Catholics and the War on Football

When it comes to football and its risks, writes Ken Briggs in National Catholic Reporter, Catholic scholars may be caught in a spiral of silence. Briggs finds that a sampling of these scholars, while believing “the medical hazards exposed by the research raise serious questions” about the wisdom of continuing the game, has chosen to soft-pedal them, fearing “stormy protests by fans and financial backers.”

Briggs is right that recent research shows players are at graver risk than anyone could have imagined. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or CTE, results from the brain’s repeated collision against the skull. A degenerative disease, it can lead to memory loss, excessive aggression and even suicidal depression. Studies of 2,500 former NFL players undertaken at UNC’s Center for the Study of Retired Athletes found “cognitive impairment, Alzheimer’s-like symptoms and depression rose proportionately with the number of concussions they had sustained.” Since 2008, Dr. Ann McKee, associate professor of neurology and pathology at Boston University’s School of Medicine, has examined the brains of seven retired NFL players and four college players and found all suffered from CTE.

In First Things, Owen Strachan writes that “the stories that fit this mold are startling.” They include Owen Thomas, the Penn team captain who hanged himself, as well as high-school players Douglas Morales and Brian Colvin, and 13-year-old Spencer Juarez. The CTE risks to boxers have been well known for decades. In fact, the death rate in the ring seems to be rising, with Daniel Aguillon, Bae Ki-Suk, Yo-Sam Choi and Luis Villalta all dying fight-related deaths in the past ten years. But then, at least here in the U.S., boxing isn’t the kind of sport a teen’s parents will drive in their X-Terra to watch him (or her) compete in. Football is turning into blood and Astroturf and death in a suburban afternoon.

Strachan, an instructor of Christian theology and Church history at Boyce College, Southern Baptist Theological Seminary’s undergraduate school, does what Briggs wishes Catholic scholars would do. He comes right out and suggests that parents “take a step back from [football] and point youths to concentrate on less violent sports.” But his advice is the exactly kind of advice you’d expect from an intellectual who values logic and consistency above anything. It would surely encounter serious resistance from those further down on the brain chain, and for reasons irreducible to greed. The word “religion” comes from the Latin re-ligare, or “to re-bind.” How bound do we have to be, the faithful could be forgiven for asking. We’ve already agreed not to use condoms; now we don’t get to play football? Jiminy Christmas, can’t we have any fun at all?

It’s a fair question. With the advance of science comes a new awareness of the danger posed by all sorts of apparently harmless diversions, which creates an onus for more restrictions. On the Catholic Answers forum, someone named Murray 1105 writes about his new parish priest, a dynamic figure who encourages “stronger prayer and community and outreach.” But, because Father smokes cigarettes, writes Murray, some parishioners “are so bothered by this they want to switch parishes.” Murray’s own, relatively tolerant, view, that “it is no worse for him to have a weakness that is easily seen by public than one that is not,” marks him as another product of post-Paula Deen America.

For a view of a dystopia governed by the principle of “everything in moderation, except abstemiousness,” see The Simpsons. In one episode, Bart, Lisa and Maggie are packed off to spend a weekend with the Flanders family. There, they’re scandalized to discover that American Bible Christianity’s version of nachos involves cucumber slices and cottage cheese. Ayaan Hirsi Ali never indicted Islam so effectively on the best day of her life.

But the case against football is too strong to dismiss out of hand. For that reason, some states have passed laws preventing student athletes from taking the field fewer than 24 hours after sustaining a concussion. New York State’s Public High School Athletic Association recommended a “five-day weaning process,” according to which concussed student athletes, having obtained medical clearance, would be gradually eased back into play. It’s unclear, though, just how far these measures will reduce the incidence of CTE. As Briggs points out, concussions aren’t the only contributing factor; every hit plays its part. “One analogy cited by some sources is the cumulative effect of smoking: No single cigarette triggers lung disease,” he writes. “Another is the grim image of a death by a thousand cuts.”

Before any Catholic educators or ethicists decide to make a stand against football, they’d better think of something more exciting to offer in its place than tag team Taize prayer. The career of mixed martial-arts might be instructive. With the combatants wearing thin gloves and encouraged to grapple, maxillofacial and cranial pummeling lose the importance they have in boxing. At least to this casual fan, battles in the octagon make better watching than those in the ring. (There’s also the impression that MMA attracts a better class of people. A vulgarian Tank Abbot might have been; unlike Liston, Lyle and LaMotta, a felon he was not.)

Personally, I’d like to see lacrosse become the new football. Fast-paced and often high-scoring, it’s the only sport to have been named by a saint and martyr. With constant checking, it should satisfy anyone’s lust for violence, but leaves room on the field for fairly normal-sized players, who are likelier to blow out their shoulders and knees than their brains. I wonder what it would take to talk Tim Tebow into a little occupational re-orienting.

Oedipus in the Heartland, Choruses in the Combox

Last night, the Anchoress blogged on a peculiar prank that parents, in collusion with the faculty of a Minnesota high school, played on their kids. First, the kids, all star athletes, were given blindfolds and led into the school’s crowded gym. Next, each blindfolded jock received a kiss from what the write-up describes as his or her “opposite-sex parent.” At least to all appearances, many of the kisses were distinctly other than parental. Still blindfolded, each blushing kissee then guessed the identity of the kisser; each guessed wrong. (One kid praised his mother’s “luscious lips.”) The blindfolds were removed to general hilarity.

Now, I don’t imagine for a moment that any of these parents were acting out incestuous impulses. More likely, they were just trying to make their kids look like total dorks in front of their friends. Still, at least with me, the incest taboo is deeply enough ingrained that nothing I write in these folks’ defense can keep my skin from crawling.

By funny coincidence, my discovery of this video coincided with the end a long and heated conversation I had with a friend over the role of guilt in maintaining a healthy and orderly society. She recalled her nephew’s triumphant broadcast over FB of his girlfriend’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy and wondered whether to take it as a symptom of a new general jadedness, a dangerous immunity to guilt. Unconvinced, I told her she sounded like a scold. Having seen the video, do I still hold to that judgment? We’ll just have to see.

To test the proposition, I decided to dramatize the scene, borrowing some key phrases from a much older story of a guy who unwittingly violates the incest taboo – namely, the story of the guilt-ridden Oedipus, king of Thebes, as told by Sophocles. Since comboxes offer modern-day ‘net surfers a sense of how the average person interprets and applies society’s norms, I toggled to the page housing Yahoo!’s article to impress some of the posters into service as a chorus. Finding, to my surprise, a variety of opinions, I decided the scene would work best with several competing choruses. Maybe that’s the most realistic update to Oedipus right there.

Mom and blindfolded Son are exchanging a rather too-intimate kiss. Mom breaks the embrace and removed the blindfold. As Son gasps, the lights reveal Baisyl, Nick, T.C. and Bear all forming a loose circle around the couple, in postures that betray their attitude toward the scene they’ve just witnessed.

Baisyl:
What kind of parent would make out with their child, and move their hand to touch their @#$%! If this happened in my high school, none of us would be laughing; we’d be dead silent ‘cause this is just repulsive and wrong. I mean a peck is fine, but these parents were way too into kissing their children. I’d kill my father if he ever did this to me and never think of him the same ever again!

Son:
My mom is kind of funny – not a textbook mom at all. She watches Twilight and Misfits and sometimes calls guys “bitch.” Her hand didn’t really touch my glutes; it just stopped at the spinal erectors. And speaking of erectors, I didn’t get one, I swear!

Nick:
How do you compare child sex abuse to this? This is a prank that has been around since the 80′s and has nothing to do with molesting kids. Like it or not, don’t compare it to something so horrible.

Mom:
Nick’s got a point. I bathed my son a lot when he was small. If I was going to bad-touch him, would I not have done it then? And what about that time last week I walked into his room and caught him going Number Three? All I did was holler, “Jesus Christ!” and run.

T.C.:
I can’t stop laughing. Oh, my God, Okay, so I’m mean and enjoy judging people. If i went to that school, they would not live this down. I’d poke fun DAILY. Who wants to be known as the “kid who kissed their parent?”

Son:
This bites! My skill was matchless; I thought I’d win honor above all men, like Tim Tebow. But the video’s gone viral; thanks to social media I’ll be The Kid Who Kissed Their Parent — the most abhorred of men! And if T.C. ever sees me, she’ll poke fun. They say, “It gets better,” but that’s only if you’re gay. The Kid Who Kissed Their Parent gets banished for impiety.

Bear:
Too bad you’re dumb enough to see what they want you to see, and you think it’s bad because they said. What happened to thinking for yourself? Nothing was sex; it’s a kiss, and who says how long ? There was no tongue, was there? My God, what happened to having fun? You people suck!

Son:
If we suck, Bear, it’s because our eyes suck. They didn’t see the atrocious things I suffered, the dreadful things I did. So for now and all future time be dark!

Son pulls sharp broaches out of his pocket and moves as if to stab out his eyes. Mom seizes his wrists.

Mom:
Son, don’t be retarded. Do you think that if you blind yourself, you’ll end up in a place where no one, no living human being will cross your path? Fat chance of that; you’ll end up in a self-contained classroom with kids from your home district. They’ll have seen the video, or if they’re blind, they’ll have heard it. And don’t think just because a kid is in a wheelchair that he can’t poke fun. A girl with cystic fibrosis was the biggest bitch I ever knew. When I heard she died, I toasted her death with Dos Equis and Patron.

Son:
Oh, crap! Oh, crap! How miserable I am…such wretchedness! Where do I go? All the college recruiters will have seen this. And the army, too! The memory of aching shame! Why should I have eyes when nothing I could see would bring me joy?

Mom:
You know what? I’m getting sick of this. You’re practically a grown-up; if your eyes crave the agony of stabbing broaches – fine. I’m not going to stand here and watch you make a scene. Remember this, though, buddy, Mom’s leaving now. Come along, or grope your own way home. And I don’t want you waking me up with a lot of pissing and moaning about the dark horrors wrapped around you. The hand that stabs out your eyes will be yours and yours alone, so if you’re unhappy in your fate and in your mind, tweet it or something.

Son:
But Mom, if a man manifests no fear of righteousness, shouldn’t miserable fate seize him for his disastrous arrogance? It’s like, if I scratch somebody’s car, I’m supposed to leave a note. If I get too drunk to drive myself home, I’m supposed to call you. If I kiss you, I’m supposed to blind myself. Otherwise, why should we dance to honor god? It’s a no-brainer.

Mom:
I’ve seen you dance – you look like a man completely lost and utterly accursed. What I’m telling you is, it’s best to live haphazardly. Our lives are ruled by chance. Remember that guy at the intersection? The one in lycra, on the $1,500 road bike? The one you called, “Faggot!” and struck on the head with your staff? That was your father. The police just texted; he’s dead. If he’d stuck to his stationary bike like a normal person, he’d have finished his cardio workout in time to ride with us. Your father’s dead through fate, and not through you.

Son:
Fate, huh?

Mom:
Look, I may get a little short with you sometimes, but I care about your well-being – what I tell you is for your own benefit. Forget about a kiss – it’s true that in their dreams a lot of men have slept with their own mothers. To tell you the truth, in their dreams, a lot of men have slept with your own mother. So if anyone pokes fun, Skipper, if anyone makes you feel like you’ve committed the most atrocious act human beings can commit, remember — that person’s just jealous. And insecure. Now let’s get out of here.

Son hesitates.

Mom:
Buy you some beer.

Son:
A case?

Mom:
A twelve-pack.

Son shuffles to Mom’s side; Mom throws an arm around his shoulders and leads him offstage. We hear a smacking sound.

Mom:
Nice glutes, unhappy man.

Son:
Mom!

Tomorrow’s Sex Ed: Better than Porn?

My father learned about sex — the theory, that is, not the practice — from reading Irv Shulman’s Amboy Dukes. Published in 1947, two years before the old man was bar mitzvah, it billed itself as “The Toughest Novel Ever Written About Juvenile Delinquent Gangs.” Several years later, my mother learned the facts of life through more official channels — namely, the nuns of St. Anthony’s grammar school and their lectures on the martyrdom of Maria Goretti. The contrast to the Amboy Dukes is more apparent than real: both involved adolescent sociopaths and jury-rigged weapons. Could it have been a shared ghoulishness, acquired early on, that brought my folks together? If so, I must have picked it up, or else I wouldn’t find myself speculating on what props were used in my conception.

It’ll be interesting to see whether sex ed pioneer Al Vernacchio’s students will have any hangups left to pass on to their kids. An article in this week’s New York Times describes how Vernacchio, who teaches at Friends’ Central School in Philadelphia, wins students’ confidence with an “utter lack of self-consciousness about sexual matters,” fielding questions about everything from orgasms to orgies. Rather than skirt the subject of pleasure, he considers it his mission to teach sex “in all its glory and complications.” Vernacchio denies contributing to the delinquency of minors:

“As much as I say, ‘This is how orgasms work, and they’re really cool,’ I say there’s a lot of work to being in a relationship and having sex. I don’t think I have the power to make sex sound so enticing that kids are going to break through their self-esteem issues or body stuff or parental pressures or whatever to just go do it.” And anyway, Vernacchio went on, “I don’t necessarily see the decision to become sexually active when you’re 17 as an unhealthy one.” His goal is for young people to know their own minds, be clear about what they do and don’t want and use their self-knowledge to make choices.

Most parents can rest assured that Vernacchio won’t be lecturing their kids anytime soon. Friends’ Central is a private school, run by those draft-dodging pantywaists, the Quakers. But some sex educators are lobbying to reinvent public-school curricula in such a way as will give prominence to the question of pleasure. Last November, Paul Johannides, author of The Guide to Getting it On, advised guests at a sex educators’ conference: “Porn is the model for today’s middle-school and high-school students…And none of us is offering an alternative that’s even remotely appealing.”

The idea of middle-aged teachers trying to compete with porn stars on their own turf sounds, well…jarring, at best. Their goal is relevance. In Johannides’ words: “We’re worrying about which bathrooms transgender students should use while teens are worrying whether they should shave all the way or leave a landing strip…They’re worrying if someone special will find them sexually attractive, whether they will be able to do it as well as porn, whether others have the same kind of sexual feelings they do.”

As goals go, “relevance” is pretty hard to define objectively, and for that reason pretty easy to overlook if missed — more so, anyway, than preventing teen pregnancy and STDs. Nobody quoted in the Times article predicts with any confidence that if kids pay more attention in class because the teacher responds frankly and non-judgmentally to their questions about X, then they’ll take him more seriously when he lectures them on the dangers of Y. The worst-case scenario that justifies the pleasure-based curricula, that porn will teach kids bad lovemaking habits that they’ll need a lifetime to unlearn, sounds a bit by the way, not to mention farfetched. Judging by the titles in Barnes & Noble alone, continuing adult sex ed is a growing industry. Why strangle it, as it were, in its crib?

In horse races with clearly defined markers, abstinence-only programs have shown some evidence of effectiveness. According to a National Institute of Mental Health study published last year, a sample of 662 African-American middle-schoolers, aged 10 to 15, was divided into four groups. Members of the group that learned sex ed through a two-year program stressing abstinence reported having had sex at significantly lower rates than any of the others. Researchers obtained their data through students’ self-reporting, so the possibility remains that abstinence-only programs simply teach kids to be sneaks. Still, if Florence King was right when she wrote that hypocrisy is a synonym for civilization, that might not be a bad start.