Beyond Concussed

Much of the time spent discussing athletics is focused upon the positive intrinsic characteristics and behavioral values developed by the experience of sports participation. Especially at the youth level, the growth and self-awareness that are fostered by physical and team competition are astoundingly beneficial examples of experiential education. We should all, however, be very concerned about the violence that is acceptable in sports, because it is certainly not acceptable in civilized society.

We have to put this aggression in a context, especially for kids, and give it a solid check ourselves. Informing and debriefing violence, explaining the purposes and consequences, teaching self-awareness, self-discipline, self-regulation, respect for others, and creating standards for the conduct of aggressive behavior are critical to the preservation of both our humanity and morality. Outside the Lines: Danger on the Ice is a video segment produced by ESPN discussing hockey hits in youth sports, concerned mostly with concussions, but the ripple effect far exceeds head trauma.

Violence is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as: “Rough or injurious physical force, action, or treatment”, and this is a major component of most combat sports. According to ESPN, there are 293,691 registered youth hockey players in the US, a large number of young kids involved in a sport that encourages fights, especially when their role models are participating. As violence is defined, tackling, checking, shoving, blocking, etc. are all aggressively physical acts.

On March 8^th, 2011, Zdeno Chara's injurious hit on Max Pacioretty during a Canadians/Bruins game left our mouths agape for all of two seconds, then we accepted it as part of the sport and moved on. There is something terribly wrong with that. The concern with these types of behavior is that they are built into the games themselves. These events are not frowned upon, but rewarded and celebrated. In 2008, according to the Massachusetts Executive Office of Public Safety and Security, there was a rate of 449.4 violent felony assaults per 100,000 people. That this rate is climbing is evidence of a deficiency of values in our culture, one that might be related to sport.

A darker picture of youth athletics comes into focus when considering that the lack of proper contextualization of violence in sport may directly impact the violent behavior of society. In On Killing, Lt. Col. Dave Grossman discusses how human beings have a natural resistance to violence, describing it as a “Universal human phobia.” It is actually a refreshing thought, but as we start to overcome our ingrained resistance to intimate physical contact, we open the door to all manner of sociopathy and inconsistent behavioral characteristics, and unfortunately, traumatized kids can become violent adults. The fact is, we have become very good at finding ways around our natural resistance.

Informing and discussing the consequences of brutality, and instilling standards of behavior discourage kids from resorting to violence. USA Hockey is debating raising the age at which checking is acceptable, and eliminating the angles on the ice (plates of glass 90 degrees rather than curved, the existing lip between the glass and the boards) might decrease the damaging effects of some hits, but we are avoiding the real issue. It seems that no one wants to face the fact that violence begets violence, and that the traditional nature of sport itself is what really needs to change.

Nightmare

I gaze across the desolate expanse. Jaw steadfastly clinched, lips parched, dehydration begins to set in, but my eyes burn. Burn into the desert, unblinking, frightened by the prospect of missing a single second. Skin scorched I stand at the ready, arms at my side, a knarled had wrapped around the rubber grip of a pistol. The rubber has begun to shed; particles have begun to take residence in the palm of my hand as I wait patiently for what approaches on the horizon. Repeating the motion over in my head, I know how to draw the weapon, it’s a swift motion barrel pointed up immediately with a quick twitch of the wrist, in case I need to fire from the hip. A dead sprint from 20 feet would make it hand to hand, I like hand to hand. Raise it to eye level and look at a small detail on the target, squeeze, let it be a surprise, then watch it drop as I absorb the recoil. As I stare painfully into the distance it begins to dawn on me that whatever reveals itself may be of no threat, and yet I prepare myself . . . the expectation of the worst weighing upon me.

           

Suddenly I’m in shackles, shuffling begrudgingly out into the sunlight to be locked into a chain link confinement under the glare of scorching rays. I want to shave, this beard has been growing for months, it itches, it feels like something is living beneath the follicles. I do pushups on my knuckles until they begin to bleed, then streak the blood painfully across the cement with a cringe and continue to do more. The pain feels good, anything to distract me from the situation I’m in. The orange jumpsuit that adorns my feeble frame is tattered, and the undershirt that grips me tightly has turned a disturbing shade of piss. I begin to scream, but no one hears. I rush the fence and curl my fingers through until the webbing of my hand begins to transform into steel. I shake feverishly until the blurs of uniforms start to appear. Olive skin and large bears unhinge the gate and storm me, descending upon me with asps and riot shields, but I can’t move. I begin to weep, and the blood curdling cries are lost to the vastness of the sheet metal. The brutal thumps of metal upon flesh and the curses of a foreign tongue engulf everything, and I struggle like an animal to defend myself, but I still can’t move. My face turns black and blue with every blow and my eyes swell shut, I begin to cough blood while my body involuntarily curls into a fetal position. The petrification consumes me, but the pain, it’s refreshing, like what is on the inside is finally manifest physically. I let out a final cry of “Fuck you”, but it emerges like a soft whimper, I can barely speak, my lip quivers as the cement begins to stain. All goes black.

           

As the lights come up, a scene appears. The Bear Jew urges me to make my approach. He suggested I say something witty and offensive; maybe I nailed it, maybe not. Is the name itself offensive? Perhaps, but if you’ve seen Inglorious Bastards you surely understand, and he sure doesn’t seem to mind, he’s a big guy. He’s a big bald guy actually, heart of gold too . . . or maybe it’s an insidious black, I can’t tell these days. The two are so incredibly intertwined and convoluted. What the fuck does it mean to be a decent person anymore? Who maintains the scoreboard?

           

“Please tell me you’re about to consume something with whiskey in it.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and I honestly would be thoroughly offended if that pretty face of yours drank anything less than whiskey.”

“Umm. . . ok.”

“Seriously, I had some respect, just because you have a pretty smile, but I’m in a state where I’ll judge more harshly based on what you drink, so. . .”

How does one respond to such a statement? Keep it simple Dave. “Hi I’m David, what’s your name?” My mind rushes as the scene dissipates. I’m tired of the game, I don’t want to play. I want to say exactly how I feel and if you’re not on board then fuck off. The truth is the honesty that escapes my lips is usually uncharacteristically flattering in most cases, and I feel a bit sorry for those who don’t have the presence of mind to hear me out. Indulge me, you would legitimately be surprised what wonders my sincerity and incredibly observant nature unleashes upon the world. . . Cut.

I lie pronated upon the floor, foam roller beneath my head. I’m shocked by the presence of a football in my hand, I send it spiraling toward the ceiling in a repetitive fashion, snapping my wrist at just the right moment and assuring that my fingers fall into the last two laces like they’re supposed to. A good gym session and a phenomenal shower (is there any other kind? I love water, so pure, so chaotic) find me lying on the floor watching Californication Season 4 on Sidereel with a glass of Jameson in my right hand and a head full of questions. It’s a dark place up there occasionally. I lose sleep not knowing what comes next, what the purpose of my life may be, where the next decision will take me, and whether or not I’m actually capable of connecting with another human being. Most of the guilt I feel for my actions in the military has me wondering if I’m human, if I’m worthy of a life of comfort and satisfaction, if I’m stuck being isolated because few understand what it is like to be a part of something you wholeheartedly disagree with . . . and yet don’t. There’s a rage there, a beast within that still finds people hatefull and deserving of violence . . . I’m torn in two.

I exhale, and like a Star Wars hyperdrive incident I’m shot forward to a balcony scene. A handle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a Sig .40 cal in the other. The cell phone will barely stay on my shoulder I’m squirming so much and the tears streaming down my cheeks are making it slippery, but it doesn’t matter because John’s words aren’t helping. Both efficiently make the pain go away, but which one works faster? I’m intelligent enough to know the answer to the question, but not compassionate enough to care. A hurricane of emotion whips through and carries away my rationality. I place the barrel to the soft spot behind the jaw, right between the mandible bone and trachea . . . Is life just one fantastic catastrophe after the next? What the hell?

I hear a click and awake with a start. My phone torments me with a math problem as “Pusherman” plays in an eerily comforting fashion. I unravel my covers and toss the sweat-soaked pillow across the room. It takes only seconds to remember where I am, but damn that all seemed so real, like a lifetime that transpired in merely a few hours. Shake it off Dave, time to hit the gym.