Why Football Is Like War
by Matt Worley
The anticipation has been building all year for this moment. Seconds before kickoff, everything is still--but not silent. The crowd roars, screaming for death, destruction and victory. They've read all the stats and injury reports. Many sport ceremonial head and body gear in support of their cause. Signs, and tomahawks and barbecue ribs swing through the air in ritualistic glee. Blood is eminent. Victory will be won in three hours or less.
The two generals stalk the sidelines, festooned with headsets, clipboards and ten word vocabularies. They stare across the playing field at each other for only a few seconds. The two generals are fighting a personal battle, but it is their brand of leadership pushing the young men on the field that will determine the outcome--nothing physical passes between the two coaches. Both look away. It does no good to fight a mind game--not in a physical game such as this. Words and pre-game interviews won't draw blood, but linemen really hurt you.
And suddenly the battle cry has begun. Strains of the Rolling Stone's "Start Me Up" can be heard as the kicker readies himself. He is not the most important member of the team, but his actions, as will the actions of all of the players, are valuable and needed. He has been kicking since he was five years old, running down soccer fields in search of an elusive goal. But this is the place he always wanted to be. All of those penalty kicks, corner kicks and sideline passes were nothing compared to the quick rush and release of American Football. The kicker begins the game, and, if it all goes according to his plan, he will end it with a record breaking field goal as time ticks down to nothing. A chance to contribute to a truly noble and needed contest. He exhales powerfully and then immediately sucks in the fresh, brisk air. And like the first crack of rifles in the American Civil War, his feet obey the simple commands of "Run. Kick." There is no stopping the war now. It has begun.
The long preparation and planning of strategy begins to deteriorate as the individual hearts and wills of men begin to change the landscape of the field. Suddenly the quarterback can no longer see his receivers as he fights for his life against a swarm of defensive ends and safety blitzes. Loyal defenders of the great emblem lose their head, causing fifteen yard penalties and unprecedented losses. A once noble receiver is brought down over the middle, rendering his services void and crumbled in a bloody heap. Cheers are heard as his body is carried off the field of battle.
Great diagrams of conquest and domination are quickly scrapped as it appears the other side has plans of their own. Sneaky reverses are called, only to be taken down for a loss. Large aerial missle volleys are attempted, but the cornerbacks are ready for desperation as they stretch to tip the ball into harmless patches of grass--a human defense missle saves the day for now.
The missles and countermissles, tanks and anti-tank personnel hurl themselves at each other, neither side gaining substantial ground.
Domination of the field becomes the true objective. Time turns into an enemy, and causes a war of two fronts. Scoring is a far off dream, as the objective becomes five or ten yards rather than a cutting run through the enemy's flanks into the open field. The implications of the deteriorating front line begin to take on catastrophic meaning. Suddenly the quarterback can no longer fake a run for his crucial play-action stunts. It doesn't matter which running back tries to break through, the enemy has all of their numbers.
What was to be the greatest victory in the history of the world has twisted into a fight for survival. Custer was definitely wrong--never try to throw over the middle of the field with only a few seconds left and no time outs.
And then a moment of true clarity occurs. Someone is streaking across the field in a last desperate attempt for victory. The ball is launched and seems to be in the air for an inordinate amount of time. Will it land on target or bounce harmlessly on the first aid kit? Will this be the crushing blow that has been talked and talked about since those anticipatory pre-game show minutes? As if guided by God, the ball floats gently into the receiver's hands just as he steps away from his opponent and into the end zone. The kicker will not have to win the game today, but he is given the consolation prize: an extra point attempt.
The crowd erupts. Drowned in beer and self-adulation, a sea of supporters cheer the winning side. Maybe the scene will be different in a week or two, but for now, this war is over. And the good guys one. There will be much celebrating into the night, and even into the next day when the great battle is discussed in superior terms around water coolers and coffee machines.
American Football represents American's love of war, victory and civic pride. As a country, we've long since discarded the need for conventional war (injuries, not deaths, are accepted, accumulated and pondered over), but every week during the fall we cheer as our sculpted athletes, young and almost young, play out our visions conquest and heroism. A 100 yard field is marked off in sections. The pound and grind moves the ball up and down the field, crossing lines drawn in the grass by the opposing team. Words are exchanged, but sweat and blood are the real sacrifices of this sport. We want our team to work hard and win. We know where they need to go and the offensive weapons needed to achieve this goal. A good defense, stockpiled in anticipation of offensive failure, rises to the occasion when necessary.
War is no longer fought with the same intensity by our country as the need to win is fought by our glorious football teams. There is no thought of failure by our military, just a hope that losses will be kept under a hundred or so dead. Through football we are able to vicariously fight our ultimate battles. Everyone, even the greatest of teams and players, are subject to tests of faith and physical letdown. We, as Americans, really don't care about Iraq or Palestine or Bosnia. There is no sense of national pride as our fighters fly unimpeded over enemy lines and bomb the enemy with impunity. But Hell hath no fury like a Raider fan scorned, and, in the end, it will be these Autumns of victory or defeat we will remember--not what actually happened on sandy battlefields half a world away.
Short Endnote: Why Soccer (& Hockey) Are Like Life--and thus, not as fun as American Football.
Players only identified by the spot of the field they begin play at wander around the field trying to figure out where the ball is headed, kicking the ball occasionally, and scoring every once in a while. The game ends arbitrarily and without warning, usually soon after an oh-shit-it's-almost-over desperation kick that always misses the mark.
The life metaphor can be extended to hockey by substituting the words "puck," "skate," "slapshot," and "checking" wherever necessary.
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