Gregg Doyel

First, Bruce Springsteen is decent live. Not bad. But not great. Not as good as Jennifer Hudson on the national anthem, which she lip-synced, I don't care what anyone says.

Maybe Bruce should have lip-synced. He seemed out of breath the whole time, like he was one of the people rushing around the field setting up the stage before he got up there.

Tom Petty was better last year. And Tom Petty wasn't great.

OK Bruce just started "Glory Days," and maybe the pace of the song agrees with him. Not sure. But this sounds decent. Better than decent.

I'm writing this before he joins in on the ending to "Glory Days," but it must be said that Little Steven wants a little too much attention. So does Patty Scialfa. Is being in the E Street Band, and in Patty's case being married to Bruce, not enough? Good heavens.

Plus it turns out that goody bag that I thought was for the media only was for everyone here. Everyone has the keychain with the handy glow light. And they're all waving it like we're at a pot-smoking concert. God people are stupid.

Kickoff is still 2 1/2 hours away, and I'm already sick of Bruce Springsteen.

I was sick of him earlier this week when he gave a press conference to announce, essentially, he knows nothing about football. Which is fine, Bruce. But don't tell us that.

Tom Petty was old and skinny and yucky and irrelevant, but last year he knew enough to pretend he understood football. Bruce's contribution to football knowledge this week seemed to have been his understanding that, yes, Terry Bradshaw once played for the Steelers. Terrific, Boss. What else do you know? That Dick Butkus was once a Bear?

Bruce: Who's Dick Butkus?

I'm sick of him. How can such manly music come from someone with so little testosterone?