A Super Bowl day in the life of yours truly

ROGER CARLSON

Sometimes I feel like I’m a resident of Mars or something, because

nobody seems to realize the basics like I do.

You don’t have to take it. You can take control, it’s your game,

not theirs.

What I’m getting to is the flap over the Janet Jackson and Justin

Somebody scene at halftime of Super Bowl XXXVIII.

Hey! What a game!

I must admit I fell asleep from the time Carolina punted for the

second time until about 5:00 remained in the first half, but the rest

of the contest was very much a classic duel with a great finish.

Clearly, one of the best in the series which includes about eight to

remember and 30 bummers.

As for the halftime stunt, I didn’t see it, except in the

repetitive news items. Nor did I see such imaginative scenarios as

Dick Enberg tip-toeing around in a tutu or Terry Bradshaw blowing

kisses to a group of old linebackers, or anything else dreamed up by

the CBS broadcasting entourage.

Nor did I hear much from the sidelines, or for that matter, much

in terms of opinions from the game’s analyst, former quarterback Phil

Simms, whose drone-line voice and instant analysis of what the

ball-carrier is thinking as he takes the handoff and darts to the

right, rather than the left, simply serves to irritate me.

The trick here, is all in the thumb, or fingers, sort of like

playing Pac Man.

You’ve got to be quick to get it all, and sometimes my wife

wonders out loud if my wrist is beginning to feel overused, but I

quell that argument quickly by explaining the need for exercise in

these times of retirement.

So, without further ado, I’d like to explain how I saw Super Bowl

XXXVIII my way, which is without a doubt better than anyone else,

assuming I’m the only one from Mars.

First, and this was really important leading up to the 3:30 p.m.

kickoff, another channel had a 90-minute broadcast of poker from 1:30

p.m. to 3 p.m., featuring a “Texas Hold ‘em” style of seven-card stud

with money all over the place at stake.

It was very entertaining and ate away 90 minutes leading up to the

kickoff, which I might otherwise have been irritated listening and

watching CBS with the usual plate of pregame garbage.

A break for a snack at 3 ate away another 15 minutes, so at 3:15 I

was up and ready for the 3:25 kickoff.

It wouldn’t be long before my early-game nap, which caused me to

miss some of the commercials, but I was back and in the mix for the

last 3:00 of the second quarter as things broke loose.

As the clock ticked off the final second before halftime, and with

the halftime show amply advertised, I deftly flipped channels and

found a rerun of Jeopardy with the game devoted to the NFL and the

Super Bowl.

I admit, I did see a portion of the halftime show, about a

one-second blip when I checked back to see if the second half was

ready to start, but that was it. The stage resembled a snake pit and

I gave the channel hopper another of my deft moves. I must have

missed the big moment by seconds.

Another try and I was right on as the kickoff sailed through the

air. There’s a talent, you know, in terms of timing.

As the clock ticked off its final seconds and the final result was

obvious history, I moved to my ultimate weapon, my DVDs, but, without

the powers of ESP, failed to pop in Casablanca.

“I’m shocked,” blurted out Claude Rains, would not be brought into

focus. Instead, I settled for one of my Poirot mysteries before

calling it a night.

I was, of course, shocked when I turned on the television the

following morning and learned of the various outrages over Janet and

this guy, Justin, whom I did not know existed.

Now, of course, I see Janet and the blur on a daily basis, along

with “shocked” comments.

Me? I’m not shocked at all by the scene. Considering the

one-second blip of the “snake pit,” I’m only surprised the whole

bunch of them didn’t follow suit, and then move to the next level.

My outrage came long ago when the NFL decided that the game was

second to halftime, second to the “announcers,” second to

commercials, second to the pregame blitz and second to whatever

sub-culture was prevalent among the 14-year-old set.

The blame game’s on, but first in line is the NFL for selling the

game out on a consistent basis for years.

The only thing that would have shocked me was if halftime would

have consisted of three or four songs from Neil Diamond or an

appearance by someone else in the mainstream of America.

So take it from me, and this goes way past simply a Super Bowl.

Keep your channel hopper at the ready and your fingers nimble.

And, buy some DVDs.

Hey! See you next Sunday!

* ROGER CARLSON is the former sports editor for the Daily Pilot.

His column appears on Sundays. He can be reached by e-mail at

rogeranddorothea@msn.com.