In the familiar parlance of Super Bowl commercialism, I don't need to go to Disney World, 'cause it just came to me, delivered in a box from NFL Films. For more than 40 years now their productions have redefined the way we look at the sport of pro football (and indeed all sports), transforming the barbaric into the balletic, a kid's game into an epic tale. We have so completely embraced the form-so familiar and so imitated-that it can appear a cliché: the stentorian narrative; the Sturm und Drang; the slow-motion action; the sideline microphones that capture the feeling as much as the sound; the unfettered emotionalism that renders me teary.

Yesterday NFL Films, teaming with Warner Home Video, released "America's Game," a 40-disc collection, each one telling the story of a championship run-from Super Bowls I to XL-and priced for your holiday gift consideration at an NFL big-ticket price of $199.98. For those whose lives have been substantially defined by those years and those Super Bowls, it's a bargain. (As an added bonus for us Patriots fans, the set was produced last season, so we get to miss out on the Indianapolis Colts' title run, with the Pats' painful fold in the AFC Championship.) Each chapter includes a central 45-minute documentary narrated by a revolving cast of maturing Hollywood males (Donald Sutherland, Martin Sheen, Morgan Freeman, etc.) and bolstered by fresh interviews with three key players on that championship team. Each also features supplementary material.

Only my interest in extending my marriage past its current quarter-century mark has me rationing my viewing. After one day with this treasure trove I have relived only three Super Bowls: I, when my namesake quarterback extended the Green Bay Packers' dynasty; III, the Joe Namath-led New York Jets upset that changed pro football history, validating the merger between the NFL and the upstart AFL; and my personal favorite, XXXVI, when my hometown Patriots won it all in perhaps the most unusual and surprising title run of the Super Bowl era.

What I am struck by in the retelling, particularly in the surprisingly candid interviews, was not how much I remember, which is quite a bit, but how much I either forgot or never really knew in the first place. In recalling the legendary coach Vince Lombardi, it is not really surprising to hear the great defensive end Willie Davis say, "We played out of fear." It is far more surprising to hear Bill Curry, who went on to be a head coach at three major college programs, talk about how much he hated Lombardi and recalling how he told Bart Starr that he didn't believe Lombardi's claim that he went to church daily. Starr assured him it was true, adding, "The man needs to go to church every day."

Lombardi produced enough tension for any team, but in 1966 there were also racial tensions and tensions surrounding big money paid to rookie running backs Donnie Anderson ($600,000) and Jim Grabowski ($250,000), to keep them out of the grasp of the American Football League. Davis recalls the so-called "million-dollar fumble," his strip of Colts quarterback Johnny Unitas that propelled Green Bay to the NFL Championship game, and notes with acid good humor, "It was orchestrated by a $10,000 player."

The famous tale of Max McGee has special poignancy now, just a few weeks after his death in a home accident. Lombardi had warned his players before the Super Bowl that anyone violating curfew would never play in the NFL again. Starr recalls seeing McGee, a notorious ladies' man and free spirit, strolling into the team hotel at 6:30 a.m. the morning of the game. It probably was not a factor in McGee's decision, but he didn't expect to see much action, at least not in the football game. However, an injury propelled him into the lineup and McGee caught seven passes for 138 yards and two touchdowns. More poignant, certainly at that time, were shots of McGee's teammate and playmate, Paul Hornung. "The Golden Boy," aging, battered and in his final appearance with Green Bay, was the only Packer player who didn't step onto the field.