Bill Lyon
is a retired Inquirer columnist
Welcome to Bacchanal Day, devoted to all things football and satisfier of America's two favorite appetites, violence and gluttony:
Breathless TV type to Dallas running back Duane Thomas: "So how does it feel to win The Ultimate Game?"
Thomas, bemused smile: "Aren't they going to play it again next year?"
TV type, stammering: "Uh, well, yes."
Thomas, triumphantly: "Then this isn't the ultimate game, is it?"
It began innocently enough, in mid-January of 1967, under a soothing Southern California sun, and in front of acres of empty seats. The old established franchise, the Green Bay Packers, and the chesty young upstart Kansas City Chiefs engaged in a professional football game that was pretty much ignored by most of America.
Few had even an inkling of the monster it would evolve into: The Super Bowl is our Circus Maximus, complete with Roman numerals in a transparent effort to anoint it with self-importance. (Hence, this is Game No. XLIV, rather than plain 'ol unpretentious 44.)
Our monument to wretched excess.
The busiest, and richest, day of the year for the bookies.
More food is eaten than on any other day of the year, save Thanksgiving.
It began as just another game, then swelled into a day, then bloated into a week.
It began as a game with virtually no audience and now draws just more than 100 million viewers worldwide.
It began as a game that had to beg for TV time and now asks, and gets, $3 million for a 30-second commercial. This is debut day for advertising agencies, who load up with their best creative stuff, knowing the really clever ones will be talked about almost as much as the game itself.
Among those not paying much attention to the inaugural game, won by the Packers, 35-10, were Green Bay's Paul Hornung (sidelined with a neck injury) and substitute wide receiver Max McGee (who, having successfully eluded the curfew enforcers the night before, had come tiptoeing in with the dawn patrol). They were sitting comfortably on the bench, legs crossed, discussing Hornung's forthcoming pre-wedding stag party when Vince Lombardi, in his best bullwhip voice, thundered: "McGee, get in there!"
