Violence

I was smaller. They were larger.

I was younger. They were older.

I was one. They were two.

Sometimes three.

So, I took the beatings.

I didn’t fight back.

That only made it worse.

It was better to just let it happen.

And wait.

Endure.

Get it over with.

So, I did.

I stared into the horizon, bore holes into the walls with my silence, and waited for it to end.

And it would.

Eventually, they’d get bored, grow tired, or get hurt on a bony part of my body.

Then I’d step back into the world, pretending nothing had happened.

Like everything was normal.

It was normal.

My normal.

But the violence stayed.

Every blow.

Every flinch test.

Every whisper of “I fucked your sister.” And I stayed silent.

Where did that energy go?

I absorbed it.

Held.

Stored.

All of it.

In my body.

The body remembers.

A lifetime’s worth.

Some say generations’ worth.

Some say it carries the trauma of our ancestors.

Every strike, slap, strangle, scratch, and switch across the back.

Every knife slice and gunshot.

Some say our epidermis is an archaeological dig site of transgenerational violence.

Maybe so.

Maybe not.

Either way, what was I supposed to do with all that pain and anger, all that shame and fear?

Turn it inward? Hurt myself?

Turn it outward? Hurt somebody else?

No.

I found football.

Or maybe she found me.

I started playing pee-wee in fourth grade.

I’m not sure it was my choice.

Boys in Ohio play football.

I’d like to say I was instinctively drawn to the game.

But I wasn’t.

I was scared.

Scared of being hit.

Scared of bigger boys barreling toward me.

I played the game tentatively.

But on the first day of seventh-grade practice, after Coach Houchens introduced “The Ring” and Jay Hawkins quit the team, I gave myself fully to her.

I vowed loyalty.

Committed my life to meeting her demands.

She took me in.

Nurtured me.

Counseled me.

Off the field, I was quiet and reserved.

The picture of calm.

It was a facade.

In addition to bullying, my home life was plagued by economic insecurity.

In high school, I’d come home from practice and wonder: Did we pay the bills? Would there be electricity, water, or a phone? Would the car still be in the driveway—or had it been repossessed? And what about Mom—was she awake, or sleeping off a late-night shift?

I was consumed with worry.

So much was happening inside, but I had no words for it.

Football didn’t need my words. She didn’t ask me to explain.

She just said, Bring it here.

She gave me a socially acceptable outlet for the destructive energy inside of me.

I used it.

I gave her my rage.

My hurt.

My frustration.

She let me bury my screams in her dirt.

She held it.

Outside her lines, I found it hard to strike or punch someone with my fists. I still do. But on the field, behind the facemask of a helmet, there was distance.

There was permission.

The world reduced to black and white.

Void of complexity.

Strictly dichotomous.

“Us” versus “Them.”

And they were just obstacles in our way.

A switch would flip.

I’d take on a different persona.

I was no longer the same.

I’d slip into my pads, bite down on a mouthpiece, and transform into a human projectile.

I’d hurl my less than substantial corporeal form into players twice my size and steal their wind.

I’d meet running backs in a fleeting gap in the line, stop them in their tracks, and relish the sound of their “Oh, shit” or “Damn” as I put them on their back.

I could hit.

And, when I did, I’d celebrate.

I’d chop my feet. I’d roar. I’d spew expletives. I didn’t care about the scene I made.

It was my field. My turf. My house.

I played the game angry, and my anger showed in the scratches, gouges, and busted bolts of my helmet.

I wasn’t the biggest.

I wasn’t the fastest.

But I had the most streaks of paint—a color for each opponent—running down my helmet.

I’d count them after the games.

Study them.

Run my fingers along their length.

Yes, football is violent.

And yes, that violence carries risks—injuries, concussions, and consequences we’re still uncovering. But our world is violent.

And many of us who have played, do, and will play this game, arrive at its fields as refugees—fleeing abuse, cruelty, and racial, social, or economic inequity.

So, let me ask: What would you have us do with the violence inflicted upon us?

Football…

She knows we need to release our anger—before we turn it inward and destroy ourselves, or outward and trap others in the cycle of violence.

She knows what we carry—she has welcomed others like us before.

She doesn’t judge us.

She wraps her arms around us and whispers, Give me your rage, your pain, your shame, your fears.

She is alchemical.

She transforms the violence of our world into discipline, focus, and purpose.

She turns boys into men.

Pain into brotherhood, belonging, and love.

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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.

Read previous posts in this series.

Thanks for reading! – shawn