Not So Super

The Poor Sport: Not So Super
By Adam Greene
02/07/2006

I don’t know how a person is expected to properly prepare themselves for an Aaron Neville/Aretha Franklin rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, but I suspect that it would require some sort of pointed, sharpened tool, either store-bought ahead of time or fashioned quickly out of any available piece of scrap metal or wood. Just as long as, once you realize there’s no quick escape from the television or arena Aaron and Aretha are performing in, the implement can quickly and easily be shoved into each eye, then used to puncture both eardrums completely.



In retrospect, I should have noticed all the warning signs leading up to the pristinely terrible moment where Mr. Neville’s giant head lesion pulsated like a frog’s throat sack before he let loose a warbling opening note that would have made American Idol’s Simon Cowell break a bar stool over his back. The first was the introduction of New Orleans’ own Dr. John on piano, who looked like a strung out community college sociology teacher. He had all the accoutrements required. The long, mangy pony tail, the blank, lost glassy stare and the patchy grey-peppered protest beard that lets you know, without even asking that, yes, this man will be demonstrating with a magic marker crafted placard outside of Gadzooks and The Great American Cookie Company this Saturday so George W. Bush knows exactly how he feels about the war in Iraq.



I had never heard of Dr. John before the Super Bowl and can only now fondly look back at my life before Sunday with a sad, sweet regret at the innocence his performance with Aaron and Aretha has cost me forever. For her part, Mrs. Franklin looked, as she often does, like a large, freshly baked potato with all the fixins’ wrapped in a cloth table napkin.



I must add here that, singing with this trio of song manglers was a perfectly capable choir, who were utterly lost throughout the performance, as Dr. John seemed content to play some other country’s national anthem and Aaron Neville strained in vain to painfully pass a kidney stone while vomiting in his own mouth. Half way through the performance, Aretha surfaced in her tank, cleared her blow hole with a delightfully playful spray onto the lower rows of the crowd, then continued into the second verse with her own Motown-flavored brand of whale song.



The doe-eyed chorus fought valiantly to sing some semblance of our nation’s theme, but the three butchers had none of it. By the time Aretha wrapped up the song, making no attempt at all to get near the high note on “land of the free”, the choir of children and young adults had quieted down to a low murmur in the background, having lost all faith in music, America and even humanity itself.



In case you can’t tell, I feel that this was, by far, the worst performance of our national anthem in Super Bowl history. And that’s counting Kathy Lee Gifford’s rendition in 1995 and Aaron Neville’s own solo 1990 performance, which was rumored to have killed at least fourteen people.



After experiencing something as horrific as these three people verbally crapping all over the United States’ signature tune, we try to take solace from ourselves as a nation. We come together, draw strength from each other and try to move on with our lives and regain some sense of normalcy, while acknowledging that, in many ways, we’ll never be the same. I’m here for you in this difficult time, America. You can count on me.



That isn’t true for every sportswriter. You’ll be shocked to the core of your being, as I was, when reading Sports Illustrated’s Peter King’s remarks in his “Monday Morning Quarterback Column” that it was the second best anthem he’s ever heard, behind only Whitney Houston’s version in 1991.



The second best of all time, he says. Behind only Whitney Houston, he says. Oh, Peter. It would have been better if you had taken one of the girly mocha no fat latte Starbuck coffees you are so enamored with and tossed it right in the country’s collective faces. Was there another Super Bowl played Sunday February 5th that I don’t know about? Did Peter, on his way to the press box in Detroit, happen upon some fantastic, magical wardrobe that transported him to another universe where Dr. John, Aaron Neville and Aretha Franklin didn’t commit a crime against the nation that we love? Oh, sure, the “multi-verse” aspect of Unified String Theory says it’s scientifically possible, but we’re talking about a tear in Space/Time, probably requiring the explosive energy of a second “Big Bang”, and, as much as I’d like to believe it, I don’t think Pete was able to create an explosion of that magnitude in Detroit Sunday evening, no matter how many chimichangas he’d eaten the night before.



No. Peter King watched the same game you and I did. He listened to the same anthem. And he loved it.

A few years ago I was driving a rental car through Oklahoma with a guy I worked with at a loan company. As you do on any long car trip through the Heartland, we eventually passed a dead skunk on the side of the highway. Needless to say, the smell quickly filled the inside of the car and I said something like, “Man, somebody must have obliterated that skunk. It smells like hell in here.” The guy turned to me and said, in complete seriousness, “I kinda like it.” There’s nothing you can really do to prepare yourself for a moment like that. Any type of co-worker etiquette flies out the door. I said, “You like it? Are you kidding?” “No”, he said. “I do. I kinda like the way it smells.” I don’t think we talked much after that.



A month or so later, I came across an article in some magazine about that very thing. Some people, God only knows why, enjoy smelling skunk. My co-worker was not alone. He was still a freak. Just not the only one.



So, maybe, like people who want to sniff a skunk’s ass, Peter, for some unknown reason, can honestly enjoy something that the rest of us find abominable. It’s the only thing outside of pan-dimensional travel that makes any sense. Peter King can truly like Aaron, Aretha and Dr. John’s version of The Star Spangled Banner. It doesn’t mean that he’s stupid, lying or enjoys watching the rest of America suffer. It only means he’s a freak.