Thank you, Mr. Davis, for having the courage to tell us something about recreational moments in our heavenly home and speculating on the possibility that there will be football in heaven. I do know for a fact that there will be baseball because that is God’s game. Football and ice hockey, I’m not sure about, but I love them both. In fact, I love all sports. That is, with the exception of NASCAR and chess, both of which have somehow slipped into the designation of “sport.” But, I digress.
When I was in high school in the fifties I was big and strong and fast. I played left tackle. I don’t know how many times my coaches told me, “Atwood, if you could only get mad, you’d be an All-American.” But, I found it very difficult to get mad, even when I got some teeth knocked out. I couldn’t reach the point where I wanted to knock somebody’s head off. I was not a very good football player because I never got a kick out of “creaming someone.” Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, in the providence of God, I was able to develop this “gift” only after years and years of moderating some session meetings.
Probably, well before Mr. Davis was born, I clipped an article from The Presbyterian Outlook about Perry Smith, who played cornerback for the Green Bay Packers. One day Perry Smith found Jesus. (We Calvinists know that it was the other way around; for Jesus found him.) Nevertheless, Perry Smith declared that he found the Lord and was from that day forward going to play every single down at cornerback just like Jesus Christ would play it. How the Lord Jesus would play cornerback is an intriguing question. Smith does, however, give us some clues on playing cornerback as he discusses his assignment on a punt. He is “to try and block the kick and if unsuccessful he is to hurry back downfield and try to cream somebody.”
Loving to cream somebody is essential for Jesus or anyone else who would play for the Steelers or for that matter, any other good football team. You must love it. And creaming someone is always violent. Mr. Davis said, “football is not an essentially violent game, if by violence we mean the intention (italics mine) to physically harm another person.” The NFL offices would probably say the same thing.
Oh, puh-leeze! Come now. The objective of any defensive unit is to try and take the quarterback or star player out of the game. The more violent the “hits” even in the name of Jesus, the better one’s chances of victory. Of course they want to do it “fair and square,” but the objective is to inflict physical damage on the opponents. And to be sure the mammoth crowds will applaud both the hitter and the hittee if either is carried off the field. Most all fans want to be “Good sports.”
Do I watch those violent hits and in certain instances exalt in them? You bet I do. I wouldn’t miss them. As much as I despise the wholesale violence in this world and even the many fist fights at hockey games, sinful man that I am, I watch every single one of them. The violence captures me. To quote Paul as Mr. Davis does, “I do not understand my own actions.” I must confess that I am not far different from the spectators in the Coliseum.
But, unlike Mr. Davis, I do draw the line at calling this violent sport “holy.” Holy Cow! I can’t believe it! A few years ago, a tackle on the Liberty College football team said, ”Jesus would have been a great football player. He would have put people on their butts.” The problem is that young tackle believes that putting people on their butts is, in fact, a holy task. My daughter had a more redeemed perspective when, at two years of age, she watched her first football game. “Daddy,” she exclaimed, “that man knocked that other man down.” Now, THAT is a holy response.
Much of the perversion of the sport of football, to which Davis does allude, is found in financing and glorifying the violence on the field through salaries that are obscene. Then there is also the unintended violence which, like a virus, infects many of the spectators who are psyched up to a fever pitch and act violently toward one another. Some stadiums therefore, become downright physically dangerous, particularly for those who would cheer for the visiting team. Nowhere is this phenomenon more evident that in Mr. Davis’ native Pennsylvania. I really don’t know much about the hospitality of the Pittsburgh Steeler fans to their visitor guests, but I do know something about the inhospitable Philadelphia Eagle fans. Not only do they boo Santa Claus and throw snowballs at him, but a few years ago, the Washington Redskins Mascot returned home from the contest after some Eagle fans broke both of his legs.
Did anybody say that football was not violent?
Having said all this, and raising serious questions even about myself, I am not ready to repent. In September I intend to watch as an English friend describes the game: while “the ponderous behemoths are pummeling one another.” It ain’t holy, but I’ll be there, sinful man that I am.
Jim Atwood is honorably retired, living in Springfield, Va.
