Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
I was forced to memorize the whole of “Mending Wall” in high school, back when Doc Fitz interrupted his own discussion of the difference between participles, gerunds and gerundives to demand recitations from each and every of his students. There was Shakespeare, of course, with Antony’s Funeral Oration and the Seven Ages of Man speech from As You Like It. Matthew Arnold detailed Dover Beach and the human condition in strophe-antistrophe free-verse, which means only slightly more to me now than it did twelve years ago. Thomas Hardy expounded on a far less symbolic clash of Arnold’s “ignorant armies” by writing 20 lines about The Man He Killed,* while the talented member of the couple Shelley mocked the concept of immortality generally and the hubris of one Ozymandias, specifically. There were most certainly more, as every week saw a new poem, which poems only in retrospect reveal themselves as a pretty miserable whole, despondent about humanity. Exactly what a bunch of recently pubescent boys needed once a day, really.
“Mending Wall” is no different, as man’s need to seclude himself is challenged, mocked and, eventually, resigned to. The point of the poem, however, is not the point of this piece. Rather, the image of the wall, torn down by Nature, hunters or even elves (or not elves exactly) sticks in my mind, something so inevitably destroyed and even more inevitably and foolishly rebuilt, all to be destroyed again with no thought given at any step as to why. The image of a football player, cheered on to success through multiple knee surgeries and concussions, living an unnaturally short life before succumbing to pain, depression or both.
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Football is a naturally violent sport at any level. It projects human bodies at full speed into each other, each snap and ensuing play a perfect model for a successful missile defense system. As the talent coalesces and the size of the players grows exponentially, the danger and violence increases in kind. Three hundred pound men smash into each other 50 times a game, at least 16 games a year. Quarterbacks are blindsided by defensive backs coming off the edge at full-speed, or are fallen upon by a literal ton of man flesh because of a botched snap. Wide receivers running 4.5 40s in pads and stretching an extra few inches for the ball lay prone to kidney shots from the muscled cats of prey that are modern-day safeties. Running backs reach their peak in their late 20s, leaving five or six years of dust, bruises and glorious moments of sunshine closed by an unseen linebacker behind them as they gimp off into the fading sun.
Knee surgeries are a matter of course for linemen, as braces, pads and scars provide trophies of scrimmage line war. Mark Schlereth, manning the line for Washington and Denver over a 12 year career, has famously had 20 surgeries on his knees (including 15 on his left knee alone), and 29 surgical procedures altogether.** Linemen are not alone. Just this year, the NFL has seen the following players undergo some form of knee surgery: Tom Brady, Peyton Manning, Reggie Bush, Bob Sanders, Marlin Jackson, Shawne Merriman, Sean Jones, James Hardy and Willis McGahee. The pain doesn’t go away after the surgeries, and as the two best quarterbacks of our time can tell you, the surgery doesn’t always solve the problem the first time. Relapses, as well as infections, can occur and require additional surgery or a gritting of the teeth as you play through the pain.
Still, knee surgeries are child’s play*** when compared to concussions. Countless studies have linked concussions to dementia, depression, cognitive impairment and early death. One particular study, in part commissioned by the player’s association, found the incidence of depression approximately 3 times higher in players who had experienced three or more concussions, and 150% as high in players with one or two concussions. Upwards of 20% of those in the group of most frequent sufferers were found to have depression.
Even these numbers hide the individual disasters. A neuropathologist has suggested that the multiple concussions suffered during games by former Eagles’ safety Andre Waters eventually led to his suicide. A man whose hard-hitting and quick-thinking had allowed for an easy transition from playing field for Buddy Ryan to sideline for Morgan State (among others) had, at the time of his death, the brain of an 85 year-old man stricken with early Alzheimer’s. He was 44.
Players with dementia must be cared for at all times: cleaned, fed, clothed and restrained. It’s an unenviable task for any loved one, but is especially hard for the wives and family of NFL players, due to their size, strength, and relative youth compared to more standard cases of dementia. These same qualities make it difficult to get the players into proper care facilities, which are not equipped to deal with these outliers.
Of course, the NFL has decried all of these studies and the proposed linkages. The League formed the Orwellian “Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee,” whose dual purposes seem to be (a) misunderstanding what the words “mild,” “traumatic” and “brain injury” mean and how they might go together,**** and (b) finding reasons to debunk the studies. Their favorites so far seem to be partial Player’s Association funding of the studies (which seems like a fair complaint until you realize that the studies are peer-reviewed and published in the same journals where the NFL publishes its studies) and the format of the studies, which are mostly done by voluntary surveys. Forget that accepted studies linking smoking and lung cancer, as well as proper diet and health, were conducted in nearly identical matters, and focus on the fact that the NFL is claiming that players are overreporting concussions, depression and dementia with no clear motive for doing so.
On the plus side, the NFL is on the case, and will be releasing their own study on concussions and their effects on retired players in 2010. I am waiting with baited breath, as I am sure the medical community is.
There have been a few positive movements in this area, each of which sounds ridiculous on its face. The NFL has joined with the Player’s Association to form the 88 Plan, which provides up to 88,000 dollars to families of former players who are suffering with dementia (97 players have been accepted into the program at least reporting). The NFL has reiterated that this is a goodwill gesture, and does not imply that there exists a link between football and dementia. The NFL has also adopted a “whistle-blower” system for players to report their coaches if the coach overrides the concussed player’s wishes, or the advice of the medical personnel….but of course, concussions don’t have long-term effects according to the NFL.
The whistle-blower system, by the way, was made necessary when Ted Johnson, former linebacker in the league, revealed that he had been forced to practice by Bill Belichick against the advice of team doctors. The practice was three days after Johnson had suffered a concussion. Since his retirement in 2005, Johnson has become addicted to amphetamines, and suffers from depression and Second Impact Syndrome. He has divorced from his wife after a domestic spat, and has begun to show early signs of Alzheimer’s. He is 36 years old.
Laying blame is pointless and perhaps counter-productive at this stage. Everyone looks bad when guys only a decade out of the game are unable to function at anything approaching a normal level. Moreover, laying blame is a step one gets to well after there is a generally accepted problem. I don’t think we have yet reached that point, as horrible and well-publicized as some of these stories are. There are rumors out there that the average NFL lineman lives to be 55, but the average football fan sees that number and only associates it with Derrick Brooks, Junior Seau or Lance Briggs. Fans are either ignorant of the issues, or simply don’t care. I’d like to think it’s the former, but even then, I can’t help but think that the ignorance is anything but willful. Still, very, very confusing.
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Compare, if you will, how we treat a very similar sport. The athletes are identified from a young age, and singled out for special treatment among their peers. This includes a special diet, training, and a reward structure that so heavily favors them that even the failures among them live lives grossly disproportionate to the rest of the population. The very best are cheered by millions, and billions are wagered on their success every year. Retirement sees an enriching of the rich, as their preceding fame opens up endless opportunities for appearance fees and casual sex.
Of course, in order to achieve this fantastic life, they are pumped full of drugs, driven to their very physical limit (and occasionally over it), and exploited time and again by rich owners who want money, fame and victory, likely in that order. The athletes just below the superstar level fall out of our memory, and into an early grave, as their previous sacrifices cannot be overcome by modern medicine or a well-stocked portfolio. The even more unfortunate fail to recognize even the immediate pleasures normally associated with the sport, as their health deteriorates before they can make their millions.
All very similar to football, yes? Except in this case, it’s horse racing, and the athletes are majestic beasts loping around a track.*****
We all hate horse racing now. The steroids, on-field collapses and the sheer meanness of the sport has turned America off, making the Sport of Kings more like the Sport of Degenerate Gamblers That Don’t Have Ready Access to a Real Casino. Attendance at race tracks has fallen steadily over the last decade, and memorable failures and injuries during the Triple Crown have drawn only unwanted attention to the goings-on behind the scenes. We hate horse racing because of what it does to the horses, how fixed and simultaneously arbitrary it is, and because of what it encourages in us as humans.
The NFL, on the other hand, set an attendance record for five consecutive years prior to this season. By all accounts, there are more diehard fans of NFL teams in America than any other sport, and television ratings for football games are better compared to procedural dramas or comedies than to other sports. If one considers the NFL a business (and one very much should), its one of the most successful businesses in the world. And yet it does to human beings what horse racing does to horses, is just as dominated by the business of gambling (injury reports, anyone?) and all the ills that go with it.
It’s hard to say why people seem to care more about horses than they do about football players. A strong American belief in free will, perhaps, allowing players to weigh their risks and rewards for themselves? Maybe there is an innate inability to associate the early deaths and dementia of retirees with current players, a luxury not afforded us when horses are shot and disposed of on the infield. Maybe it’s something as sinister as jealousy, or racism, or the human bloodlust that we don’t talk about in mixed company, or even admit to ourselves sitting alone in the dark. Maybe it’s some combination of all of these things, and more.
Personal experience may also play a part. Football is the one major sport where the pick-up equivalent is completely different than the real thing. Tons of people throw the pigskin around, or participate in flag football leagues. Very few get suited up to go full-bore tackle-happy. Pick-up soccer, baseball (and its softball sister) and basketball are all nearly identical to the real things, with only a decrease in abilities. Tackle football is an entirely different animal, with its one defining characteristic stripped for the masses. People playing flag football rarely injure themselves, and probably assume to some degree (even subconsciously) that real football can’t be all that more dangerous, no matter the facts or evidence.
Whatever the reasons, people flock to a sport that is killing its participants at a depressingly young age. Football players don’t need our tears, anymore than Barbaro needs the thousands of letters he received but was never able to read.****** As Robert Frost said in a slightly different poem, “There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.” You will find very few people willing to feel sorry for a millionaire, no matter how ill-equipped to survive his retirement, and perhaps rightly so.
What is it then, if anything, that football players need? What can we offer them, and what are we willing to offer them?
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I have made my peace with football, both the viewing of it and the writing about it. In some fashion, these are intertwined. I have allowed myself a personal compromise, one with which I struggle every weekend for 25 weeks a year, forget about entirely, and then have thrust back in my face upon August’s return. The compromise is this: I can watch football, and celebrate the athletic achievements on the field without feeling terrible about the players or myself, so long as (a) I continue to keep abreast of the league’s health stats and studies, (b) those stats and studies move in a positive direction, (c) I refuse to delight in concussive assaults and shame those around me that do so as well, and (d) communicate in any way possible the violence of the sport and the plight of the players, educating them and allowing them to make their own choice.
Perhaps this is a cop-out, as the NFL cannot distinguish my inner anguish and low-level communication from the blind love of the game burning in a fan who also doesn’t buy NFL gear or tickets. It gets harder every year to justify the compromise, as vast progress in medical knowledge produces insignificant improvement in football’s health care system, and the proof that professional football kills grows exponentially. There will no doubt be a zero point, and I will find something better (and no doubt, more healthy) to do on Sunday afternoons. Perhaps I will go back and read all that poetry again, see if Ol’ Billy the Bard has anything to say on the subject of bread and circuses, and the unpleasant afterlife of the gladiators and lions.*******
Until then, I can hope the situation will get better, that more people will become educated about the short- and long-term effects, and that, if nothing else, the truth gets out there. Lots of smart people can do lots of great things with something as simple as the truth. Until then, unfortunately, we’re just rebuilding broken walls, waiting for them to break again.
* And using the word “nipperkin,” to his great credit.
** He also famously wet his pants on the sideline because he didn’t want to take plays off to use the facilities. So there’s also that.
*** But more like the play of giraffe children, all stilted and awkward looking.
**** As examples of properly used combinations, I suggest: “Any brain injury should be considered traumatic, and not mild.” Or: “A traumatic brain injury cannot, by definition, be mild.” Or: “I must have had a traumatic brain injury when I named a committee the ‘Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee’, but it’s OK because this taco sauce is mild, just as I like it. ”
***** I don’t very much care if you consider horses “athletes,” comparable to humans across sporting lines. There are reasons for and against, and the mainstream media types have seemingly settled on a “Yea on Neigh” stance. If you're to believe ESPN, Secretariat is the 35th greatest athlete of the 20th century, with Man O' War #84, and Citation at #97. Not to be outdone, Sports Illustrated named the largely unsuccessful stud as the greatest athlete to ever wear the number 2. Charley Trippi, Al MacInnis, Moses Malone and a certain Yankee SS were left in his dust on that account, but I hear that at least one of them has more luck with the fillies.
******Due not to the tears of joy and love in his eyes, as was rumored, but rather because he was a horse, a species long known for its shameful illiteracy…little known fact, but true.
******* Even back then, the Lions ALWAYS lost.