Football is Cussing?

Recently, I got pulled up to coach the varsity defensive backs for a practice. Except for those new to the team, I had all of these boys on JV.

Being back with them feels like a reunion—I love these boys.

We’re working on tackling.

I give them three commands:

“Go!”—they chop their feet.

“Go!”—they hit the one-man sled, wrap their arms, lift it, and drive it forward.

“Take down!”—they press their helmets against the padding and flip it on its side.

It’s that last command that gives them fits.

The one-man sled isn’t designed to be flipped.

Flipping it takes brute strength.

Now, nineteen boys circle around like it’s a schoolyard showdown. The air is thick with “Fight Club” energy—raw, visceral, violent. They’re raucously cheering as one by one their brothers step forward to face the sled.

I’m hollering commands.

They’re lifting, driving, flipping the sled.

I’m barking, “Next!”

One of my slimmer defensive backs steps forward.

He lifts, drives, but does not flip the sled.

Disappointment clouds his eyes as he steps aside.

I know that look—he needs this, not for us, but for himself.

So, I holler “No, do it again!”

He takes his position.

I stand right next to him.

I holler “Go!”

He chops his feet.

I get lower, closer to him.

I whisper into the earhole in his helmet, “You’re going to do this.”

I holler “Go!”

I run alongside him, hollering “Attack! Attack! Attack!”

He lifts, drives the sled.

I holler “Take down!”

He struggles, strains, and then plants the sled on its side into the grass!

I’m fully, completely, absolutely caught up in the primality of the moment.

I start slapping his back plate over and over again while he’s still on top of the sled yelling “That’s it! That’s it! That’s it, mother $%*@! That’s it!”

I tell the boys “Go get a sip.”

As they run off to get water, a flicker of awareness cuts through the adrenaline and the professor in me starts asking questions:  

“What kind of men do you want your players to become? What kind of coach do you need to become to help create those kinds of men? And where does cussing fit into all of this?”

These questions demand an answer.

Here’s my answer as it currently stands:

I’m not claiming to have the right answer—if there even is one. My thoughts on this are informed by how I see football at a mythological level and our role as coaches in transforming boys into men.

Joseph Campbell in “The Power of Myth” tells of how from time immemorial, when boys reached a certain age and started to become a bit unruly, the men of the community would come for them in the middle of the night. In an orchestrated ritual, they would rip these boys away from their mothers, often wearing grotesque masks. The mothers would play along, crying, “Don’t take my baby!”—but they knew this process was necessary. For the good of the community, the boys’ lives as children were over; they had to grow and change.

A crucial part of this transformation was a clear and visceral line of separation: a demarcation between life before and life thereafter, between life as a boy and life as a man. This is how I view football. Inside these lines, life is clear, stark, amplified, intense, scrutinizing, and full of barking accountability. It’s where we say, “You promised you’d do this—now do it. You said you’d be on time—be on time.”

Excuses aren’t acceptable.

Feelings may be hurt.

Challenges must be endured, not just physical but emotional and possibly spiritual.

Football, to me, is a modern-day ritual, a rite of passage where boys are initiated into manhood.

It’s a space where the comforts of boyhood give way to the responsibilities and expectations of being a man. And as coaches, we are the ones who accompany them through this journey.

We push them, challenge them, hold them accountable, and, yes, sometimes we cuss—because the intensity of this environment demands it.

But I constantly ask myself, where does cussing fit into this process? Does it serve as a necessary tool in this harsh, demanding space, or does it cross a line into something less constructive?

Personally, I reserve cussing for moments of celebration and when my boys need an extra push of encouragement. I never use it when critiquing or correcting a player.

Even with that distinction, I don’t know if there’s a definitive answer to that question, but I do know that my role as a coach is to guide these boys through the crucible of football, helping them emerge as men who can handle the demands of the world beyond these lines.

This process is ancient, primal, and deeply meaningful—and it’s one that I take seriously, even as I remain open to questioning and revising my approach not just to cussing but to my full role and the attending responsibilities of being a coach.

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This post is part of my latest book project titled: “Football is _______”

Every two weeks, I’ll fill in the above blank with a word or phrase and tell a story. I’ll do that for 52 weeks and then compile the posts into a book of essays.

I’d love for you to join me on this journey and share your thoughts or stories along the way. If you enjoyed this post, please consider sharing it with others who might appreciate it as well.

Stay tuned for future updates on instagram (@blucollarprof).

Read previous posts in this series.

Thanks for reading! – shawn