Every ounce of my sports journalistic integrity begs me to write about the Super Bowl. It’s an obligation really. Even you, the reader, may be expecting it so much that if I don’t give at least some sort of prediction you’ll burn this paper with your bathroom matches normally meant for more pressing aromatic circumstances.
If that didn’t make sense, this will: I’m not writing about the Super Bowl. I can’t do it, it’s just too uninteresting.
I know you’re trying to muster every ounce of your stored excitement for this Sunday’s “Big Game,” intently watching SportsCenter for some angle that may make one team more rootable for than the other, or at least one player’s story more tragic than the next guy’s. You’ve read every Tom Brady article and fall asleep each night trying to tell yourself that he is, indeed — without question, the next Joe Montana.
You may’ve even watched the State of the Union Address (dork!) and thought seeing Brady awkwardly positioned next to a class of fourth graders made Super Sunday even Superer. You may even truly believe that the Panthers have a chance and could pull off a shocking upset — only to realize that theme has been shot to bits by those marvelous and murderously envied Marlins. Murderously is a word, I looked it up. Yeah, take that