I’m a Kansas City girl and definitely a fan of Patrick Mahone, Travis Kelce, Chris Jones and a team full of talented young players who play like they are on a sand lot with no one watching. So I am hesitant to make this confession: I am sated, over-full, even a bit queasy at the pre-Super Bowl LVII hype from silly to obnoxious: ubiquitous, unrelenting, and crushingly boring.
But in the case of Super Bowl coverage I awoke this morning with a heavy sense of the stories not told:
I’d love a win, but for me, my greatest prayers are for no ambulances on the field, no career ending injuries, no players or staff arrested in the aftermath of the game…and a 2023 with no headlines reminding us of the price young athletes never imagined paying for a chance at “having it all” only to end up with a hand full of magic beans.
But in the case of Super Bowl coverage I awoke this morning with a heavy sense of the stories not told:
- The number of trafficked girls and boys who are bussed into every Super Bowl to meet the demand for fresh meat, thieves, drug dealers and con artists.
- The number of tourists who will learn yet again that what happens on the road does not stay on the road and “I didn’t mean for this to happen” does not mitigate the carnage.
- The number of families who will struggle to meet next month’s rent and utilities payments because a family member has bet far more than she or he could safely risk.
- The number of young would-be NFL stars who must rethink their lives because of injuries, poor seasons or addiction, with the added challenges of being publicly excoriated by sports broadcaster, columnist, blogger and “fan” chatter.
I’d love a win, but for me, my greatest prayers are for no ambulances on the field, no career ending injuries, no players or staff arrested in the aftermath of the game…and a 2023 with no headlines reminding us of the price young athletes never imagined paying for a chance at “having it all” only to end up with a hand full of magic beans.
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