Let me be honest about myself: I am a turd in the punchbowl.
Today is a good day in two communities that I love. The Philadelphia Eagles and Kansas City Chiefs are both playing in their respective conference championship games, and could potentially meet in the Super Bowl. I lived eight years in Philadelphia, and currently live in a college town not far from KC — and, growing up in Kansas, always rooted for that city’s sports franchises. (Even the Kings, once upon a time.)
But I won’t be watching. I just can’t stomach the violence that the game inflicts on the players.
I’ve been writing about this a long time. In 2009, I read Malcolm Gladwell’s New Yorker story comparing football to dog fighting in its cruelty — and came away convinced he had a case. The links between football and CTE made it impossible for me to feel like I could ethically watch the game.
In April, Phillip Adams killed six people — including two children, ages 9 and 5 — then turned the gun on himself, dying at the age of 32. On Tuesday, we learned a likely reason why: Adams' brain was severely damaged after playing football for 20 years, including for six NFL teams. He had chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), a condition often found in people who have suffered head trauma.
"I don't think [Adams] snapped," said Dr. Ann McKee, who directs the CTE Center at Boston University. "It appeared to be a cumulative progressive impairment. He was getting increasingly paranoid, he was having increasing difficulties with his memory, and he was very likely having more and more impulsive behavior."
My son is 4 years old. He’s big for his age. The guys at the butcher shop down the street have been measuring him for Pop Warner football since he was 18 months old. But my son will never, ever get a signed permission slip to play the game. Why? Because I don’t want him to suffer.
I don’t want him to suffer the way Junior Seau did, or Dave Duerson, or Andre Waters, or any number of former NFL greats who we now know suffered from chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a kind of permanent, football-induced brain damage. And men who don’t kill themselves often suffer with dementia, memory loss, mood swings and more.
There are a lot of other pieces, but you get the idea.
The New York Times greets today’s conference championships with a story about how the NFL destroys young men’s bodies and throws them away, often without much in the way of compensation. The piece focuses on Zeke Motta — who cracked his vertebrae in a game his rookie season, but so far has been denied a disability pension from the league.
I mean, goodness:
Motta was so eager to play that day at Lambeau Field that he had his broken right hand wrapped into a club and was given Toradol before the game to mute his pain.
After the collision that fractured his vertebra, Motta was still dazed when he was sent back onto the field to fill in for a starting safety who had left the game with a concussion. He didn’t feel pain in his neck until after the game, when he struggled to remove his pads. Only after Motta participated in practices and started the next game did the team send him for magnetic resonance imaging of his spine.
Part of the issue is that players must play three years before they’re vested for a pension and other benefits. The average NFL career lasts … about three years. And that doesn’t include all the guys who get injured early, never play again, but whose bodies still bear the pain of the time they did play.
So, no, I won’t be watching.
Which is too bad. I would love to partake in the joy that my communities are feeling today. I would love to watch Patrick Mahomes pull off his magic. I would love to go to the watch parties and hang with my friends. It’s not fun being the holdout.
In 2013 I wrote that the NFL’s growing CTE problems meant that “the Super Bowl’s days of cultural domination are close to over.” I was wrong, and a bit (uncharacteristically) overoptimistic that other Americans would start to feel icky about the suffering the sport inflicts. I know now that the game isn’t going anywhere. But I won’t be there with it.