In recent years, instead of lounging on the couch with my brother, eating pizza and wings, and tuning in to football games, I find myself joining my family at the Zoo Atlanta. One Saturday, while many were glued to their TVs for the Georgia-Tennessee game, we happened upon an Amish family, complete with women in bonnets and men in straw hats.
The day was warm with scattered clouds, and leaves from the pecan trees were falling. A zookeeper shared an exciting fact about the elephant's trunk, boasting hundreds of thousands of muscles and tendons. I texted my brother, sharing the sentiment that I missed him.
"I miss you too," I replied. "It's just one of those things..."
Lions were rumored to be on the cliff, and while two napped and one growled constantly, their lone sounds echoed even as we moved away. The game continued to play in our thoughts.
American football — a unique, aggressive, and notably violent sport born in the U.S. — is a spectacle that draws millions every season. And yet, it's a game that refuses to pause, even in the face of catastrophic injuries.
I recall watching as Tim Crumrie, a Cincinnati Bengals defender, suffered a complex fracture in 1989's Super Bowl XXIII. The crowd watched in horror as his leg was re-injured, hoping the game would be stopped. But it wasn't.
Two years later, Bo Jackson, one of the greatest athletes of all time, suffered a devastating career-ending injury in a playoff game against the Bengals. Jackson's team won the game, but his once-promising career was finished.
And still, the game continued. The Lions won 21–10.
As the years passed, it became easier to turn away. We watched as Michael Utley, a Detroit Lions offensive player, broke his neck in a scrimmage. Utley left the field with a raised thumb, but remained wheelchair-bound for the remainder of his life.
But the game persisted, victorious as ever.
We remain loyal to the Georgia Bulldogs and the Atlanta Falcons. I bite my nails. I scream. There's an unspoken command that echoes in my mind when the opposing quarterback is about to throw or run for a touchdown.
"Hurry up!" I yell. "Get the information!"
In 2012, I understood the true cost of the game. Jim McMahon, a former Chicago Bears quarterback, showed signs of dementia at the tender age of 53. Dave Duerson, McMahon's teammate, faced vision and memory loss and eventually took his own life, the result of chronic traumatic encephalopathy.
In response, the NFL settled with over 4,500 former players for $765 million and created new protocols for recognizing and treating concussions. The game carried on.
In 2022, as I watched from the sidelines, Miami Dolphins quarterback Tua Tagovailoa was thrown to the ground by Bengals tight end Josh Tupou. It was a horrifying sight, Tagovailoa's limbs stiff as marionette dolls, his fingers frozen in odd positions, a clear sign of brain damage.
And still, the game went on.
I refused to watch, determined to distance myself from a sport that had cost so much. It had taken me years to come to this decision.
"Hurry up!" I bellowed, urging on the Georgia linebackers as they chased the Alabama quarterback Tua Tagovailoa in the 2018 national championship game. They missed him on a first down, but he was up and running shortly thereafter.
On the September night the Dolphins and Bengals met, Tagovailoa was thrown to the ground again. I didn't see it, but I listened. It was hard to forget the sight of a helpless player, knocked unconscious on the field.
I had enough. The sport that had consumed so much of my life was destroying it in return. I had to shut it out.
I couldn't remember the last time I watched a game, and yet I wished I had. Games continued to be among the five most watched TV shows week after week, even as our rosters changed, as new players stepped in to replace the old.
And still, the game went on.
Tim Crumry played alongside Bo Jackson and Mike Utley, and Robert Griffin III, the player who left the field confused and disoriented - all had paid the ultimate cost for our enjoyment.
We drove home, and I entered my office. The sun was setting, and yellow leaves continued to fall from the pecan trees. The room was quiet, and despite the game playing on the TV in the corner, I was somehow oblivious to the action.
I had no idea who was winning, or who had lost, or who had been named the winner.
It was time to move on.
As we drove home that evening, my son was quiet. I didn't ask what was on his mind - I couldn't guess. He had long ago grown disinterested in football. Instead, he watched reptiles, his eyes wide with fascination.
I was there, but I wasn't. Outside, we heard the distant roar of the lions, a reminder of the game that had once consumed me, but that now only haunted me.
Read also:
Here are two sentences from the text that contain the word "know":
I knew I couldn't watch the game any longer. I wanted to know what was happening with the Bulldogs.
These sentences follow the part of the text where the author expresses their desire to distance themselves from football and then mentions his interest in knowing what happened with the Bulldogs.
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