Harmless, you say. Hardly, I retort. As evidenced by February’s Super Bowl XXXVIII (the first three numerals were no coincidence), watching a major sporting event these days is about as family-friendly as watching the Playboy Channel. Not that I would know.

There was that continuous risk of a “wardrobe malfunction” between innings, or the potential sight of grown men in a commercial jumping in slow-motion to a classic rock anthem, celebrating the rebirth of their sex life.

Still, I figured it was the least I could do. My part to preserve a game that meant so much to me as a child before it’s forsaken, swapped for activities that require a skateboard and a minimum $5,000 investment in tattoos and piercings.

Big mistake? You decide.

Stay tuned

8:24 p.m. – Teams are introduced. Then we’re told to stay put, because Muhammad Ali is poised to throw out the ceremonial first pitch on the other side of the commercial break. During said break, overexposed heiresses Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie appear in a promotion for their fall series, “Simple Life 2.”

It was Hilton (I think) behind the wheel of a car, advising Richie to drop her pants.

“Why did she say that?” asks the boy next to me, suddenly dropping his Play-Doh.

“Because her daddy didn’t spend enough time with her when she was growing up. He was out partying All Night Long and Dancing on the Ceiling.”

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“Um, they’re songs. Songs that came out when I was a kid.”

“I never heard them.”

“Well, that’s why you’re such a smart guy.”

8:36 p.m. – Game still hasn’t started. FOX regales us with a bleep-laden promo for its upcoming series “Trading Spouses.” In reality television run amok, two families with multiple children trade mothers for an unspecified amount of time.

“Why are those kids screaming and crying?”

“Because they’re being exploited, buddy.”

“Huh?”

“Just kidding, pal. They’re upset because the TV people made them trade their mommy to some other kids for a few days.”

“Wow. Hey, Dad. Have you ever wanted to trade Mom?”

“Ummmmmmm, no. Except for the time she said her favorite team was the White Sox.”

Don’t try this at home

8:47 p.m. – In an otherwise celebratory commercial for bottled water, a man hurls himself through a giant storefront window, shattering the glass to smithereens. He gets up and continues dancing with his drink, which you can obtain for the rock-bottom price of $1.29 per 16 ounces if your faucet’s not good enough.

“Dad, how come he didn’t get hurt?”

Pensive pause.

“You know the stuffed doll your grandma bought you at that yard sale one time? The one with the Yankees jersey? The one we bounce off the wall and body-slam on the bed?”

“Yup.”

“Why doesn’t he get hurt, do you think?”

“No brain, no pain.”

“Exactly, little friend.”

9:25 p.m. – After promising a break for local FOX affiliates, the network cuts away to more self-promotion. This time it’s “Method and Red,” featuring Carmen Electra, who’s shown puckering up for the camera while sliding one strap from her dress over her shoulder.

“Dad, why’s she doing that?”

Finally giving up, I begin a frantic search for the remote control. It fails.

Click.

“Because she’s ready for bed and so are you.”

10:05 p.m. – Returning to the game, alone, I crack another diet soda. Maybe, I’ve decided, it isn’t realistic to think I’m going to pass down the same national pastime so many of us grew up with.

One thing’s for sure. I won’t be handing over the same world we grew up in.

Kalle Oakes is staff columnist. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].