Football is a spectacle of extreme athleticism, controlled mayhem and violence that entertains our thirst for domination. To really appreciate the glories of the game and what it does, though, maybe fans should watch more of it, and get closer to the real game.
The N.F.L. could find yet another revenue stream with a downloadable app that could load metrics into a “game suit” featuring pneumatic devices allowing fans to feel every blindside sack by a 350-pound lineman, every “tremendous hit” experienced on the field.Perhaps, to really show the game fully and augment the experience, telemetric technology imbedded in uniforms could inform viewers of the condition of the anterior cruciate ligament, broken forearm or separated shoulder of their favorite players.
Helmets could discolor and ooze when the dura mater in a player’s cranium is damaged.
So everyone should intensely watch that linebacker with the steel plate over the 14-day-old fracture in his arm as he throws himself into the fray, and really, really identify ourselves with our by our disposable Sunday afternoon hero.
Better yet, if we can stomach it, how about 24-hour coverage of what he’s gone through in the days leading up to his moments of fleeting glory? Did the screws go into his arm cleanly as the surgeon installed the plate? Is the Toradol and Novocaine kicking in?
My God, how brave and proud we must feel! Watch. Watch closely. See everything.
Nobody, outside of our families -- if they’ve been able to stick it out – gets to see the underpinnings of our bravery, our pride and perhaps our greed.
Years later, when the cameras are gone, and our minds go “funny,” our legs don’t work, our backs are a contracted morass of inflexible knots that won’t let us sit in a chair with the kids at Christmas, we’ll resort to bottles and pills that we don’t want our kids to know about. By then, we’ll be on our own.
Once, everyone wanted to watch us. Once, we wanted everyone to see us play. But now, unless a player is arrested after flying into a violent rage, or blows out his C.T.E.-infused brains under a highway overpass, there will be no televised coverage of our greatest challenges.
Years later, when the cameras are gone, and our minds go “funny,” our legs don’t work, our backs are a contracted morass of inflexible knots that won’t let us sit in a chair with the kids at Christmas, we’ll resort to bottles and pills that we don’t want our kids to know about. By then, we’ll be on our own.
Once, everyone wanted to watch us. Once, we wanted everyone to see us play. But now, unless a player is arrested after flying into a violent rage, or blows out his C.T.E.-infused brains under a highway overpass, there will be no televised coverage of our greatest challenges.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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