These days, professionalism has transformed sport into a big branch of the entertainment tree. No longer do we applaud the dark arts of eye gouging, but rejoice in the vulgar grandstanding of human billboards, who unashamedly boast in even the most pedestrian of achievements.
In a bygone era, mighty shoguns would wow us with their brilliance and fans would soak it up. While we came for the astonishing skill, we’d stay for the intensity of the tribalism.
No matter how many Phil Gould pre-game hype speeches, cheerleaders or fireworks the investors would finance to engage the crowd, the anchor of the ship was the product.
The New Year sees all the great sporting roadshows front and centre, but the biggest show on Earth happens in the epicentre of sports entertainment: America.
We’ve all now heard and seen of the great fiasco. From a lavish pre-game, to a vocally acrobatic anthem, to Hollywood-style advertising and a halftime show, awash with stars. It truly is an entity unto itself.
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I’ve had the good fortune of pulling up a pew in the galleries of some the most grand and extravagant shows in sport. The NFL is obviously champion thoroughbred of the stable.
They have marching bands, military parades and scantily clad maidens scattered throughout the streets on the long stumble to the bleachers. Sprinkled with a few myopic chants of the monosyllabic make up, and you have a recipe for a booze-fuelled freak show that doesn’t quite rely on the game being a classic.
Let’s not get it twisted though, it’s brilliant. The Seppos don’t miss a whisker of detail and ensure your wallet stays out of your back pocket for the entire day. LED TV screens in the urinal and gargantuan beer sizes, coupled with a four-hour long spectacle make for a ripper of a time, for what I can remember.
It was only a taste of what would’ve occurred at the Super Bowl this year, but I enjoyed every mouthful that I had. I actually won a passing accuracy contest outside the stadium.
While every Tom Brady protégé and Drew Brees wannabe focused on torpedoing a sniper rifle overarm quarterback pass to the target, my trusty Joey Johns cut-out pass got the job done. The alien technique bewildered the punters, who had never seen such wizardry.
Fittingly, the match was a bloody corker too. It finished with a come-from-behind, overtime victory to the Seattle Seahawks who were the home side on the day. The lads trudged into the sheds at the main break, in the hole to the tune of 28 points, but somehow steered their fortunes away from the rocks.
Photo: Wiki Commons
However, the slice of my soul that loves sport was left slightly vacant and despondent after the game. For all the bells and whistles, the whole day felt like an episode of a feel-good sitcom, where no one would leave disappointed. It was all about the fan experience, and that experience wasn’t the final score.
While it absolutely has its merits and perhaps we could learn something from the Yank sporting feast, the game itself felt diluted by the circus happening around it. Maybe it’s bias because a sport so alien to me could bear no emotional significance.
I had a wow of a time, but it didn’t feel like a day on the hill of the old Marathon Stadium. The ballerina on the moneybox of the NFL might be twirling with great speed, but my voice oddly remained less hoarse than days at cheering on Joey or Chief.
A while back, a mate of mine from across the ditch and I decided to revisit our favourite memories from sport to cure our crippling hangovers.
He showed me the New Zealand NPC rugby final of 1998, when his native Otago downed Waikato in an absolute classic. I watched a 20-year-old match, in which I had no stake in the outcome, with uncontrollable joy. The old Carisbrook faithful surged with every strong tackle and precise punt. And what better venue than the ‘House of Pain’, the sacred turf and spiritual home of the mighty Otago? It didn’t hold 80,000, but looked like an imposing fortress even on pre-millennium video.
In response, I played him the famous 1997 ARL grand final, between the underdog Newcastle Knights and hot favourites Manly.
“Albert’ll score, Albert’ll score.” Those immortal words as Darren Albert crossed the stripe to snatch an unlikely win will bounce around the back blocks of my mind forevermore. Goosebumps that no amount of gimmicks will ever refill.
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