I’m torn about (American) football these days. More and more reports of assaults, concussions, arrests. And that's just the offseason in Vegas.
But football to me is like a great hamburger. To create the end-product, some living creatures get beefed up and pummelled. Yet it's what I've grown up with, it's a thing of beauty, and I have a craving for it weekly.
I played football in school, and I've watched it all my life. I now tune in from abroad. With the time difference, Sunday NFL action, with U.S. commercials, starts early evening and continues late. Living in Sweden, it’s cathartic to sit back and watch six hours of pickup truck ads.
When they take a break from ads and show the game, I fear for the players’ well-being.
But I’m more fearful they'll stop playing. If there were no football, there’s risk I’d arrive to work rested on Monday. With nothing to watch at the sportsbar, I could end up looking too closely at the food I eat there. Worst of all, with no games I may have to talk to relatives on Thanksgiving.
No matter what, you can’t take away my playing days. So whenever someone says to me “what's wrong with you?”, luckily I’ll always be able to explain: “I played football.”