The word “concussion” existed back in the 1960s, but no one used it. As I recall, there was no medically trained person to look after us or any grown-up who seemed knowledgeable about what they were. We had a team manager, though, an earnest classmate, whose job it was to make readily available to our coaches a gray metal toolbox-looking thing containing adhesive tape, a roll or two of Ace bandages, Band-Aids and smelling salts.
Nowadays, bells are rung like they’ve always been, and we’re almost sure to witness at least one on any given Friday, Saturday or Sunday. But thanks to science and rude awakenings, “Shakeitoffs” have been replaced with well-orchestrated “concussion protocol.” Thank goodness for that, although too little, too late for many, like former Minnesota Vikings quarterbacks Brett Favre and Tommy Kramer, who recently went public with their respective Parkinson’s and dementia diagnoses.
But I’ve seen and heard enough. The violence of impact and its repercussions has finally put a wet-blanket damper on my enjoyment of the game. (Is it just me? Am I the only one?) Unfortunately, it’s not like you can separate the football’s athleticism from its intentional brutality. TV’s talking heads, prognosticators, sports journalists, bookies, fantasy footballers, commentators (“Let’s take another look at that hit from a third angle …”) and those ultra-slow-motion replays won’t let you.
That said, don’t get me wrong. Football, with all its brutality can be beautiful. Balletic even. A joy to watch. Hockey, too, for that matter.
As I write this, I’m surprised at how I feel. I was a die-hard football fan once. I know and remember with wonderful clarity the excitement, communal spirit and joy of Friday night high school games in the small rural town where I once lived and taught; the comfort of belonging among thousands of frenzied fanatics like me at the old University of Minnesota Memorial Stadium on gorgeous autumn afternoons (snowy ones, too); the awesome, unworldly sound of the jet-engine-level decibel roar inside the domed and roofed stadiums in downtown Minneapolis; pleading with and extolling “our Vikings” in my parents living room along with their friends and mine, despite our mouthfuls of my mother’s perfect pastrami, salami and corned beef on rye sandwiches — and way, way back, the euphoria (and just as memorable, silent misery) in our high school locker room after our game.
But now, for me, the game has become too violent, its endgame determined more it seems on who’s injured and might not get back in the game, play in the next one — or ever again.
