Who Was Afraid of Men in Silly Costumes?

On Saturday morning, Moonshot and Little Lutine let me sleep in just a bit. Not more than a half hour or so, but it felt utterly glorious to stretch out in the bed for a brief moment. I tend to go to bed later than my wife and rise at least an hour before her. An unoccupied mattress is a rare thing.

At any rate when I eventually slid on my robe and stumbled my way down from our converted attic bedroom, I was greeted by a long forgotten by instantly recognizable theme song from the living room.

American Gladiators.

Moonshot shrugged sheepishly. “There was nothing else on.” But I didn’t need any explanation. I’m as big a fan of nostalgic schlock as anyone. Bring on Nitro, I thought as I prepared myself for mind-numbery. But as I stood there, a thought occurred. And that was a bit annoying on a Saturday morning. But, once it had sprung into my head, I had no choice but to chase it down like a white rabbit. And having chased it, I had no choice but to comment to my wife about it…thereby dragging both of us away from our brainless Saturday and into yet another sociological discussion.

It’s what I do.

I remember when American Gladiators first hit television. I can recall critics bashing it, saying it was another step toward the downfall of our society. Anyone who would root for such barbarism, they said, was just like the Romans who screamed for blood at the Coluseum. Now, even at my young age, I knew these folks were going off the deep end with that kind of talk. But I accepted, even as a fan of the show, that it probably appealed to the worst in humanity and represented a bad trend in American culture.

Standing there in my bath robe almost 20 years later…it looked positively adorable. It looked simplistic and silly. I tried to remember a society that would be offended by this level of “brutality.” I tried to recall a me that believed that grown men in flashy costumes shooting tennis balls at each other represented a base and degrading element of our society. I tried to recall what made this so offensive. Goofy….sure. Offensive?

No one was getting voted off the island, ala Survivor. No stripping games to titillate, ala Dog Eat Dog. No blood and barbed wire, ala WWE. No back-stabbing masking as entertainment through camera confessionals encouraging contestants to bad mouth their opponents, ala just about every reality game show out there. Just people trying to best each other in straight-forward and silly physical competition.

With the light of hindsight it seemed almost pure.

I stood there and wondered what sort of entertainment Norah would someday gaze at nostalgically. I felt old.

So, having chased the thought to its age-spotlighting conclusion, I shut off my brain and let Norah climb on me while I remembered how much I had always wanted to play some of those cool Gladiator games.

Suddenly, it felt like Saturday again.