The Hall of Fame is becoming an unhealthy obsession. Even in a world of round-the-clock manufactured news and staged arguments, Hall of Fame discussions are in danger of veering off course and taking relevance and credibility with them.

Seriously, why is it such a big deal to argue, over and over, someone's Hall of Fame credentials? I completely understand the power of sports to draw people together based on their differing opinions -- what else would they talk about on "First Take"? -- but at what point does it become senseless?

This used to be the sole dominion of baseball. That was the only Hall of Fame anybody really cared about, and baseball provides the perfect fodder for argument. Certain stats are inarguable -- 3,000 hits, 500 homers (pre-'roids) and 300 wins. So the arguments rage in the margins -- Bert Blyleven for one on the no side, Jim Rice ultimately on the yes side.

The latest retiree to ignite the debate is Jeff Kent, and his candidacy is based on a contrivance: the most homers and RBIs by a second baseman. It's an argument that catches the eye, since he had huge power numbers at a non-power position. It's also an argument that dismisses the obvious: Kent was a second baseman by default and a poor one at that. In his best years, he benefited from playing next to the greatest defensive first baseman I've ever seen, J.T. Snow, and batting behind the greatest offensive player in history, Barry Bonds. In my non-voting opinion (I fell one year short of the required 10 years of Baseball Writers Association of America membership), Kent's candidacy is done in by the details.

And that, perhaps, depicts the allure of the obsession. Even in a column questioning the overemphasis on arguing Hall of Fame consideration, there's a detour to an argument on Hall of Fame consideration.

I blame Kurt Warner for putting us over the top. He might be the first NFL player to ignite the kind of raging Hall of Fame debate that would make baseball proud. Obviously, the Super Bowl is an entire week dedicated to hyperbole, when the obvious is stated with store-bought profundity and the insightful is depleted by Tuesday morning. Maybe it was inevitable that football would get its first big Hall of Fame debate under these circumstances.

What makes Warner debate-worthy are the peak/valley aspects of his career. He's a great story, and his late-stage resurgence cements his candidacy. Still, there were some bad years mixed in, so he's not a cinch.

The problem, however, isn't Warner. He's simply the catalyst. Amid the discussions of Warner's credentials in the aftermath of the Super Bowl, Ben Roethlisberger's name came up. Is he a Hall of Famer? He has two Super Bowl wins, Warner has one, etc., etc., etc.

Roethlisberger, it should be noted, is 26 years old. Can we let him hit 30 before we reserve our rooms for the 2021 enshrinement ceremonies? Can we let the man conduct his career in peace?

A couple of other things:

1. You know how everybody calls into talk shows the day after big games and begins their spiel by saying, "I haven't heard anybody mention this, but ... " and then goes on to describe some egregious non-call or coaching blunder that nobody -- nobody! -- saw? It's always a play that could have turned the game around if only someone would have had the brains to see it.

Well ... nobody's mentioning this, but the Cardinals made a big mistake before the game started. They won the toss and deferred. This was a macho move by the second-most macho team in the game. It made no sense for Ken Whisenhunt to put his defense on the field first. Weather wasn't a factor, and the Cardinals' only hope was their offense. If they were going to make a statement early, it wasn't going to be with a tough defensive stand that would put the Steelers on their heels. The odds were against it.

Deferring was the worst idea since Pepsuber. It used to be one of those college-only stunts employed by coaches with hellacious defenses. They want to throw down the gauntlet right away and let the other team know what they've got coming to them for 60 minutes. It's not a strategy to employ when your offense is Kurt Warner, Larry Fitzgerald and Anquan Boldin, and your defense is Darnell Dockett, Adrian Wilson and nine other guys.

Anyway, it backfired. The Steelers drove down the field with little resistance, and only Mike Tomlin's goal-line reticence made it 3-0 instead of 7-0.

2. The Super Bowl was excellent entertainment, and the best thing about it? Neither coach played to keep his job. Other than Tomlin's surprisingly unmacho decision to kick a field goal from the half-yard line on that first drive, both teams played with desperation and purpose.

Down 23-20 in the final minute, the Steelers didn't run plays designed to position the ball in the center of the field to give Jeff Reed the best opportunity to send the game into overtime. The thought didn't even occur to them, and for that we're thankful.

It's a testament to the two teams but also an indictment of the NFL's pathetic overtime rule to say this blatant truth: Overtime would have ruined that game. It also would have exposed the sudden-death rule for what it is, but it would have ruined the game.

Ask yourself this: Do you think Roger Goodell was rooting for overtime? No, I don't think so either.

ESPN The Magazine senior writer Tim Keown co-wrote Josh Hamilton's autobiography, "Beyond Belief: Finding the Strength to Come Back," which is available on Amazon.com. Sound off to Tim here.