Sportsomaniacal Sunday

Super Bowl means de facto USA holiday.


Streets and freeways will see few cars, and the markets will have emptied shelves of beer 'n chips 'n hot dog buns into carts doing death-defying zig-zags through parking lots.


There are the pitiably unfortunate few who have emotional umbilicals to New Orleans and Indianapolis, unfortunate because they are muted from radio and TV and internet and cellphone access to the game during their shifts.


And I can sense the angst of those at incommunicado workplaces awash in the blackout, acting out with pacing, chain-smoking cigarets, aimless wandering through their environs, ready to pounce on unsuspecting customers to get updates whilst those very customers secretly revel in their ignorance of the enormity of this sportsomaniacal Sunday, committing sacrilege by venturing out during the telecast.


Vegas' big bettors are at invitation-only, overcrowded venues with the biggest of big screens, among lavish spreads of food and flowing beverages, while private parties and sports bars, nationwide, train all eyes toward an event others would term 'just a game' (and are wise to whisper).


In its "Countdown," ESPN is loudly hammering the hype anvil more than 8 hours from a game they're not showing, for which they'll need permission and payola to even highlight--yet, the sum of whose controlled hysteria will cause vilification of the poor schlub who, Monday morning, asks, "Who won?"