I don’t understand football. Not that it hasn’t been explained to me—many times, in fact—but my knowledge of downs and flags and penalties is like a house of cards, obliterated by the mere breeze of a linebacker running past. But my interest in the sport was finally piqued when the Nielsen Company trumpeted Super Bowl XLIV—with its 106.5 million viewers—as the most watched American television broadcast in history, besting the series finale of “M*A*S*H,” which captured 105.97 million viewers in 1983.

Let’s put these numbers into perspective: in the last five years, the World Series has averaged less than 20 million viewers per game. The most recent State of the Union was seen by 48 million, divided amongst 11 networks.

But something’s wrong here. I’m not questioning the accuracy of the Nielsen numbers—I’m questioning the accuracy of the interpretation they invite. We must consider that the television-watching population of the United States is vastly higher than it was in 1983. “M*A*S*H” won approximately 60% of households, whereas the Colts and Saints took only 45%.

60% is a profound majority. It’s an affront to “M*A*S*H” to toss its crown so casually to a yearly sporting event identified only by a generic Roman numeral. This is a series that won 14 Emmy Awards, and in the decades since it went off the air, has been homaged on everything from “The Simpsons” to “Sesame Street” (and twice in this season of “Community” alone). A few hundred thousand Super Bowl viewers shouldn’t let us devalue the importance of “M*A*S*H” to television history.

“M*A*S*H” took place during the Korean War, following the doctors and soldiers stationed at the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital in South Korea. A thinly veiled allegory for the Vietnam War, the show pioneered the “dramedy” genre. Its producers were famously among the first to fight against the use of a laugh track. “M*A*S*H” ran on CBS for eleven years, outlasting the Korean War itself by eight years. And given the obstacles faced, it really should’ve been awful.

First was the diluting effect of second-degree adaptation. The franchise first manifested as “MASH: A Novel About Three Army Doctors,” published by Richard Hooker in 1968. Two years later, Robert Altman’s tremendously well-received film version premiered. Two more years later, and TV’s “M*A*S*H” was born. When I think of a show-based-on-a-movie-based-on-a-book, I don’t imagine a cultural icon.

Plus, 1972 wasn’t exactly a banner year for new American television. It saw the premieres of “Maude,” “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve,” and “Sealab 2020”—influential for their time, certainly, but I don’t think you want to order those DVD box sets any more than I do. However, “M*A*S*H” holds up, and beautifully.

Following its initial success, the series faced a seemingly insurmountable problem: unbelievable turnover within the main ensemble. By season four, it had been objectively gutted; two of the three primary characters had departed. Yikes.

Thankfully, what remained was the television show’s greatest asset: Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce, played by Alan Alda. Hawkeye, the camp’s head surgeon, was gently insubordinate, quick-witted, and altogether adorable (Mr. Alda, if you’re reading this, I’m still interested). As the series—and the Vietnam War—progressed, “M*A*S*H” grew increasingly serious in tone, and the character of Hawkeye increasingly liberal.

By portraying the individual’s struggle to cope with the atrocities of combat, the show—as light-hearted as it could be—delivered a profoundly resonant anti-war message. “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen,” the two-and-a-half-hour series finale, was predicated on an event so traumatic as to drive Hawkeye into a mental hospital. In this sense, “M*A*S*H” was radically ahead of its time—“Good Morning Vietnam” was arguably the first Vietnam comedy overtly about Vietnam, and for that release, Touchstone bided its time until 1987.

If there’s a criticism of M*A*S*H worth making, it’s the undercurrent of sexism that sneaks its way into almost every episode. But before you dismiss the after-hours philandering of Hawkeye and friends as hopelessly retrograde, I’d encourage you to watch the infamous Dodge Charger commercial that aired during this year’s Super Bowl. Reinforcing gender stereotypes is one thing, but doing it by means of mediocre copywriting is unforgivable.

In fairness, the Super Bowl-“M*A*S*H” comparison is intricately complicated. Those of us privileged to watch television in 2010 have many more channels (not to mention the Internet) vying for our attention than was the case in 1983. Yet, I can’t help but feel that the success of the Super Bowl is not a victory for television, at least in the traditional sense; it is a victory for the advertising-industrial complex.

“M*A*S*H” helped to define not only the trajectory of television comedy, but the way our country processed the incomprehensibilities of the war in which it was engaged. I wouldn’t deny anyone their Constitutional rights to buffalo wings and the ritualistic spectacle of rocking halftime shows, but I only ask that you appreciate “M*A*S*H” for what it was: a television show of the finest kind.

—Columnist Molly O. Fitzpatrick can be reached at fitzpat@fas.harvard.edu.