I PLAYED my first organized game of football back in fifth grade. Every autumn until the end of high school I put on shoulder pads, molded a mouthguard, hated wind sprints with the fury of every angry god, and joined a bunch of other mostly un-athletic knuckleheads on the gridirons of the greater Beaverton area. I loved it. In many ways, football was how I defined myself in those years. You know, it was more okay to be a big fat kid if you were utilizing that fat on the football field.
In eighth grade I tackled a kid and broke both of his legs. Everyone on my team was very impressed and I was mad stoked about it, because we’d been trained to believe that breaking a fellow child’s legs on the football field was a rad thing to do—as long as the tackle was clean. Again, I reveled in this glory, even though I probably only broke this kid’s legs because I weighed like 300 pounds, and that kid was eighth-grader-sized… but the laudations were there nonetheless. Real caveman shit. The triumphs weren’t even hushed, it was just, “YEAH, FUCK THAT 14-YEAR-OLD.” It wasn’t the only time I hurt another kid, it was just the most traumatic/celebrated.
I got my first concussion in my junior year of high school. We were engaged in a drill where I had to throw another big motherfucker out of the way, and then tackle a running back. I threw that big motherfucker out of the way, but the running back caught me right under the chin and everything went completely black. I fell to the ground, clutching that running back in a snuggle of desperation. I woke up a few seconds later. Everyone was going BILZNONKERS. My coach asked me if my bell was rung. Then practice was over, and I went and sat in the parking lot for half an hour waiting for my mom to come pick me up, and then my friend walked by and reminded me I rode my bike to school that day. So I went and got my bike, and headed home, except I forgot where I lived. The house I’d been living in since I was two years old. I forgot where that was. It wasn’t my last concussion.
I tore my meniscus and partially dislocated my kneecap senior year. The trainer told me I just tore some scar tissue, so I could go back in the game. I played another four games that season.
I was a chubby schlub of a white kid in Beaverton and THIS SHIT HAPPENED THERE. Beaverton isn’t a football factory. It’s a symphonic band factory.
I am now in 420/69th grade (adulthood) and it is quickly, sadly dawning on me that football probably isn’t okay. I’m not going to tell you not to watch the games. I’m not going to tell you not to let your kids play, I’m just telling you what happened to me. I’m just telling you that violence, REAL violence is the lingua franca of the game. Trauma is celebrated and an inseparable part of the culture. It’s fucked, and I only have 500 words to explore how fucked it is (it’s 500,000 words fucked), and it’s sad that it’s fucked. Maybe for you it’s worth it, but I can’t keep watching.
Two broken legs?! Jeesh, man, who knew it was safer serving scalding hot chocolate with the mice in the Hillsboro Stadium concessions stand?
I think we’re going to need you to pick up the bong again…
I watch football most Saturdays and many Sundays during the season. It’s an incredibly fun sport to watch and it also ties in weirdly to my sense of cultural pride of Southern upbringing. That SEC obsession shit is real.
I was a Niner’s fan as a child, because Nashville didn’t have a team then, so most kids just picked one. The first game I went to, I saw Steve Young get carried out on a stretcher after a concussion. It was neither his first nor last, and they ended his career. I’ve heard local legend Frank Wycheck talk about the pain he feels every morning due to the damage done to his joints and nerves, and a few years after that he started talking about memory loss and depression related to CTE.
I still love watching football, but I know sometime in my lifetime the sport will either have to go through some serious changes or end completely. And when it does I won’t miss it.
On a side note – fuck every Ducks fan that boos opposing players when they’re on the ground. You know how easily people get hurt – seriously hurt – and you’re the biggest piece of shit on the planet for booing a kid just to satisfy your own smug victimization complex.
NEXT WEEK ON “EVERYTHING AS FUCK”: ME, RUY LOPEZ, AND THE CHESS CLUB INCIDENT
I recall the sisyphean task of blocking you in 6th grade. Its cool to read your reflection; I can relate. Its an odd reality that big Amurican kids are encouraged to hurt themselves and others for sport. 500,000 werds for sure.
I can watch and enjoy football, knowing exactly how fucked up it is. I can eat and enjoy bacon, knowing an intelligent animal was “farmed” so I could. And I can listen to/read/watch (insert artist here) even though I know (insert transgressions here).
Two key survival skills: Compartmentalization and Rationalization. “I don’t know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They’re more important than sex.”
Take a Big Chill pill and pass the pork rinds, man.