“Is football worth it?” blares the Sept. 29 cover of Time magazine.
The editors at Time framed this question with players’ health in mind, and it’s a good one. Increased focus on concussions in recent years and the NFL’s own estimate that one-third of its players will develop dementia, Alzheimer’s or other disorders like Parkinson’s and ALS in their lifetimes has brought awareness to the long-term effects of America’s favorite game.
But you would be excused if you took Time’s hypothetical a step further. Football requires a certain mindset to play it, and it isn’t out of bounds to ask questions about football’s more immediate effect on its players. Because—let’s not mince words—football is a violent game, and those who play it are trained specifically to be violent within the rules.
Does that training have any effect off the field? Can a violent sport make people violent? And have we, as fans, encouraged or enabled this in any way?
These questions have arisen after recent reports chronicling off-the-field abuse allegedly committed by a slew of NFL players. The list reads like an All-Star team, with running backs Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson and defensive lineman Greg Hardy among the players who have been charged with violent crimes in recent months.
An analysis completed by FiveThirtyEight.com in late July shows the NFL’s domestic violence rate is 55.4 percent of the national average—that is, a NFL player is half as likely as the average 25- to- 29-year old to commit an act of domestic violence. Even with that, FiveThirtyEight concluded the statistics are worrying.
“Although this is still lower than the national average, it’s extremely high relative to expectations,” FiveThirtyEight’s Benjamin Morris wrote. “That 55.4 percent is more than four times worse than the league’s arrest rate for all offenses (13 percent), and domestic violence accounts for 48 percent of arrests for violent crimes among NFL players, compared to our estimated 21 percent nationally.”
Making matters worse, the NFL and those in it have done themselves no favors with how they have handled the cases.
Take the example of Rice, who in the offseason knocked his now-wife unconscious in a casino elevator. The NFL initially suspended him for two games before reversing course and banning him indefinitely once a video of the incident surfaced online. What did NFL officials see in the video that changed their minds? It’s domestic violence; it’s disturbing in its very nature. A video shouldn’t have made a difference. The act itself should be enough.
But weeks later, Peterson wound up in a similar situation when allegations of child abuse resurfaced last month—a brief absence, followed by outcry, followed by an indefinite suspension. Unlike Rice, Peterson has yet to go through the legal process. But reports by ESPN suggest Peterson still doesn’t understand the gravity of what he has been charged with. He apparently expects to play again this season.
That’s the saddest part of this “worst month in the history of the NFL” business—those involved don’t comprehend what they’re doing. It’s not the acts that have caused the NFL to reflect, it’s the backlash. And there’s no doubt the soul-searching NFL will disappear once the outcry does.
We’re already seeing signs of this. During the league’s Sept. 21 games, more than once TV commentators pointed out how competitive and exciting the games had been, adding that the NFL “needed a week like this.” Think for a moment how ham-handed this is: “We’re sure glad we have some fun games to distract us from the off-the-field messes players have made!”
Still, it’s hard to be too critical of the TV folks when so many of us are guilty of looking the other way. As of Sept. 24, 81 percent of fantasy football owners in leagues on ESPN.com had Ray Rice on their teams. (And I had him on mine until the NFL suspended him indefinitely.)
Now consider the choices facing NFL general manager, who has to balance his job security and his team’s success with any potential issues that could arise when adding a talented yet troubled player. The incentives are stacked against decency, especially considering championships are determined by wins, not character.
This is why Rice and Peterson will play in the NFL again, soon, regardless of their ability to reform themselves. We’ve given the NFL no tangible reason to ignore them. By allowing players back in, paying them millions of dollars, cheering for them on Sunday, drafting them for our fantasy teams without ensuring they understand the gravity of their off-the-field actions, we’ve sent the message that what they’ve done is OK.
Then again, perhaps there’s something inherently wrong with a sport whose motto could be, “In real life, that’s a crime. In football, that’s the point.”
Perhaps there’s something inherently wrong with a sport whose motto could be, “In real life, that’s a crime. In football, that’s the point.”
