Buffalo Bills defender Damar Hamlin nearly died on the field during the first quarter of a Monday night football game against the Cincinnati Bengals. The apparent cause was a cardiac event triggered by the impact of a tackle. His heart stopped on the field and was restarted by medical personnel, and then a second time on the way to the hospital. As I write this, Hamlin is – thank God – alive and showing signs of improvement, although still in intensive care. May he experience a speedy and complete recovery.
After Hamlin collapsed and an ambulance rushed to him, the immense gravity of the situation was immediately apparent. Dozens of players and coaches huddled in a spontaneous prayer circle, many openly weeping. Opponents in different uniforms became instant brothers-in-arms. It was a display of emotion that was obviously heartfelt and sincere, and the humanity of the athletes was clearly visible. They may look like warriors girded for battle, but underneath the helmets and the pads, they are but young men, some like Hamlin, at age twenty-four, barely into adulthood.
On Tuesday, as I channel surfed the radio dial while out driving, there was but a single topic discussed on sports talk shows: Damar Hamlin.
Then a full complement of college and pro basketball games were played Tuesday night, along with hockey and a couple of lesser college football bowl games, and everything else that goes on in the world of sports, a world which never stops spinning on its axis.
On Wednesday, sports radio was back to normal. So much so that I even heard a discussion about how impressively the Cincinnati Bengals played before the game was suspended, which augured well for a run to the Super Bowl. Pretty abrupt pivot in topic.
Twenty-fours was apparently the designated interlude for thoughts and prayers.
Concussions and injuries have long been accepted as part of the game. A cost of doing business, if you will.
So are football players warriors or entertainers? Navy Seals or Seals & Crofts?
And enduring mortal risk is not just confined to football. Cirque du Soleil, for example, has had two deaths resulting from accidents during live performances in front of spectators. But the acrobatic show has gone on (and on, and on).
Ancient Greek soldiers were instructed “with your shield or on it.” There was no greater shame than to survive a losing battle.
Total war – the attempt to permanently wipe out the enemy by killing their men and enslaving the surviving women and children – was a principle of Greek statesmanship. Today, Total War is a Sega video game series.
Some parents and talking heads on TV are concerned video games make kids violent. But we’ve come a long way as a society when they are merely playing games on a screen rather than living in ancient times, where the ideal male role model was either: i) conquering hero; or ii) died trying.
The problem with football is not just that it’s a violent sport: it’s a business juggernaut which won’t slow down. And we fans can’t look away from the spectacle. The NFL even
refers to itself as “The Shield.” That’s about as hardcore ancient military imagery as you can get.
I have a Cirque du Soleil coffee mug in a kitchen cabinet which I purchased years ago at a performance we took the kids to. I have yet to throw it out in protest. So much for my moral rectitude.
When I was ten years old, a boy I didn’t know, who was in a lower grade at the neighborhood elementary school I attended, died from spinal meningitis.
I vividly recall the shock that my friends and I felt when we learned this. What stunned us the most was the sheer incomprehensibility of the news, that a little kid could get sick and die. It did not seem to us, innocents that we were, a universe existed where that could happen.
All these years later, I am no longer innocent, but still struggle to accept the frailty of the human condition.
However, one thing I know for sure: the business of football is playing football.
The show, regardless of the human cost, will go on
.