No dead air, no silly quasi-environmental campaigns that stink of hypocrisy, critical commentators, tough questions, next-level graphics. Would you pay?
Yesterday, me and two million other lovers of cartoonish violence, paid $54.95 apiece to watch six hours of mixed-martial arts fighting.
Didn’t think twice and I ain’t one for loose spending.
Dana White’s UFC is a sport that is bizarre and shallow, a detached strain of realism with shocks and silliness, as all good spectator sports should be. No greenwashing, no virtue signalling comic in its hypocrisy.
Trump, Bieber, Nelk boys, a Kardashian. All of ‘em in the front rows.
Real simple rules.
Beat hell out of person in front of you.
Don’t stick y’fingers in their eyeballs and don’t hit ‘em in the nuts or pussy.
If you get hit, you keep coming back.
If leg snaps, scream at your opponent that you’ll be tooling his wife later at the after party.
Raw but professional.
Slick as fuck.
And, I was watching, thinking, man, how good would it be if I’d slung the cash at an epic day of pro surfing, eight-to-ten-foot Teahupoo or Cloudbreak, a full day of head-to-head cards, first light to dusk, a winner crowned at the end.
Use this is as a template, and, yeah, it’s an obvious one.
The ASP’s (this was one year before Dirk Ziff re-branded pro surfing as the WSL) Billabong Pro in 2014. Teahupoo. Kelly Slater, John John Florence faced off in eight-to-ten foot Teahupoo. The two best surfers in heavy lefts walking a tight-rope more deadly than an uppercut from Francis Ngannou.
Imagine a day of it.
Two-week window in season.
One day.
Kelly, John John, Gabriel, Italo, Jack Robinson, Griff, Brother, Owen Wright, Julian Wilson, maybe.
Have six of ‘em a year. Grand Slams tour. The current WCT tour becomes a feeder into the Grand Slams with Slater being an obvious wildcard.
You know it’s coming so you have viewing parties. You and your buddies chip in say, ten bucks apiece to watch.
Tell me that wouldn’t excite just a little.
It ain’t gonna happen in a hurry, I know, but, coming up in two months is finals day at Lowers?
Scenario:
The WSL puts a pay-wall up for finals day.
Fifty-five bucks to watch.
There’s no dead air, no silly quasi-environmental campaigns, “diversity and inclusivity” is given a needed rest, commentators are encouraged to be critical, tough questions are asked in post-heat interviews and the on-screen graphics game goes next level.
A southern-hemi whips up the most shreddable three-to-four-foot waves y’ever seen.
Would you pay?
If no, what if it shifted to Tahiti in 2022 and you got to see Filipe deal with his demons at ten-foot Teahupoo?
Oui ou non?
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