A Violent Game. And That Was Just the Commercials. Am I the only one creeped out by the Super Bowl commercials? Here was a classic matchup between two great N.F.L. franchises with a history, yet the spurts of action seemed squeezed between visions of the apocalypse. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned family entertainment like wardrobe malfunctions? Nobody is an innocent anymore. We all understand the economics of the Super Bowl - 10 or 12 minutes of the ball in motion will be stretched into three and a half hours or more of money-making commercials. But do these commercials really reflect who we are? The commercials, which theoretically reflect the American soul, seem to show a nation full of fears and premonitions of doom, with a populace hopped up on salt and sugar and alcohol and goodness knows what else. This occasional sports columnist, who has been to his share of Super Bowls, had been glad to be home on Super Bowl Sunday, but the scary commercials made me want to be in the melee of the arena, where you are not aware of commercials. Yes, there were the MHK logos on the Patriots" jerseys in honor of Myra Kraft, a philanthropist and in some ways the soul of the New England franchise, and there was Tom Coughlin, under fire two months ago but saved by the long-range wisdom of the Mara and Tisch families. All admirable. But, in between, in gruesome doses, were visions of the end - a Mayan calendar doomsday (I think it had something to do with trucks), vampires selling something or other, some kind of war movie promo, a wildcat or jaguar pouncing on its handler, exploding town squares. What are they trying to tell us? Have the hucksters been listening to what Mitt and Newt keep saying about each other? Frankly, I was also bummed out by the halftime "entertainment" by Madonna, a hostile and staccato and metallic production that was about, what? Certainly not love, and not exactly sex, either, but more some kind of "Clockwork Orange" future. Later, I read that M.I.A., one of the co-stars, had made an obscene gesture. How could you tell? The whole thing was obscene. It ended with the words World Peace. By that time, I was cowering in a corner, afraid to look. Things got a little better in the second half, with good old Clint Eastwood exhorting the United States to come back, the way Chrysler has done. I detected no overt political message, just: we can do better. And later I caught a few glimpses of other actual humans like Derek Jeter and Regis Philbin. After the game, there was a sweet commercial about children who skated on frozen ponds and practiced their crossover dribbling on rooftops and jogged on sidewalks. It was for a new NBC 24-hour sports network. But by that time, it was too late for me. I was wishing somebody would bring me milk and cookies and tuck me into bed. All the monsters I used to imagine as a child now materialize during the great American sports event. Are things really that bad in our psyche? Did anybody else react that way?