It’s all about the Kids
We opened with a treacly, over-orchestrated rendition of “America the Beautiful,” complete with a children’s choir—because nothing says gridiron rage like a bunch of sweet kids with Down Syndrome stumbling through choreography while I’m cracking a beer and summoning my inner football beast.
Was it well-meaning? Sure. Was it weaponized sentimentality designed to sanitize last year’s Halftime Peepshow? Absolutely. Using disabled kids to launder the NFL’s public image is not the feel-good kickoff I needed.
Non Sequitors & Statesmen
Next came the World War II tribute. Great, but no one explained why. We’re at war now. Troops are dying in Iraq. But let’s honor WWII? Michael Douglas narrated the whole thing, which felt weird since his filmography mostly involves cheating on women in upscale real estate. Couldn’t get Tom Hanks?
And then, there they were: Clinton and George Bush Sr., shuffling around the stadium in matching blazers and fundraising for tsunami relief like a retired boy band. Yes, it was a show of bipartisan goodwill. Yes, it still pissed me off.
Buy This, Because You’re Dumb
The Pre-Game was a full-blown corporate kamikaze. FOX tried to embed its marketing so deep in my neural cortex I’d wake up screaming “Ameriquest Mortgage” in my sleep. Commercials were either overwrought mini-movies or shots of sugared-out morons howling over Diet Pepsi and Mocha Raspberry Lattes.
Most unforgettable: a Tabasco ad that sold hot sauce by literally comparing a bikini-clad woman to a slab of meat. The female body as marinade—delicious.
Halftime, Sanitized for Your Protection
Out came Sir Paul McCartney, warbling “Baby, you can drive my car, beep-beep, yeah!” while a bunch of teenagers circled the stage with the expression of people who’ve just been told they’re about to meet Blink-182 and instead got the guy who wrote “Blackbird.”
I mean, Paul’s fine. But if we’re going to pander to morality watchdogs, let’s go all in and give America what it really wants: Paul McCartney with a wardrobe malfunction. If he’d whipped out a wrinkled Beatle, I bet even Lennon would’ve cheered from beyond.
Oh Right, They Played Football
Shockingly, the actual game ruled. Most Super Bowls are polite chess matches with quarterbacks afraid of messing up their chance to hawk trucks and sectional sofas. But this one? Total nail-biter.
McNabb slinging lasers to Pinkston. Brady breaking out of his trance. First quarter turnovers that felt operatic. By halftime, I was sweating into my Sam Adams.
When the Patriots pulled ahead 24–14 in the fourth, I thought it was over. But Philly came clawing back. I ached for Eagles fans—those wonderfully mouthy dreamers in facepaint and fury—because they wanted it. They believed.
But the Patriots were just better. If grit and underdog spirit could win football games, Hollywood style, the Eagles would’ve taken it 77–0. But this is New England. We came to win. And then to go eat clam chowder and brag about it forever.
