The Boys of Fall

Are you ready for some football?

As football season begins, the annual ritual of predicting and wishing for the demise of the sport also gains momentum. As a professional spectator sport in the US, football remains more popular than all other major sports combined. But participation in youth football, long under attack for head injuries, toxic masculinity and the attempts of socialist sports like soccer to supplant it, has seen a decline of about 10% over the past decade. Significant, but hardly the Armageddon that was predicted. Over a million kids a year still suit up with clear eyes and full hearts.

Head injuries are no joke. I had one at 13 and there are some that say that moment in time explains much about my personality. I got mine skateboarding. Better ban that along with football, which is not the number one source of head injuries - cycling is.

I suspect much of the anti-football crowd is truly focused on football’s masculinity perception. The sport has no shortage of bad ambassadors who still amble around, mistaking body fat for muscle and telling anyone who will listen about their prowess on the gridiron, celebrating wins which no longer matter and really never did. On any Friday night you are likely to witness some deadbeat dad, who hopes to transform his failures in both parenting and as a human being by shouting his son’s name from the sidelines so loudly that the poor boy’s hair stands on end.

But placing the blame on football’s shoulder (pads) seems as cheap as this pun. Those who blame football for societal problems are the same ones who fail to recognize the lessons of the game.

As one of the great rock n’ roll poets of Southern California wrote, “But wherever I have gone I was sure to find myself there”. I have seen the enemy, and it is not football, it is us. The derelict father remains even when you change the venue, and the crestfallen hero on a barstool is the same sad dude if he fails to learn the lessons that football has on offer while only stealing its dopamine. I imagine the same buffoon acting the fool at spelling bees and scout meetings. And in the interest of gender diversity, let us recall Wanda Holloway, the cheer mom convicted of attempting to hire a hitman to kill the mother of her daughter's junior high school cheerleading rival.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have not played football. I was born with neither the physical predilection for the sport, nor the personal discipline required to develop it. That has not prevented me from a lifelong love affair with the Trojans of the University of Southern California, a program facing existential crisis a year ago that now has Trojan fans walking with cautious swagger once again.

I love football because football is back breakingly hard. Because I couldn’t play it and I envy the athleticism and grace we all get to see every Fall. Yes, it is violent and dangerous, but its violent nature necessitates the values of team more than any other sport. Every player wants to win, but the teams that win realize that we do not control outcomes, only our own actions. This means being responsible. For your job on the field. For your mistakes. For each other.

Wasting hours in the hot summer on a practice field in exchange for playing some fraction of 320 minutes of game time hardly seems like a smart trade. It would be if players weren’t giving their labor up to something larger than themselves.

“Why Football Matters”

Say what you like about the brothers Harbaugh but they are damned poet-philosophers of the game. A while back, the far more tolerable brother, John Harbaugh, penned this brilliant defense of the sport and it’s worth a reread.

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“The Game Goes On”

Former football player turned brilliant writer, Ace Atkins penned this short and beautiful ode to football in Garden & Gun. You should read it at the start of every season.

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“To Love, or Hate, Notre Dame”

As politics entered the sport, much has been made of the unifying power of football. While I understand the sentiment, like most bumper stickers, it lacks nuance. Are we fans of a given team to facilitate one big kumbaya singalong with the world? Hardly. Sometimes, we are only unified in our hatred. Hatred that most of us leave at the stadium so we can hug it out with the enemy afterwards. Like politics used to be. There is no greater hatred in college football than for perhaps its most beloved team - The Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. I have a friend, whom I love dearly, who physically manifests each game in real time. His adrenaline rushes furiously with a mere first down but a broken play? You don’t want to be in the room. I love my misguided Irish friend. But once a year, for three hours, I hate him.

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“The Sean McVay Moment”

You want to hate the coach of the Los Angeles Rams, Sean McVay. It’s not a Rams thing. It’s a youngest coach to win a Super Bowl, lives in a mansion with his model wife kind of thing. So it’s nice to know that Sean McVay isn’t happy either.

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