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Sally Jenkins: Welcome to a playground of Super Bowl media day

Sally Jenkins: Welcome to a playground of Super Bowl media day

We bewail that Marshawn Lynch was taken during this time, though there were copiousness of other ludicrous and comical characters accessible for interview, starting with a routinely humor-disabled Bill Belichick, whose intolerable monkey-puppet acknowledgment might have been a prominence of a digital overflow that was Super Bowl media day. Which, by a way, a media itself wandered by needlessly, looking mislaid and archaic among a abounding nonprofessionals, a hustling songstresses, a wire radio attempt people who consolidate a word synthetic intelligence, and a walking humanoid advertisements such as a male wearing zero though suspenders and a barrel. No, it wasn’t Tom Brady.

On this annual cyber fight of an occasion, people stretched themselves into animation shapes, both frankly and unwillingly. Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski did a Heisman pose, and done it seem like something in fishnet. The Nickelodeon superhero Pick Boy was there in his tights, orange cape, black mask, and those orange immature shorties over his leggings. “Underwear on a outside, conform forward, years from now they’ll contend it started here,” he said. Asked to exhibit his genuine name, he said, “If that info falls into a wrong hands, we’re all in trouble.”

Nothing guileless could occur in these resources — no male from a New England Patriots or a Seattle Seahawks was going to unexpected gaunt over a microphone and whimper into it confessionally about some prolonged secluded distress, “My father was an alcoholic and we consider that’s because I. . . . ” No. Marshawn Lynch would not select this day for his long-awaited cathartic outpouring. “I’m only here so we don’t get fined,” a Seahawks’ many famous introvert intoned.

Yet, there was still something divulgence in this yearly ritual. Super Bowl week is partly an comment of a group with a many offset common temperament, and Media Day is a partial of that test. Qualities emerged. Just when we started looking during your watch and perplexing to calculate a time and stretch from this weirdness behind to Normal Land, things happened that were engaging adequate to make we stay and listen. You detected who had genuine self-confidence in a face of a many absurd requests. Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson danced a gentle small salsa with a contributor from Televisa on command, and even gave her a twirl.

Rob Gronkowski primarily demurred when he was asked to sing with a flirtatious semi-star Michelle Williams of Destiny’s Child. “Awwww, I’m bad during singing,” he said, though finally relented and did a croaking falsetto line about kissing a lady and fondness it. Next, Williams had him cawing “Eye of a Tigerrrr” from Katy Perry’s “Roar.”

Julian Edelman sat stable by his sensuous facial growth, twirling his brave wily as a carney barker as he fielded questions. No one could disparage him behind that thicket. “Man, we have a brave on my face looks like a squirrel,” he said.

Who rubbed gracefully a bonhomie of late players now wielding microphones, seeking questions with one palm while bro-slapping their backs with a other? Who cantered briskly by a many foolish queries, like, “What’s your favorite gas hire snack?!”

Who was over embarrassment? There was Gronk, obligingly reading a line from that scandalous classical of erotica, “A Gronking to Remember,” finishing a judgment with ideal articulation and sibilant importance on his Ts.

Who had adequate inner counterbalance to select wit over testiness in a face of so many slap-silly questions? Especially a ones about beards, from Gronk’s stubbly small chinstrap to Michael Bennett’s expansion a distance and figure of a veal chop. “Great guys have beards man,” Bennett said. “Moses had a beard, Genghis Khan had one. Even Jesus had one.”

Is hair going to be a factor, someone asked Patriots quarterback Brady, whose cowlicks stranded adult like a cockatoo’s?

“Not mine,” he said.

Who was good to kids, and who done a small fun of themselves? Belichick, that’s who. He shuffled into a room like a pleasantly grandpa, in his hoodie, jeans, and flip flops, and answered questions with, if not expansiveness, patience. Which approached charity when Jerod Mayo’s small daughter was hoisted adult so she could ask him what kind of pressed animals he likes.

“A puppet we can kind of put your fingers in,” he replied. Only he didn’t stop there. “A small monkey,” he said. “So he can speak and pierce his fingers and curtsy his head.”

No earlier had we recovered from your tardy jawed giggling than here came a voice from a behind of a throng braying during Belichick if he remembered “going to cooking with me in Nantucket?” Belichick kind of ha-hahed during a man in deceptive recognition. But afterwards a braying voice asked if Belichick wanted to put a strike out on anyone. Belichick’s ha-haing trailed off.

“Moving forward, if we need anybody murdered in this subsequent week, I’m your guy,” a brayer yelled. “You only tell me and I’ll take ‘em out, no questions asked!”

“Well,” Belichick said. And afterwards he delivered a line of a day.

“Right now I’m only meditative about Seattle,” he said.

Back behind Belichick, Edelman was still responding questions about a brave thing. “Man have we seen what’s function behind east?” he said. “Weather. Got to keep a face warm.”

As things wound down, as a costumers and wire hosts drifted out of a room, a small bit of space non-stop up. Enough for one or dual candid questions, that elicited tangible tellurian answers. “Yeah,” Edelman pronounced in response to a murmured query about a peculiarity of his nap during a prolonged nights until Sunday, “you do dream about a Super Bowl.” Off in another corner, a 37-year-old Brady was articulate about removing his conduct right for what could be his final one of these things. What was he meditative of?

“Winning,” he said. “If we have some doubt this week,” he added, “you only tighten your eyes and suppose yourself winning.”

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