That’s right. I haven’t watched an NFL game in two seasons now, and I don’t feel like I’m missing anything important. I think the last time I paid much attention was the “Beast Mode” debacle when Pete Carroll forgot he was not a genius and called the play that lost the Seahawks the Super Bowl. That didn’t have anything to do with it, but every time you think the NFL is unscripted, something happens to reinforce the Brady Conspiracy Theory, so then again, maybe it did. You may think I’m crazy, and you’re probably right, but the NFL does depict real life, and just like real life, it’s fixed – entertainment that depends on the audience suspending their disbelief – like every other Spectacle I’ve witnessed in my lifetime.
Keep in mind football’s popularity is rooted in politics, so it deserves to be treated like any other political animal. Teddy Roosevelt promoted it to an American Virtue, because he thought the American Male was becoming too soft, and he wanted to ensure the nation had a ready supply of Rough Riders whenever they were needed, and football was the best way to instill a patriotic fighting spirit in America’s youth. His enthusiasm for the sport led to high schools and universities across the nation devoting large amounts of time and money to developing their varsity teams, and to this day many college stadiums seat more people than the largest NFL arenas, and alumni live and die by the results of every autumn weekend.
During my lifetime the NFL rose from a distant second to baseball to the supreme sport of America. In 1959, the year I was born, there was no Superbowl, and the championship game feated as “The Greatest Game of All Time” was played two months before I came into the world. 45 million watched, and the game grossed, including TV and radio rights, less than $700,000.
The first Superbowl was played when I was seven years old and the first I remember was the fourth, when I was ten, when the Chiefs won it with my favorite player, a cornerback named Jimmy Marsalis, who called himself, “The Master of the Bump and Run,” which was the prevailing technique for defensive backs. From that point on I watched the NFL religiously, eventually becoming a Bears fan, and my favorite players became running backs and linebackers, who were the most important players on the team. Old school guys like Sayers and Butkus, guys I watched through their entire careers, like O. J., and Walter, Marcus Allen and Barry Sanders, Mike Singletary and Lawrence Taylor, defensive lines with colorful names like the Fearsome Foursome and Purple People Eaters and offensive lines called the Hoggs and the Electric Company.
As the Seventies unfolded the money – from the ticket prices, to the broadcasting revenues, to the value of the teams, to the salaries – and the outlandishness of the players spiraled ever upward, and the clean-cut icons of the past were replaced by hipper, darker, heroes. These guys were clearly doing a job for a paycheck larger than they could obtain elsewhere, patriotism and “American Values” be damned. They didn’t wave the flag and tell the public what Authority wanted athletes to tell the public, they reflected the realities of existence in the poorest pockets of America where most of them grew up. Of course the owners, raised in the opposite, privileged extreme of the economic spectrum, were given a pass to have the same attitude – a necessary blind spot for the masses born to believe in hierarchal structures and worship financial success – and move their teams, steal/extort money, beat and cheat on their wives, etc. without being blacklisted or thrown in jail. Some in Authority began to question if the “American Public” – meaning white people – would continue to watch such athletes and some of the more cynical leaders, who knew the vast majority would continue to watch, wanted to change the game to bring back the image more advantageous to them and refocus the sport on its original intent, to create testosterone-fueled males ready to charge into battle on command without asking questions.
The impetus to begin the transformation came when Daryl Stingley was paralyzed during an Exhibition Game (yes, I refuse to call them pre-season games, despite Authority’s commands) in 1978. It was a gruesome injury, and no doubt mandated some minor rules changes, but what was initially labeled as a noble attempt to protect the wellbeing of wide receivers evolved into a campaign to change the style of play to take the sport away from the running backs (the last great white running backs were Larry Csonka and John Riggins, both of whom had retired by the mid-eighties) and linebackers (Brian Urlacher is the first white linebacker to be voted into the Hall of Fame since Jack Lambert) and hand the game over to the quarterbacks, who were and still are mostly white.
Let me tell you how I feel about quarterbacks and their place in football. Their place was on their backs after getting clobbered by big ugly guys if they tried more than ten passes per game, and to hand off the ball to the stars of the team, the running backs. The game was won or lost based on which line could dominate and passing was more exciting than it is now because it was infrequent. Now the rules have changed, not only making it nearly impossible to defend pass receivers, but also impossible to rough up the quarterbacks. Watching multiple games per week with 30+ passes per offense and 30+ points per team became redundant and boring and I quickly lost interest, especially knowing the points only came after multiple interference penalties or a roughing the passer flag extended most of the drives. After watching Joe Theismann star at Notre Dame, I understood and appreciated LT’s hit, which was clean and did not get him flagged, but I must admit it was as hard to watch the tenth time as it was the first. I still see Joe running his mouth, if not his legs, on television, so he’s recovered quite nicely. My Favorite NFL Game of ALL TIME was Bears – Raiders, 1984. In that game both starting QB’s were carried off. The Bears had 9 sacks, and the Raiders knocked McMahon out of the game. The Raiders’ second string QB was carted off (David Humm, remember him? What a sitting duck!!) and they had to put Marcus Allen back there for few plays. Just when you thought Ray Guy, the punter, was going to have to come out and take a few snaps, the Raiders’ starter, Marc Wilson, limped back onto the field to take more of a beating. I, and every Bears fan who watched that game, have more respect for Marc Wilson than any other group of fans I’ll bet, because he was willing to sacrifice himself to save the punter. That took guts, something modern QB’s aren’t allowed to foster.
The first nail in the coffin of my NFL fandom was the Tuck Game in 2001. The September 11 attack occurred a few months before, and as I walked the halls at work, people were saying how wonderful it would be for the country if a team named the Patriots, with a blond haired, blue eyed quarterback, won the Superbowl, especially if it meant the evil, undisciplined Raiders with their rebellious, unpatriotic, owner lost in the playoffs. I, and no football fan I have ever spoken to, never saw the Tuck Rule enforced until that game. I have never talked to a fan who said they knew such a rule existed before it was called in that game. The Raiders won that game and the NFL took it from them. They got robbed. It was so blatant I was shocked. And I hate the Raiders and was rooting for the Pats myself. But I can tell you many Americans felt more secure in the future of the country because the Patriots won that year. Its idiotic, that a privately held business conglomerate with no purpose other than profit could generate patriotic feelings based on the outcome of a game, but Spectacles work that way. But only if the right team wins. The second nail was when the Saints won it after Hurricane Katrina. The Saints had been a horrible franchise from inception until that year and they resumed being horrible soon after, but somehow in the very year the city, and by proxy the nation, needed something positive to happen in New Orleans, by some utter miracle the Saints ran the table. When everyone argued with me it was a coincidence, it only convinced me further, because a wise man once said there were none.
The final one was Junior Seau. No one I had ever seen loved football more than Junior. He played with such passion and exuberance people in San Diego were glad when he was traded to a team that won the Superbowl (the Patriots, and Brady…hmm…). He deserved that accolade, not only for what he did on the field, but also by what he did off it. He was truly an icon, the most loved native San Diegan of all time, supportive of many charities and people, cheered whenever he showed his face in public, and then he committed suicide. And I starting doing research. Dave Duerson, of my beloved 85 Bears. McMahon a near invalid. Jovan Belcher. Somehow (again not a coincidence) in protecting certain players the overall injuries increased, the non-QBs becoming more and more expendable. And then I started counting how many injury timeouts the games I watched were filled with. When I counted 7 before the first quarter of a game ended, I turned it off, never to watch a complete NFL game again. Try it. You will find your disbelief starting to crumble and the reality of what you are seeing – grown men maiming and concussing each other for the delight of others safely seated in the stands, on barstools, or in their living rooms – will be impossible to deny.
Just in time too, since the greedy owner of the Chargers failed in his attempt to extort money from the public and left to carpetbag elsewhere. Just in time to avoid watching the American public denigrate another of their own – a poor kid using his talent to make not only money, but a statement – for the sake of their masters, the rich owners who don’t have to be patriotic or loyal in how they run their businesses and can export jobs to make even more money whenever they see fit, their fellow Americans be damned.
I’ve watched enough, thank you.
