TVs certainly not cricket

Press, 25 September 1987, Page 17

TVs certainly not cricket

Sixteen weeks of hyperbole, culminating, more mundanely speaking, in the superbowl. Sixteen Saturday nights of the finest meeting the greatest in the form of the Seahawks and Broncos, the Dolphins and the Patriots, and so on.

Sell-out crowds every week — in America there is no other sort There are speedsters and tight ends, actually rather a lot of these, judging from the first programme. One player actually took to the artificial turf without his neck brace. Wow. Gridiron is a simple, explicit name for a simple, explicit game that looks as though it is a form of war between two hordes of orangutans. Very small, unpadded bums somehow predominate over very large, padded shoulders as the O-ffence line up against the DE-fence. Ape-like calls honk out and then the battle is on, very few of the contestants ever reaching the fully vertical position commonly thought to characterise humanity.

As well as being fearsomely impressive athletes, the gridiron players are also fearsome of appearance. They are held together with the armour of modern sporting warfare, topped by helmets that seem to have been

Ken Strongman

on television

forged from prison doors. It must sound like Big Ben when they clash head on. They are necessary, if for no other reason than to stop them kissing one another like soccer players. By contrast with the tightly muscled glutea and the upper body armour, there is something almost puny about their bare arms. Which only goes to show that Einstein was right: everything is relative. Measured against anyone else’s bare arms, they are probably gigantic. There is nothing puny about these modern gladiators, bodily.

There are other contrasts. The players are

basically wedge-shaped, with the wide end uppermost The spectators, officials and general millers-about are also wedge-shaped, or more exactly, pear-shaped, with the narrow part uppermost. They should be in better shape; they must use vast numbers of calories in the vigor of their gum-chewing. Unfortunately, with the face-guards in place it is hard to see the players’ expressions as they gain or lose a few yards. But they have other ways of demonstrating their feelings. A small gain brings paroxysms of handslapping enthusiasm, punctuated by a surprising amount of bottompatting.

A similar loss of ground is cataclysmic. Instant droop-shouldered dejection and occasional anger rule the moment for the players. At such times, though, their coaches look slightly hurt. This is either at the vicissitudes of an unkind fate, or, perhaps, in a sort of surprised if crestfallen pique that the opposition should be so nasty as to beat them when they so much wanted to win.

In the final analysis, the gridiron players haven’t really got what it takes. Just as in other North American sports, they

keep having time-outs and making mass substitutions. Why? real men in real sports just keep going. This is not all. At one state last Saturday, the teams were described as having two turnovers each. The flavour was not mentioned.

As one might expect, the commentary which accompanies this barbarism also has its moments. “A slow tight end with excellent hands — an old pro” ... “Can the centre handle the nose tackle?” Good question.

And if you thought sexism was dying, reflect on: “When we gonna put skirts on these quarter backs?” this rhetorical question was reported from a discussion involving changing the rules to make it less likely that quarter-backs are killed, maimed or otherwise discommoded.

Do we want 16 weeks of gridiron, on Saturday evenings? I think not. It would have been nice to be asked.

Those who worry about the effects of violence on television should get stuck into this. It is violence of an extreme sort, institutionalised in the name of sport and controlled by megadollars. How about changing its time to 3 a.m.?