Clio’s Super Bowl Commentary

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Clio’s Super Bowl Commentary

Alice Knowlton, Editor in Chief

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Let me tell you a story, friends.

The year is 3145. A dry February breeze rattles through the crumbling remains of Gillette Stadium and sets a yellowed paper napkin fluttering in the ashen air. On the immortal turf field, hulking figures in tight-tight white trousers mill about, disoriented. Their handlers rush onto the plastic grass to herd them back to their enclosures. A feeble whistle blows. The New England Patriots have once again won the Super Bowl, just as they have every February since the dawn of recorded time. The stands are nearly silent, their only occupants the roaches and Danny M from Southbridge, MA. The halftime performance was by Jimmy Buffett. He is the sole surviving musician, his sanctum at Margaritaville preserving him in perpetuity from the ravages of time. Just as it has always been. Suddenly, the roaches gasp and Danny M looks up from his Miller Lite. Fighting against the stream of exiting defensive lineman, Bill Belichick makes his way to the center of the field, crunching the bloodstains in the turf beneath his loafers. His grizzled face is dry and cadaverous, like a mummy, but his beady eyes still glint with damp sinister light. He pauses at the center of the stadium. All eyes are on his athleisure-clad husk of a body. “That’s enough,” he croaks. “We’re done here.”

For a moment, the stadium stands in utter silence, his words drifting in the desolate atmosphere like so many tumbleweeds. Then, the still air resounds with an almighty boom as the turf field cracks open. From the immense chasm pour forth centuries of the dead, their sweaty shoulder pads still clinging to cracked skeletons and their scattered teeth chattering in their dented skulls. It is the end of days. The dull grey clouds part, and a light shines down from the heavens. It is Tom Brady, the mythic hero, welcoming his compatriots to that big stadium in the sky. Golden drops of sweat drip from his luminous face and fall like sweet rain on the parched earth. The football players stream towards the light, pounding each other’s helmets in pure ecstasy. The Kansas City Chiefs look upon the sight and smile in relief as one by one they crumble into dust and are finally at peace. Belichick’s corporal self ascends into the heavens, carried aloft by Rob Gronkowski. The Earth is consumed in fire and guac.

God, I hate football. Why does this whole friggin’ country find it such a huge friggin’ deal? Every year a bunch of overpaid beef-necks duke it out and almost every year a bunch of grown men in ill-fitting Patriots jerseys take beer baths and pretend their unholy occupation with other people’s games is a worthwhile pursuit just because their stupid team carried home another set of gaudy rings. I miss the days when manhood meant being good at knocking other people off moving horses instead of yelling at a screen and swilling queso.

Meanwhile, who spares love for the Bruins? The true sports of the dark season have been driven into comparative obscurity by the overbearing omnipresence of American football. Violence in the Cold, in addition to being the name of my semi-autobiographical self published romance novel about a Soviet sleeper agent, is also a brief description of one of my very favorite sports. Something about mullet culture and sharp shoes resonates with me. Indeed, a great injustice has been committed against nobler, icier pursuits where they are overshadowed by football’s cheap entertainment and heaping profits. The commercialist horde rejoices at the lucrative brutality and the lifestyle of excess it promotes. I’ve heard the Super Bowl ads weren’t even that clever this year. As for Adam Levine, I’m not speaking to him. He let us all down.

Of course, I didn’t actually watch any of the Super Bowl. I watched Heathers instead. My pig watched it though, and he said it sucked. Anyway, that’s my bile for this issue and also coincidentally my senior thesis topic. Football, that is, not Adam Levine or Heathers. I’ve already written papers on those subjects. If you have any questions about how the NFL perpetuates capitalism, toxic masculinity, or bad American interpretations of Mexican food, feel free to volunteer to proofread my draft and I will with great pleasure fill you in.

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