Seven anathemas on Super Bowl Sunday: 7QT XII, seriatim.

n this post I am going to try a lit­tle blas­phe­my. I won­der great­ly how that will work out for me, in light of the reli­gious hys­te­ria that takes place every year on what is known as “Super Bowl Sun­day.” It is the only Sun­day in Extra­or­di­nary Time. It is our nation’s holi­est day of the year—the East­er of sports sec­u­lar­ism, when we gath­er round the altar (i.e., the tele­vi­sion); con­se­crate the ele­ments (beer and pota­to chips, or what­ev­er our snack and drink of choice); and watch our priests beat each oth­er up for an hour (plus time out for time out and com­mer­cials). And this we cheer and use as an excuse to get loud and smashed.

II.

I have always hat­ed foot­ball; there, I said it, let the jihad begin. You can find me on Twit­ter. I do not know why it has so seized this nation’s need for reli­gion. (We have reject­ed all the oth­ers.) It does not have the clas­si­cal bal­ance of base­ball, nor the aggres­sive bal­ance of hock­ey, nor even the rhap­sod­ic poise of bowl­ing. I can under­stand turn­ing Babe Ruth into a god. But foot­ball is bru­tal­i­ty pure and loud. It is the kind of sport that could only suit a nation of mur­der­ers.

III.

When I was a Protes­tant, dur­ing a four-year stint with the Unit­ed Church of Christ, I wit­nessed an amaz­ing act. I was on the church council—I don’t name any names here—and our pas­tor could not wait to hur­ry the meet­ing along so he could get out of there and get back home so he would not miss kick­off. (Kick­off is the introit and entrance antiphon of our sec­u­lar reli­gion.) And this was for col­lege football!—a mere Protes­tant sin­ga­long com­pared to the Super Bowl, which is the Catholic Mass of sport, com­plete with unim­mac­u­late Marys pranc­ing around and show­ing off their flesh.

IV.

The only pos­si­ble rea­son to actu­al­ly watch foot­ball is the Pitts­burgh Steel­ers. (Or Penn State.) But Pitts­burgh is out of it, so any oth­er team in that Apol­ly­on of sports is dark, dark, dark and waste and void. Who cares about a bat­tle between Satan and Mephistophe­les? I will con­cede that much to the false gods of the age.

V.

But why so much mad­ness and hys­te­ria over what is, in the end, noth­ing more than a game? Is there a ratio­nal rea­son (I am not look­ing for a defense of the virtue of sport itself, which I con­cede) why this game, of all games in the long cal­en­dar of the year, should cre­ate such zeal and rage? Why is it an excuse for adver­tis­ers to go nuts to com­pete for spots so that they can prick our lust for things? (Did­n’t the pope warn of this?) But they do so because our nation’s unholy deleri­um over a game lets them know they have the whole nation bound and cap­tive and pos­si­bly drugged on—beer, if we’re lucky. If the com­mer­cials have a rep­u­ta­tion for being fun­ny and clever, we will stay and watch rather than go and pee. Thus are the spon­sors of our faith able to seduce our mate­r­i­al lust—because we have dei­fied a game, and not our Lord. The sec­u­lar reli­gion is brought to us by Dori­tos.

VI.

Some­times I imag­ine I would rather have lived in a time when base­ball meant more than foot­ball and every­thing else stopped for the World Series. But then I think: I am glad for base­bal­l’s decline in pop­u­lar­i­ty when com­pared with foot­ball. Foot­ball is our nation­al past­time now, and has been for a long time, and that does this base­ball fan’s heart good: because I love a game, and not an obses­sion.

VII.

Sport is a good, but it is not a god.

Read more of this week’s quick takes at Con­ver­sion Diary.