Football, maybe I actually can quit you

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In 1969, after I was smacked nearly senseless by that massive Moorhead High Spud middle linebacker and was weaving back to my huddle, Coach motioned me off the field. I can hear his inevitable words that always sounded like just one:

“Shakeitoff.”

And that’s literally what we’d do with our bodies at moments like this, and mostly our heads.

Shake it off.

Back then in practice, we got a kick out of watching one of us wobble and weave when we took a hit to our helmeted head. Especially when Coach would rally the troops with his cheer, “Hey! So-and-so got his bell rung!” or “So-and-so is seeing stars!” What a welcome sideshow respite that was from the nonstop chaos of tackling, blocking and forearm-shivers drills to the face mask.

Then Coach blew his whistle, jump-starting the chaos for all of us, including the kid whose bell had been rung.

The word “concussion” existed back in the 1960s, but no one used it. As I recall, there was no medically trained person to look after us or any grown-up who seemed knowledgeable about what they were. We had a team manager, though, an earnest classmate, whose job it was to make readily available to our coaches a gray metal toolbox-looking thing containing adhesive tape, a roll or two of Ace bandages, Band-Aids and smelling salts.

Nowadays, bells are rung like they’ve always been, and we’re almost sure to witness at least one on any given Friday, Saturday or Sunday. But thanks to science and rude awakenings, “Shakeitoffs” have been replaced with well-orchestrated “concussion protocol.” Thank goodness for that, although too little, too late for many, like former Minnesota Vikings quarterbacks Brett Favre and Tommy Kramer, who recently went public with their respective Parkinson’s and dementia diagnoses.

But I’ve seen and heard enough. The violence of impact and its repercussions has finally put a wet-blanket damper on my enjoyment of the game. (Is it just me? Am I the only one?) Unfortunately, it’s not like you can separate the football’s athleticism from its intentional brutality. TV’s talking heads, prognosticators, sports journalists, bookies, fantasy footballers, commentators (“Let’s take another look at that hit from a third angle …”) and those ultra-slow-motion replays won’t let you.

That said, don’t get me wrong. Football, with all its brutality can be beautiful. Balletic even. A joy to watch. Hockey, too, for that matter.

As I write this, I’m surprised at how I feel. I was a die-hard football fan once. I know and remember with wonderful clarity the excitement, communal spirit and joy of Friday night high school games in the small rural town where I once lived and taught; the comfort of belonging among thousands of frenzied fanatics like me at the old University of Minnesota Memorial Stadium on gorgeous autumn afternoons (snowy ones, too); the awesome, unworldly sound of the jet-engine-level decibel roar inside the domed and roofed stadiums in downtown Minneapolis; pleading with and extolling “our Vikings” in my parents living room along with their friends and mine, despite our mouthfuls of my mother’s perfect pastrami, salami and corned beef on rye sandwiches — and way, way back, the euphoria (and just as memorable, silent misery) in our high school locker room after our game.

But now, for me, the game has become too violent, its endgame determined more it seems on who’s injured and might not get back in the game, play in the next one — or ever again.

It’s just harder these days for me to separate the beauty from the brutality.

I know I’ll sneak peeks at game highlights, standings and postgame quotes. Other than that, it’s time to move on.

Dick Schwartz lives in St. Louis Park.