The Saints

I will write about holy men and women some other time. Tonight I want to write about The New Orleans Saints, and the meaning of organized spectator-friendly sports. I have just finished yelling myself hoarse, and I am ready to start deconstructing the experience rationally, soberly (hic). I am also ready for bed, and the rapture, in case you were wondering.

The super-bowl was excellent. The game is one thing - various levels of competition between extraordinary athletes around a custom, changing strategy. Physical excellence, emotional prowess, and mental acumen are all on display at their most masculine. Witnessing their skill and strength is proof of our (men and women's) bodies' potential.

But it does not give us escape from death. Who remembers games from two years ago? Old game reels seem like ancient history. The set clock of the game mirrors the clock of mortality, our sister from whose embrace no one can escape. This game, as memorable, historical, and unique as it has been, will not be remembered. [added next morning] Everyone calls this game 'historic', and in a sense it is unique in history. But it is not historic in that it will be remembered forever. A few years, maybe thirty, but even the great Pyramids of Giza will be forgotten at some point.

The most moving facet of the super bowl was the experience of watching it with the entire city. For weeks everyone has worn Black and Gold. The Quarter was insane by 2 pm already. Whenever the Saints win, fireworks and car horns and impromptu parades are the norm. The bar I watched at was relatively empty, but we all yelled with all our voices. Jumping and praying and costumes. Our individual identities as citizens of this city, or fans of the game worldwide, disappear, and we all marvel together at the players and the franchise. The commentators help us rally by quoting random records that we are breaking (Brees has broken the pass completion superbowl record of Joe Montana). We are excited together, and that affirms our commonality, and creates impromptu relationship that feels more important than it ultimately is.

I cannot gloss over the fact that the super bowl promotes our living in fiction. It is escapism. My empathetic relationship with my co-revelers is based upon a for-profit industry that capitalizes on the temporary and limited abilities of particular men I do not know as persons. But it is good escapism, a tradition of escapism that I can full support. Why? Maybe next time. Now to bed with only 370 words.