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Bryant Stockton: Super Blues and Mod Hippie Fests Suffering from the Super Blues, he says there must be something else after eight jillion hours of analysis. We must rebel, he says: Can't we find something better to occupy the airspace? Can't we as an audience stop this insanity? Click on headline for complete Bryant Stockton commntary By Bryant Stockton Now a teacher at Metcalfe County, but originally from Albany, KY, with ties in Cumberland County, and 'discovered for CM by Carol Perkins, his muse Stop me if you've heard this one before: a guy walks onto the set of a sports talk show. He has a football under one arm and a box full of cliches under the other. He and a group of "experts" (former players, coaches, random analysts of all kinds) debate as to what will happen when boot is finally put to pigskin on Sunday. They debate...and they debate...and they debate. Day after bloody, mind-numbing day. That's just one TV show on one of myriad networks---and that's just TV. What about radio, podcasts, Twitter, newspapers, barber shops, bars, living rooms, the surface of the moon, man caves? This Super Bowl "analysis" has given me the Super Bowl Blues - the Superblues. Eight jillion hours of analysis took place in the two-week span from the end of the Championship games to the start of the Super Bowl last year. EIGHT JILLION! Of this, I am sure. Here's something no "expert" predicted: the Bronco's center, a guy named Manny Ramirez (no, not that one), is going to whiz the first snap of the game past the comically flabbergasted face of ole awe-shucks Peyton Manning and right through the back of the end zone. No amazing analyst predicted that the Seahawks would begin the biggest game in history with the smallest starting score in history. Scour the Internet; I bet you can't find even one of those experts with that prediction. Anyone prognosticate that giant, ultra-manly stud Demarius Thomas would shrink like a landlocked starfish because Kam Chancellor lit him up across the middle? Experts. Predictions. Santa Claus. Only one of these is really worth our time. Here's a hint: I've always had presents under my tree each and every Christmas morning. Still, the unstoppable machine powers ever forward. To quote from Dead Poets' Society quoting Whitman, "The powerful plays go on." To quote Lucy's little brother, Linus, "Ugh!" Can't we find something better to occupy the airspace? Can't we as an audience stop this insanity? Can't we rip the reins of our TV's, radios, and man caves back from the hands of the "experts" and maybe, just maybe produce something that resembles an original and insightful sports thought? Unfortunately, the realist in me says, "Probably not." Someone, somewhere, some mass of humanity salivates like Cujo stalking outside of a stalled Ford Pinto, rabid to crash inside and hedonistically devour the "analysis." Simply and sadly, it's supply and demand. The majority speaks in one monodrone and is eagerly and bountifully fed the feast. Still, we cannot give up. There are those of us who must rebel against the notion that more analysis is better analysis--that louder chatter is more laudable chatter. We cannot consume when we feel the visceral response, a wrenching of the gut, every time there is an argument between two "hot takers" about which quarterback will perform better under pressure or which coach has the better X's and O's. Please pass the trash can; I feel sick. I swear I would rather spend my time doing anything-watching old Bewitched episodes- than spend any more of my precious life listening to BOLD (and expertly hedged, mind you) pigskin prophecies. Someone please come join me, and we can debate things that matter, like whether Uncle Arthur is the most criminally underrated warlock in television history (true, by the way) or whether we'd rather go on a nice quiet dinner with Samantha or to a mod hippie fest with Serena. My BOLD take: Peace and groovy. Let's dance. This story was posted on 2015-02-01 16:14:44
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