A classic case of football guilt

I’m sure you have heard that football has recently been the object of scandal.

Football-related concussions have been associated with permanent brain damage. The harrassment in the Miami Dolphins’ locker room has uncovered the deep roots that bullying has put down in the sport. The NCAA’s treatment of its players continues to be problematic, as I addressed in an earlier column.

Despite all of these problems, I still spend most of my weekends surrounded by football. I wouldn’t love the sport if it was actually cruel, right?

To answer that question, I’m going to look at the gladiatorial games, which have often been compared to football.

That comparison used to seem a bit hyperbolic to me: No matter how violent it was when the Lions lined up against the Panthers, it was different than when humans lined up against actual lions and panthers.

The Romans’ gladiatorial games seem about as real to us now as their gods — but they actually did happen. Hundreds of thousands of people gathered together every holiday (basically every weekend) to watch people kill and be killed.

Most gladiators were either slaves or condemned criminals, though some joined looking for fame.

Yes, some people made a conscious choice to become a gladiator.

In one instance described by Dio, a group of men were forced to reenact a naval battle. Before the battle they addressed the emperor: “We who are about to die, salute you!” But it was not a gesture of respect, as we now think. It was a desperate salute in the hopes of a pardon, a pardon which they were denied. They fought on replica ships and slaughtered each other until the emperor let them stop.

The crowd loved it.

But, back to football.

Weeks ago, I was watching the Michigan State-Michigan game, and I saw Devin Gardner (Michigan’s QB) so beat up that he just couldn’t play anymore. It wasn’t a traumatic injury. It wasn’t a cheap shot. It was hit after hit after hit. Football players are supposed to be the epitome of toughness, so when Gardner couldn’t play anymore just because his will was broken, I stopped seeing him as a football player. I saw him as a junior in college, a human.

It’s easy for me to forget that it’s actually people out there on the field. The helmets and the pads make them look superhuman. When the hits come, I can’t see the looks on their faces.

You might construe the previous description as some kind of apology for modern sport: “Look at how awful they used to be; we’ve come a long way from letting tigers loose in the stadium.” That wasn’t my intention. I mention the games because they remind me how much people like me have tolerated cruelty.

I am tempted to believe that there must be some good explanation for why I love football: Maybe it’s the tens of thousands of people cheering for something together, maybe it’s the intricacies and skill of the game, or maybe it’s the hard, necessary lessons it teaches.

Football is not all bad. But more and more I find myself wondering if it’s good enough.