The Spirituality of Football

The Spirituality of Football

            I watched the Super Bowl a couple of weeks ago, reveling in the Bronco victory over the Panthers.  Not that I didn’t feel a little guilty watching the game, given the concussion situation.  And a little disgusted, given Manning’s postgame plugs for Budweiser beer and  “The Man Upstairs” (whom I always imagine as some creepy boarding house deity), but the magical spirit of it all still grabbed me.   

I wonder, though, how much longer football can last.  After all, Super Bowl 50, despite all its finesse and excitement, resulted in two concussions.  A lot of mothers are starting to say no to their kids’ football fantasies, and we all know that, without mothers’ blessings, there will be no football.  

            But that shouldn’t mean football itself has to be scrapped. 

            This may sound heretical, but perhaps bulk and violence are not the true essence of football.  I know many fans’ bloodlust seems to require bone-crushing tackles and devastating blocks, but that may be changing.  I suspect that the revelations about CTE have chilled out even the most bellicose fans.  War often seems glamorous, until you actually see its victims, and reports of dementia and suicides among some of football’s favorite players are sobering indeed.

            If not bulk and violence, though, what is the real essence, the soul, of football?  For me, it’s the dance - the huddled choreography, the speed and agility, the downfield fakes, the timing and accuracy of the throws, the dramatic catches.  It starts in the huddle, with a wily conspiracy.  Then, after a lot of bumping and grinding on the line, something breaks loose - a runner emerges, a pass is completed.  

            I imagine most fans mainly watch the players they identify with.  If you were a lineman in high school or college, you watch the blocking and tackling techniques.  If you played running back, you watch for the holes being opened up.  Me, I pay most attention to the ends and quarterbacks.  I was never big enough to play high school football, but I was fast and could catch whatever was thrown to me, so I loved to play touch football in the neighborhood as a kid, and later in the seminary where, luckily, they didn’t allow tackle because of all the injuries, but made an art out of six-man touch. For me, the magic of the game is still what happens before and after the sumo wrestling on the line, first in the huddle, and then down the field.

            In the seminary the rules were designed to minimize injuries:  

·     No leaving your feet on a block;             

·     Only one first down – by crossing the 50 yard line; 

·     Only one run every four downs (so the best strategy was to save your run); 

·     A tackle was two hands above the waist, called by the defender.

These rules guaranteed that the game moved fast, the ball changed hands often, and everyone was able to walk the next day. Unlike my tackle-playing peers, I was able to play touch football into my 60s.  As my group got older, we added one more rule:  

            After a particularly good play, the defense can - if they choose - award the offense 1             point for “an aesthetically pleasing play.”   

That weeded out any lingering macho kamikaze tendencies.

            I know the NFL isn’t about to pack up all its helmets and pads anytime soon, but in case the mothers of America ultimately prevail, there is a way to save the soul, and the magic, of football.  

At night, I still have dreams about my seminary football days – a head fake at the line, then dancing down the sideline, looking over my shoulder, seeing one of Phil Brady’s perfect spirals sailing through the air, then feeling it gently touch down on my fingertips.  

But on Sunday afternoons, as I watch his nephew, Tom scrambling out of the Patriot’s pocket, I always say a little prayer.