The Tedium Is the Message

With the Super Bowl just one week away, already the tedious conversations have started about what is sure to be another round of witless shilling before, during, and after the game. Spare me from those who breathlessly anticipate, and then evaluate—with a straight face, no less—the crass commercial messages.

The Super Bowl ads are why the TV remote was invented. If I'm not leaving the room while the game pauses for advertisers to use flatulent monkeys or unbelievably dim-witted males to sell more weak beer, then I'm changing the channel or just hitting the mute button. I take a small pleasure in refusing to be either a part of the live (or should that be comatose?) audience for the smarmy scripts or a participant afterward in the dull discussions of them. If only there were a way for Nielsen to measure the number of viewers indifferent to the small fortune paid for the time between live action on the field.

In the 1967 film “Bedazzled,” Peter Cook, as the devil, laments that he has not done anything really evil since he introduced advertising into the world. And the Super Bowl commercials dramatize how banal that evil is.

Boomer Esiason’s Super Bowl Memory

The highlight of Boomer Esiason’s NFL career was being named league MVP in 1988 and taking the Cincinnati Bengals to the Super Bowl that season. Things were looking up for the Bengals late in that game vs. the San Francisco 49ers. They had kicked a field goal to break a 13-13 tie with about three minutes remaining, and Esiason was mentally preparing his post-game lines.

“I was supposed to do the Disney World commercial,” he said. “The group that was shooting it surrounded me on the sidelines and kept asking me if I knew what my lines were. For that entire three-minute period, I’m sitting there going, ‘I’m going to Disney World. I’m going to Disney World.’

“When [the 49ers’] John Taylor scored the winning touchdown, I dropped my head into my hands. Before I could even lift it up and say, ‘I’m not going to Disney World,’ [the group was] running directly across the field looking for Jerry Rice. That is my lasting memory of Super Bowl XXIII.”

Esiason has made a lasting mark off the field. After 14 years in pro football, he hung up his helmet and threw his hat into the media ring as broadcaster and talk-show host. In 1993 he established the Boomer Esiason Foundation after his son, Gunnar, was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Esiason has helped raise millions of dollars to battle the disease.

“Gunnar is living, breathing proof that you can live with cystic fibrosis and have a very good teenage life,” Esiason has said of his son, who played football, lacrosse, and hockey in high school. “To me, that’s probably the biggest accomplishment—that we make people realize that it’s not the end of the world.”

Poise

My St. Margaret’s tyro (6^th grade) basketball team recently played in a preseason tournament at Our Lady of Victories in Harrington Park, N.J. We have participated in this tournament for the last 18 seasons, give or take a year. It's a welcome annual invitation because of the many friends we have made in a town just down the road and across the New York border, and for the warm reception we always receive from our New Jersey CYO counterparts, who always present good competition.

OLV also is one of the few gyms that offers a locker room, before and after the game and during half-time, for the teams. Typically during the regular season, my players get out of their parents’ cars—or even walk to the St. Margaret’s gym—take off their coats, and are ready to go after a quick warm-up.

About a dozen years ago in a tournament semi-final game at OLV, I gave what I thought at the time was an unmistakably clear half-time speech to my team in response to their uncharacteristically sloppy performance in the first half. In my locker-room message I implored the players not to lose their composure in the second half.

“We’ve practiced over and over what we need to do here today,” I said. “Why are we losing our poise?” I reminded them of the drills we do repeatedly to counter pressure defense. “Let’s not forget what got us here,” I said. “Maintain your poise. Remember what we have worked so hard on during practice.” I used the blackboard in the locker room to illustrate the point. Finally, to emphasize what I thought was a cogent but concise message, I told the players, “Just remember one thing in the second half: Poise.

“O.K., then. Any questions before we take the floor?”

One hand went up.

“Coach, what does 'poise' mean?”

Dream School

The assignment in Special Ed the other day was for the students to create a dream school. They were given a few qualifiers: Their institution had to adhere to academic standards and relevance and to maintain a certain discipline about its educational mission. It could not, for example, abolish homework or promote any semblance of anarchy. Otherwise, the students were encouraged to create a curriculum, daily schedule, rules, dress code, miscellaneous orders of the day, etc.  

One creative boy called for the elimination of bells at the start and end of each period, to be replaced by music. That, he said, would embolden dancing to and from classes and instill a more exuberant approach toward learning. He also suggested hiring several new teachers to enliven the faculty: Donald Trump (Home Room), Bill Gates (Economics), Stephen King (English), and Chuck Norris (Gym).

Voltaire, Narcissism & the NFL

In his short satirical tale “Zadig,” Voltaire describes the fictitious great lord Irax as “not bad at bottom but … corrupted by vanity and voluptuousness [who] breathed in nothing but false glory and false pleasures.” Zadig, the prime minister of the kingdom, undertakes to rectify the bad behavior. He does this with the cooperation of a vast entourage of the court's sycophants and via such an uninterrupted litany of fulsome praise for Irax, “expressly for all the good qualities he lacked,” that after five days, Irax, exhausted and chastened, begged for it to stop.

I was reminded of “Zadig” after watching the latest National Football League player corrupted by vanity and voluptuousness: the Buffalo Bills’ Stevie Johnson. His over-the-top touchdown catch-and-dance on Sunday afternoon mocked the New York Jets and New York City and resulted in an unsportsmanlike penalty that led to an immediate answering score. Late in that game, Johnson dropped what would have been a game-winning pass. It was hard to tell if he was exhausted or chastened.

Oh, for the gift of Voltaire to satirize the absurdity of such rampant narcissism! There are two trains of thought on the ubiquitous personal celebrations that accompany virtually every play in an NFL game. One holds that penalizing the celebrants is for party poopers who rail humorlessly against the joyful exuberance of self-expression.

The other point of view was first memorably voiced years ago by former USC coach John McKay. When one of his own players staged an elaborate bit of choreography in the end zone after a touchdown, McKay dryly told him, “Act like you’ve been there before.” 

NBC’s Bob Costas, on Sunday night, was more vehement in his denunciation of Johnson. He criticized the “mindless exhibitionism” and “obnoxious self-indulgence” and “pure selfishness and unprofessionalism [of players] detrimental to [their] team.”

Perhaps the better way to curb the gratuitous personal self-expression in sports is not to vilify it but to encourage even more manifestations of and attention to it. As Zadig understood, the remedy calls for overkill, or death by excess: more gyrations, more finger-pointing, more in-your-face taunting after every play.

We’re almost there now. After all, we see defensive tackles cavorting and flexing after stopping a ball carrier for no gain, sometimes with their team behind by two or three touchdowns. We see receivers with short memories and oversized egos flaunting a harmless catch while allowing a more meaningful pass to slip through their fingers.

Bring in additional spotlights to shine and television cameras to focus on every player demanding, “Look at me!” Because when everyone is screaming for attention, no one will be heard. If that begins to quiet the din, the NFL could thank Voltaire for bringing some humility back into its game.