Watch the Gap

When it comes to viewing habits of the Super Bowl, most of us fall into two distinct categories. First, there are the people locked into the game, sports fans buried under the weight of a gigantic ceramic bowl of bubbling nachos pressing up against their inner thighs for upwards of four quarters. Then there are others who are “only in it to watch the commercials.” This second group is the equivalent of people who say they only read The Economist for the pictures, not wanting to show up their dangerously unlettered friends. But this attempt to cultivate an image of down-to-earth relatability using one of the planet’s most pretentious publications is an exceedingly foolish undertaking. As you might imagine, I fall into a third category, much rarer than the previous two.  

For me, the Super Bowl is about one thing and one thing only: the split second of black between the game and a commercial. In that void, I imagine using my imagination for something truly grand. Like a spot without a talking animal or a celebrity (a dried-up actor with a stronger foundation than the Great Pyramids). One that’s not sixty seconds, but a manageable fifteen. Or a part of the game where there’s no posing, just playing. When the referees are sent packing to meddle in someone else’s affairs. They’ve done enough damage for one evening. In this scenario they still must wear their idiotic striped uniforms so we can clearly identify them in the wild. Officials are worst kind of whistleblowers, throwing yellow flags when they see something they don’t like. What if you or I did that? They don’t know how to make a point without a tantrum or dirty laundry. 

I enjoy the anticipation of thinking, “Maybe this next commercial, instead of plagiarizing an extremely dated quote from Anchorman and passing it off as comedy, will do something mildly original.” The space between is a wonderful moment in all sorts of situations. The second before your waiter reads the disappointing chef’s specials is a time of great promise. Prior to arriving in a new city by car, you’re full of parking hope and minimal frustration, believing the dream spot is literally right around the corner. And before you tear through the packing tape of a cardboard box, the possibilities are overwhelming – what could it be? Then you realize it’s a discount spatula you ordered to replace the last one, scorched on the stove stop by stupidity.

So once the Super Bowl begins, it’s basically over. It’s no longer a perfect, undisturbed dream of our collective wants and desires. It’s flawed, human, and incredibly boring. Thankfully, we have a year to recover.