Compared to the halftime shows of America's other major sports leagues—Major League Baseball, the NBA, and the NHL—the Super Bowl's halftime spectacle stands in a league of its own.
At times, the halftime show's broadcast ratings even surpass key moments of the game itself.
"Hey, Brooke! Hey, Clint! Get over here! Halftime's starting!"
In a rundown apartment in New York's Lower East Side, Clavis shouted toward the kitchen. "Today's show features Victoria's Secret Angels! Hurry up!"
"Victoria's Secret Angels! Woo-hoo!"
Brooke and Clint burst out of the kitchen—one carrying a stack of sodas, the other two oversized tubs of popcorn. Cheering like maniacs, they plopped onto the couch beside Clavis, excitement written all over their faces.
Brooke stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Adriana Lima's performing, right? She's just perfect."
Clint countered with a grin, "Nah, Heidi Klum's got the best body, no contest."
Clavis scoffed. "You're both blind. That new girl, Liya Kebede, is the real showstopper."
"The Ethiopian?" Brooke wrinkled his nose. "Not into her skin tone."
Clavis exploded. "That's racist!"
"No, I just don't like dark skin," Brooke protested.
"How's that not racist?"
"Why do I have to like dark skin? Is it racist if I don't like pale skin either? I just prefer Adriana Lima's golden tan. What's wrong with that?"
"You're still wrong for not liking dark skin."
"Why? I love Michael Jackson! He's Black. What do you say to that?"
"Okay, enough!" Clint cut in, tossing cans of soda to silence the bickering duo. "Speaking of Michael Jackson, isn't he in trouble again? Something about a little boy?"
[Translator Note: I didn't remove the paragraph above since its funny, but tell me if you find this offensive and i'll delete it.]
That pivot shut both of them up momentarily.
Before they could reignite their argument, Clint interrupted with a sharp yell. "Shut up, you two! Halftime's starting!"
A sudden explosion erupted from the TV speakers, capturing all their attention.
"Holy crap!"
"My God!"
"Whoa!"
The screen filled with a jaw-dropping explosion, fire cascading outward in waves so vivid it felt as though it might engulf the entire room. The trio instinctively leaned back on the couch.
"What the hell is this?" Brooke murmured, wide-eyed.
The scene shifted. A striking woman clad in skintight black leather plunged off the side of a skyscraper, landing with a thunderous crash. The ground cratered beneath her as fissures spiderwebbed outwards.
The camera panned in as she rose, her sleek outfit accentuating her lithe frame and impossibly long legs. The woman's face—cold and fiercely beautiful—came into focus.
"Wait, is that… Nicole Kidman?" Brooke gasped. "I thought she was all skin and bones. Who knew she had that figure?"
Clavis, his earlier fervor forgotten, nodded in agreement. "Damn, this must be a movie trailer. What movie is this? I have to watch it."
The action intensified as SWAT-like forces swarmed the woman. With a dazzling leap, she ascended skyward.
The shot froze midair, rotating a full 360 degrees to showcase her perfect form in motion.
"Cool!" Clavis exclaimed.
The scene then shifted to an impeccably dressed man in a black trench coat and sunglasses—Martin.
"Wait, is that Martin?"
"Oh my God, he looks incredible in that getup!"
What came next defied belief.
On a rooftop, a stern-looking man in black, sans coat but also wearing shades, fired a barrage of bullets at Martin.
Time slowed to an almost surreal crawl. Each bullet's trajectory was vividly rendered on screen, their spiraling motion defying the viewer's perception of speed and gravity.
Then, Martin did the impossible—bending backward to evade the bullets with a series of fluid, almost serpentine movements.
"Holy crap! He dodged them!"
Gasps and cheers erupted, not just in that cramped New York apartment but across living rooms and in the packed stands of the Super Bowl.
As the trailer reached its crescendo, a towering Black man appeared against a stark, sterile white backdrop. With an enigmatic intensity, he pointed directly at the screen.
"What is real?" he asked. "How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain"
Then came the text that left every viewer's heart racing:
"The Matrix – In Theaters April 15, 2002."
The anticipation was palpable.
"So this is why Martin showed up at the Rose Bowl with Nicole Kidman—to promote his new movie!"
Even skeptical female fans softened their attitudes.
In his Beverly Hills mansion, Tom Cruise, glued to his TV, felt a pang of relief.
He hated Martin. Seeing Nicole Kidman so close to him made his blood boil.
But as long as it was only for work… that was tolerable.
Yet deep down, another bitter truth gnawed at him:
He couldn't bear the thought of Nicole finding someone better than him—and certainly not before he did.