A Note on the NFL

But for a shocking exposure to it last Thanksgiving, I haven’t watched the NFL on television for years as part of a deliberate decision to cut spectator sports entirely out of my life, finally. Football was the last to go. Objectively I love the game, even in its perverse aspects: its violence, its physical specialization, with sumo wrestlers on the lines, sprinters at receiver, captain-archers at quarterback. It is the American sport, for good or ill.

It was the fans who drove me away at first. I found the hoopla, commercialism and what I would now identify as cuckery increasingly unbearable. Now it’s the players who keep me away. Sometimes we have to spend time away from those we love to realize we hate them–and they hate us.
Watching football on Thanksgiving was bracing for me because of the commercials, which apparently have become endless iterations of multicultural, feminist and commercial pozzing, or conditioning.

One standard format television commercial now goes something like one I recall for a VR headset: we are treated to a series of families, each a different ethnicity with whites deliberately not prominent, enjoying the product to what is supposed to be heartwarming delight. Watching what was supposed to be the Muslim family I was repulsed by their very joy. Not because I’m ignorant–precisely because I’m not, and I understand the threat Muslims represent to me.

 It’s a sick feeling, in part because their joy isn’t any less human, isn’t any less valid and does indicate a common bond. The effect on me is only to emphasize their role in replacing me; they will have grandchildren, they will experience joy, they will see the wonders the world we created produces. And we won’t.

Because we will not be.

Am I alone in feeling this way?

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