I suffered my first concussion shortly after my eighth birthday. I was making like Frank Gifford heading for paydirt on the barren patch behind Our Lady of Lourdes Church when I was upended. My head bounced off the cracked, frozen mud. (You really do see stars.)
I got up and felt nauseous, and my body convulsed with chills. I walked the block to my house and kept my mother clueless as to what had happened. She brought me the usual cold remedies as I lay on the couch, but I had a football game to watch — Army-Navy, with Roger Staubach at QB. I didn’t begin to feel right until Christmas, when I got a Giants helmet, one with the lowercase “ny” on the side, as I continued to consume anything and everything that had to do with football.
I was lucky enough to go to every Giants home game at Yankee Stadium in the mid-60s. My favorite gameday ritual was eating with my father at the Jerome Cafeteria (roast beef, mashed potatoes and near enough green beans) packed in like sardines with men in suits and fedoras encircled in cigar smoke, many of them waiting in line to use the payphones.
I had a catbird view of Gifford’s one-handed miracle catch across the middle that helped snatch the Eastern Conference from the Pittsburgh Steelers. I got to watch Joe Namath to Don Maynard for the AFL Title from the outfield bleachers at Shea. I absorbed football and loved every minute of it, live and on TV.
I became a highly recruited high school player and played major college football. I felt the physical pain and loneliness of having both ACLs re-constructed, the second one five months before the start of my senior season. Some would say I gave both legs to the sport, but I prefer to say I continued to play because I loved the game.
When I flipped the ball to the ref after a seven yard gain against West Virginia, I knew that the end of me playing for keeps was near. Still I believed in my heart that I would always love football.
I was wrong.
I regret that kids today don’t play football for the love of it, on the playground or anywhere else where sides can be chosen. I dislike the orchestrations around youth football, one eye on marketing and the other on selling junk. I loathe that NFL-licensed video games have a stranglehold on America’s youth. And I deplore the hypocrisy of NFL-sponsored programs to combat the very problems that these addictions help create, like obesity and poor health.
I miss the Green Bay sweep. I can’t stand the spread offense and I can’t stand that scoreboards tell the fans what to do. All we ever needed was to watch Robustelli and Huff to commence with “De-Fense.” And I miss the drunks at the bar next to the Jerome Cafeteria, replaced by just about everybody in the stands today.
I miss “Franco’s Italian Army” and “Gerela’s Gorillas.” PSLs and club seating probably close the door on this bonding ever happening again.
I wish for a celebrating Homer Jones or Elmo Wright and all I get are Marshawn Lynch and Doug Baldwin.
I detest that we traded Big Daddy Libscomb, Alex Karras, Joe Don Looney and Fred Williamson for the likes of Greg Hardy, Johnny Manziel, Pacman Jones and Lawrence Phillips.
I want John Facenda back. And Jack Whitaker. And Bruce Roberts on “Countdown to Kickoff” and maybe after the game if time allowed. I don’t like graphics and scrolls and exploding robots. I’d pay substantially for another Ray Scott.
I hate the NFL’s duplicitous stance on gambling, denying it drives interest and TV ratings. I hate that we’ve gone from Pete Axthelm and Leonard Tose and Gene Klein to a bunch of kids at DraftKings and FanDuel.
I abhor the Super Bowl Aristocracy.
I curse the fact that NFL veterans do not have lifetime health insurance, amid the ghoulish shadow of CTE. As a former agent, I know first-hand that players are really nothing more than high priced chattel.
Mostly though, I no longer love football because I resent the NFL campaigning to tell us “why we love football.” I hate the feel-good essays and stories and contests and commercials and PR campaigns all devised around the 24-hour, 365-day sale of The National Football League.
Some of us really loved football. We didn’t need to be upsold.
Marotta is a documentary filmmaker and radio talk show host.
