Pollice Verso ("Thumbs Down"), by Jean-Leon Gerome (1872)
Bread and circuses. That was the accusation of the Roman satirist Juvenal, directed against those politicians who used free bread and gladiatorial contests to divert the populace’s mind from their political responsibilities.
Today our diversions continue to occur in coliseums and arenas. I plead guilty to having been so diverted. These past couple of weeks, as I have gotten up in the morning, I have been listening to ESPN rather than National Public Radio. Better to dream of Petyton Manning’s gorgeous passes than watch Haiti continue to stagger under the aftermath of the earthquake, suicide bombers continue to sow death, the Republicans continue to take their marching orders from fanatical talk show hosts, and the Democrats continue to lose their nerve.
Maybe this helps account for the fierce loyalty that certain fans have for their teams. Disappointment with the world makes us feel as though circuses are our only hope. Conflict in sports occurs within clear lines and victory is achievable. We can imagine being receiver Reggie Wayne or running back Reggie Bush as we defy gravity and perform superhuman feats. The world, by contrast, weighs upon us with all its intractability.
Here’s a poem that my father published in the New Yorker decades ago (in the early 1950’s) that draws a parallel between football and circuses. “We who are about to die salute you” was the gladiator’s announcement to the emperor before going into battle. My father imagines an Eastern European football player (that’s the significance of the name) announcing these words before the kickoff of a college homecoming game.
Let the poem usher us into Super Bowl weekend. But instead of seeing it as bread and circuses, an irresponsible escape from life, let us regard it as a momentary diversion that will restore our energies. After it is over, we can then, once again, take up the challenges of a world that that needs our participation.
Homecoming Game, by Scott Bates
Moreturi te salutamus! cries
Malikovich. The grandstands rise
Deafening November with their answering roar.
Apollo soars. The drums go out
Dropping a heavy silence. Then, with a shout,
The referees let the lions out.
World, we’ll be showing up for work on Monday. We who are about to die will be saluting you.
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[…] his poetry a great deal and even recommended some of his poems to The New Yorker, which printed one of them. But he also warned my father that Americans for the most part have little respect for light verse. […]