pluck out my mind's eye and fling it at the windshield of a car going three hundred miles and hour off of a cliff.
Mike Celizic, when they forcibly retire you, staple that column to your pajamas so someone will know to give you the brown flavored jello.