Institution

American football is a high-octane sport, rife with huge egos and testosterone-fueled aggression. It is legalized mayhem, a modern-day form of gladiatorial “entertainment,” played in modern-day colosseums by mostly men who run the gamut in physical stature from normal to unearthly.

While I readily admit to enjoying Fall Saturdays more than Sundays, I’ve never quite been able to comprehend that there would be so many people wanting to play the sport at any level. I fully understand the quest for fame and fortune. I understand the reality of lingering post-career injuries, and that one’s playing days can come to a crashing halt in an instant, so it’s not surprising that players and their agents angle for handsome financial compensation. Beyond that, though, I can’t shake the thought that, besides a fascination with Xs and Os, the reason many play is to have an outlet for their outsized competitiveness and anger issues.

The players keep coming, and the fans gladly do the same. It’s big business where the stands are packed with die-hard fans, beautiful people tucked away in their sky boxes, and other deep-pocketed spectators paying outlandish sums who expect to see an afternoon or evening of high-speed collisions interspersed with some flashy artistry, and maybe some bloodshed and a couple of concussive hits.

Many of us live a bit vicariously. And we are very territorial, not that far removed from our ancient ancestors. But I won’t be buying into the whole “football is life” thing anytime soon.