Football Is A Drug, Super Bowl XLVII Edition

A few months ago, the 2012 NFL season began and I and millions of others magically regained the ability to ignore the realities of the brutal, multi-billion dollar game we love. It's a talent we've been forced to utilize every fall, because for many of us, we can't help it. Speaking for myself: I can guess at the potential consequences every vicious hit carries and I keep on watching, anyway. I mean, c'mon, it's exciting. And the hits play a large roll in that excitement. I watch a highlight reel like this and my human brain knows this isn't right, but because my adrenaline is pumping, it's my lizard brain that's in control.

It's a drug and we're addicted. It's not like we're stupid (well... most of us aren't); even those of us without medical training can look at the punishment being sustained and know on some level that this isn't healthy. Players know the risks when they sign up, we tell ourselves (maybe). But whether or not that makes it okay to watch is another question.

I recommend perusing Ta-Nehisi Coates' rundown of the NFL's recent history of concussion evasion. You should also check out Bob Costas on The Daily Show earlier this week. Or you can trust your own eyes and watch the play from this year's AFC Championship game that Costas discusses with Jon Stewart, in which Ravens safety Bernard Pollard clobbers Patriots running back Stevan Ridley. Watching live, I was expecting to see Ridley still prone on the field, surrounded by team trainers and doctors, as soon as the replays ended. By the grace of football's traditionally generous gods, Ridley walked off under his own power almost immediately. It says something--I'm not sure what--that Pollard has since acknowledged the potential consequences for the NFL's style of play.

Some will argue that anyone cheering for Baltimore this Sunday (as I am) is rooting for a murderer. Or at least a team that is led, physically and emotionally, by a probable accessory to murder. And there's some validity to that, just as there's some validity to the idea that cheering on any football team might lead one to incidentally root for a criminal of one class or another (somewhat greater odds for Cowboys fans). That's a gruesomeness that we as fans have learned to live with ignore. What happens off the field stays off the field, we rationalize. But on the field, we're watching men kill each other. Slowly but inexorably. We sit, not exactly passively, and watch these athletes devastating each others' mortal, if gargantuan, bodies and turning each others' brains into scrambled eggs in ways we're only just beginning to grasp. I'm not much for hashing out moral comparisons, but certainly we can't all claim to be clean.

So my prediction for Sunday is: injuries. Lots of them. All of the injuries will happen and no one will be spared.

And it'll be exciting as hell.

Baltimore over San Francisco, 31-23.