The Future of Football

 Promising San Francisco 49ers’ linebacker Chris Borland retired last week.  One season of butting heads in the NFL was enough for the former Wisconsin Badger.  “I just want to live a long healthy life,” explained Borland of his decision, “and I don’t want to have any neurological diseases or die younger than I would otherwise.”  Wise words from a 24-year old.

So, does this spell the beginning of the need for America’s top sport?  I doubt it.  If Borland were Gayle Sayers or Dick Butkus, maybe, but he’s just a good football player whose name most fans won’t remember in another two weeks.  The beauty and the terror embedded in a good NFL doubleheader will remain intact.

There’s something inherently satisfying about seeing—and executing, no doubt—a good play, the block that springs a nice run or a pass pattern that nets a first down on fourth and long with the clock ticking down.  On top of that you have a player like Sayers, who would have been perfect on the Black Sox; since it was impossible to tackle the man, he always had a clean uniform.  Old Man Halas must’ve saved a bundle on laundry.

Sayers would take a handoff and confront yet another blown assignment by his offensive line.  Hello, my name is Ray Nitschke, and I want to tear your head off.  To avoid that fate, Sayers would run left ten yards, right twenty and circle back before heading downfield for whatever yardage the Bears needed.  There was never a more graceful runner before or since.  Such moves were the antithesis of a game that at the time allowed the blindside tackle and helmet spearing, which may be why Sayers’ career spanned only five full seasons and another two injury-shortened ones.

Sayers was the opposite of Walter Payton, who thrived on contact.  Hit Payton once, and he gained another ten yards; smack him a second time, and it meant another twenty yards at least.  Payton was the offensive version of Dick Butkus, terror incarnate.  Waiting for the snap, no. 51 would spit across the line of scrimmage; much worse was to follow.  The blindside, the spear—Butkus could hurt an opponent any number of ways.  He gave no mercy and expected none.  If ever there was a warrior ready to be carried off the field of battle on his shield, it was Butkus.

So far, neither Hall of Famer has turned his back on the game that made them both famous.  Until they do, fans have free reign to see who compares today to what Sayers and Butkus were back then.  The violence can be ignored in the search for beauty and terror.