Pigskin Roast

One would think, maybe even hope, that people involved with American football would have woken up to the ludicrous reality of American football, by now. Especially after the emergence of a brand new, "supplemental" professional league named the Alliance of American Football (subtitle: The Never Drafted or Nearly Dead League), essentially increasing the rate of legal physical and verbal assault in corporate America by approximately 3.7 times.

Follow my logic here: an arbitrary number of people go onto a flat, large field, to attempt to carry a misshapen ball from one end of said field to the other, for no reason at all. Do you feel me stressing that, enough? I defy you to find a real-world scenario where exactly 1 out of 11 people needs to carry something past another 11 people over a 100 yd x 50 yd rectangle of painted grass. 

And, these people are fighting--punching, pushing, pulling, kicking, screaming, and more--to get that ball to the other end of the field, or to stop the ball from getting there. At any given moment during a play, at least five of these players are running for their lives, at speeds the likes of which hadn't been seen in their family lines since their ancestors sprinted after gazelles in ancient Mesopotamia.

You can be assured that, amidst this violent struggle, each player's conscience doesn't take a back seat--it's thrown out the cabin window and flies over the flatbed. The level of sociopathy involved is rivaled only by bipartisan politics. It gets so violent that these people wear expertly crafted padding, just so they don't die from injuries. Injuries, may I remind you, that would all occur for no reason. And, as it turns out, the pads don't even work.

The reality of it is that there's no end to the injuries. They wear helmets, but that doesn't stop each player's brain from constantly getting rattled inside their skull. Sometimes, their brain crashes against the inside of their skull so hard it stops working, for a moment. Seriously. If that happens, the player goes through "concussion protocol" which is the quick, step by step test to see whether or not the player's brain is leaking through their eyes. If it's not, the player is expected to go back out and make sure that they sustain trauma to the head that actually counts, this time. In addition to concussions, there have been almost as many leg bones that have broken so cleanly that the player's shin goes from reading 12:30 to 12:47. Also, tendons holding the players' leg muscles in place can end up tearing, and the associated muscle tissue rolls up like a world map in a classroom. 

No matter what amount of recovery these players go through because of these injuries, each gets worse by degrees over the rest of their lives. Some injuries even become degenerative, leading to permanent disability in the player's later years. They make up for this, though, by bragging through incoherent mumbles about how they earned the title of Vegetable.

It's worth it though. These brave players are carrying the last remaining red panda cubs to an animal shelter, where the cubs will get everything they need to survive and carry on the legacy of their species. Just kidding! They're carrying a glorified bag of air around on a large patch of grass, with the desperate energy of children getting candy that fell from a pinata.

Granted, while it seems like the players are dudes in heat trampling over a breeding ground for anarchy, there is a very specific set of rules that each player tries to break in the most subtle way possible. The stalwart enforcers of these rules are the referees who, ironically, are the only people on the field not wearing any protective gear. The unprotected, and largely out of shape, officials are left to stop the fully protected giants, who have spent years fine-tuning and strengthening their muscles in ways that few people throughout all of history have ever attained, which often make these players angry. Heaven help us if the players ever stop chasing, grabbing, and running into each other and have two seconds of unbridled epiphanies.

The coaching staff is in the same predicament. They are the ones telling these behemoths what to do at all times, barking orders unapologetically, expecting the players to comply without question. It makes me worried it'll turn out like the movies, where the conniving leader of the bad guys keeps bossing around the big oaf, until the main character awakens the childlike wonder and kindness within the big oaf, so it pounds the leader's head into his ribs, like a whack-a-mole mole. There is little to defend them, as these coaches are wearing just slightly more protection than the refs, with their headsets and microphone packs. Minus these and the kind of voice that commands dogs to heel and cats to leave, coaches have no way to protect themselves from the players, either, should the players be possessed by revolution over the thought that they don't need to be paid millions of dollars to get hurt, and all they need to do is hold the owners upside down by one foot and demand the money as though they're middle-school bullies who need lunch.

What's more is the puny nerds in the administration force the sculpted giants to wear uniforms, to put them in their place--showing absolute submission and solidarity to the head nerd, for which they each get paid the operating budget of the city the team is named after. What are these uniforms like, you might wonder if you've never been in a sports bar or a shopping mall. Are they like cop uniforms, where they look slimming and official? Or, are they like the uniforms worn by hospital personnel, construction workers, or other blue-collar occupations their market research is constantly targeting? The answer is: none of the above. Instead, what they wear are brightly colored pajama tops with brightly colored tights for pants. 

You might be thinking: What could be the reason, the inspiration behind grown millionaires wearing brightly colored pajamas over gigantic plastic padding, accompanied by tights that would visibly flutter if a player were to break wind? It must be they have eclectic taste as wealthy eccentrics. While that's close, the answer is even sillier, and slightly more childish: to represent their mascot. Their mascot (not the complete lunatic running around and harassing people wearing a mask and a foam costume) can be anything, ranging from small birds to historical figures; from fierce predators that aren't remotely indigenous to the United States to indigenous species nearly endangered by the early settlers of the United States. And horses. 

Now, you might think: Do they have an icon to represent their mascot, possibly a respectable homage representing the many, dignified reasons they chose it? The answer is: Yes, as long as you consider cartoon illustrations done by a committee of city officials and low-level graphic designers as respectable homages. 

Finally, you're definitely going to ask: Why wear such bright colors for animals and historical figures if all they do is mindlessly batter each other over a weird ball for no reason? For that question there are two answers: 1) Why not? Everyone watching gets so drunk with either alcohol or righteous anger they don't care; and, 2) Merchandise.

What's taking the players so long to step back and realize, "Wait, we're out here wearing humiliating clothes and hurting each other for no reason. Why does the ball even need to be over there? Why can't it just stay here? Who even brought these balls, anyway?" or "Wait, we're getting paid to come out here and hurt each other and ourselves for no reason, but aren't the refs and coaches getting paid, too? None of them are hitting each other, and the coaches don't even run!" or "Wouldn't all of this money be better spent to improve the lives of the homeless, improve the education system, cut into the national deficit, repair roads, and update public buildings to code, rather than moguls paying us to be gladiators for the masses so they can line their pockets using our blood, sweat, and bone fragments?"

After all of this, I will admit that I watch football. I've even bought football paraphernalia. Heck, I even played football, as a young man. I know that contributing to what I've been whining about makes me a hypocrite. But, that's why I know so much. That's why I know what to whine about. I'm a sleeper agent on the inside of fandom. Since I'm so close to the situation, I know things.

My favorite thing when a game is on, as I've mentioned before, is not watching the game, necessarily. I admit, it is fun to watch these players act out this charade; to see the marvelous athleticism; the strategy between the teams; the excitement of seeing who wins; the mindless commitment to a franchise, building a strong sense of community; etc. To me, all of that is fine, but none of it is my favorite aspect of the game. 

My favorite thing is the glaringly homoerotic language used by the commentators before, during, and after each game. Phrases where they admire the players as being "long" and "big". Men describing men as "athletic" and "strong" in a tone one might only hear during a third date that's going really, really well. And, to top off the whole thing, the players are actively touching and embracing each other on screen during these emphasized descriptions. Yeah, this manly sport is definitely manly. It is 100% manly. Even the super model women gyrating in little more than skin tight underwear go completely ignored by the players and commentators, it's so manly.

I think it's time, is all. Before the United States crumbles from Civil War II and economic collapse, I wish at least one major professional football superstar would hold a press conference and admit, "Maybe this has been an enormous waste of time." Of course, not one of them will. They'd risk giving up hundreds of millions of dollars and, instead, be forced to settle for only several millions of dollars. The real tragedy would be that they probably wouldn't even be allowed to legally assault someone for it.