Grand Grand Slam
A few weeks ago most Americans would have said that the Super Bowl, an event so big that it needs Roman numerals to identify it, is the biggest spectacle not only in sports, but in our broadest cultural sense. Where else do we spend two whole weeks preparing for the day long pageantry, not to mention the hours and hours of pre-game jibberish, culminating in four hours of the game itself, even though the average NFL game produces only about 11 minutes of action? Of course that was before the onset of the Trump administration, which seems intent on becoming even yuuuger, seemingly compelled to replicate our former greatest extravaganza, the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus, which is about to become defunct after 146 years.
Super Bowl LI features its own melodramatic themes, primarily whether the fair Brady can avenge the wrongs perpetrated against him by the oxymoronically-named Goodell (according to New England fans) or whether cheaters will once again prevail (according to everyone else). Then we have the equally intriguing question of what Lady Gaga will do or say during her halftime show, but it is guaranteed to personify our brave new world, where entertainment, politics and farce are indistinguishable.
Then there is the game itself, where viewing has become a test of patriotism, and military imagery and nomenclature are now commonplace. I cringe whenever an announcer talks about a player’s “courage” or describes him as a “warrior’” as though playing children’s games for yearly amounts that exceed many workers’ lifetime earnings is somehow similar to the sacrifice of the men and women who have given their limbs and perhaps their lives to actually defend our freedom, although not always because of the wisest choices of our political leaders.
But, once in a while, there is a sporting event that is so transcendent it exceeds the physical dimensions of its playing area and becomes art. For those suffering from insomnia who watched it being streamed live beginning Sunday at 3:30 am (EST) or the merely normal who caught it on tape delay, this year’s Australian Open tennis final between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal was a match for the ages.
At 35 and 30 years of age, respectively, Federer and Nadal were believed by most, including themselves, to be no longer at the very top tier of the sport they have dominated for so long, although they remain very much in the mix. But Roger of the creaky knee and Rafa of the aching wrist put on a show that belied the notion that nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. Their skills may not be what they were, but they played with grit, savvy and determination. They displayed genuine mutual affection and respect in the award ceremony, where Roger hoisted a Grand Slam trophy for a record 18th time.
Okay, they weren’t just playing for the love of the game. Each was paid handsomely for his efforts, but it was sport at its pinnacle. And they did it without a megastar performing with pyrotechnics at halftime. Imagine that.
Originally published at gnallornothing.tumblr.com.
