Nothing makes me feel quite as old as the Super Bowl. No, the sight of players hitting the dirt doesn’t bring back memories of crippling sports injuries that stove me up like an old geezer. Sports injuries aren’t part of my past because sports aren’t either.
Sports injuries aren’t the problem. The Roman numerals are the problem. Now, the first game didn’t start that way. It was called “First World Championship Game: AFL vs. NFL.” The next year they revised history, adding the “Super Bowl I” flourish. By then it was already Super Bowl II, which means they should have had a clue right then of the problems this Roman numeral thing would create. The older the Super Bowl got, the longer the name got, too.
Obviously men made the Roman numeral decision. Women figured out where that number system was leading around the time Rome fell and nixed it in favor or Arabic numerals. See, the gals knew there was no way to hide their age when writing it down in ever-increasing RNs. The older you were, the longer it took, and pretty soon everybody knew you were old, and it was no use touching up your roots with charcoal from the fire and microderm abrasioning your face with sand every three days anymore. Using Arabic numerals, two digits did the trick, unless you reached 100 and then who cared anyway?
That’s why the Super Bowl makes me feel old. I remember how excited my dad was about Super Bowl I before it was Super Bowl I, and I remember Super Bowl II when my brother thought Bart Starr was the greatest man on earth, and I remember how Super Bowl III made Joe Namath a superstar and he posed for Playboy, which my parents only mentioned in hushed whispers, but the seventh grade boys never quit talking about ever.
Back then, the Roman Numerals were so short and easy to read. I was young, and I knew I would never be an old fogey like my parents and neither would Joe Namath. Now the list of Roman Numerals is so long, the young kids need decoders to read them. Old fogies, like me and Joe Namath who remember the first Super Bowl, now need bifocals and decoders along with charcoal to touch up our roots and bucket loads of sand for microdermabrasoning.
The only hope is Super Bowl 50. In the blink of an eye, it’ll be Super Bowl L. I’ll feel young again, and hopefully Joe Namath will, too. Maybe he’ll pose for another centerfold.
Perish the thought.
