The possibility of watching Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson take one more snap this football season finds me contemplating the unfathomable.

I'm watching the Pro Bowl.

The last time I sat still through an entire Pro Bowl telecast, it was on a black-and-white screen. (Color television sets were a family-household luxury. Janis Joplin explained her yearning, and mine, when she sang: "Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a color TV?")

I finally bought a color TV in 1978, late January. The first thing I tuned in to was the Pro Bowl, a relatively suspenseful 14-13 NFC victory that ended on a controversial no-call of an illegal blitz. I didn't see it. I switched channels midway through the first quarter, beckoned by a newer household luxury called "HBO."

What's wrong with the Pro Bowl?

A better question: What isn't?

The participants want to be there only until it's time for, like, the kickoff. Hard-wired to compete in a sport predicated on violent collisions at full speed, Pro Bowl players sensibly avoid both violence and collisions, and play at the speed of Sergio Garcia lining up a putt.

Strategy in the Pro Bowl essentially is limited to the standard dilemma posed in a football board game, circa 1966: Run or pass?

Shifting on offense is prohibited. So are sets with three receivers on one side, press defensive coverages beyond 5 yards, rushing punters and kickers, any base defensive scheme but the standard 4-3, and, of course, blitzing.

No wonder recent Pro Bowl scores suggest there are baskets with backboards on each side of the field. The NFL's neutered version of an All-Star game, which began in 1952, didn't find a team reaching 40 points until 1984.

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