The increasingly guilty pleasures of the football fan

On Monday my post is generally related to a sports topic prominently in the news, is focused on the business of sports or covers a sports subject at random. This week I am devoting posts to the upcoming American football season, college and pro, with a focus on new books and writings on the subject.

* * * * * * * *

This time two years ago, I drafted a post that went unpublished about why I’m never ready for football season. In the wake of the Penn State tragedy, enormous hand-wringing about concussions, suicides, bounty-hunting and the brutal nature of the game that belies the entertainment product we eagerly consume, there was this:

The NFL season began on a Wednesday.

In college football, which kicks off this Thursday with three games and another on Friday, every fall Saturday feels like New Year’s Day. For diehards, this is absolute heaven. For SEC diehards, with the arrival of an ESPN-run network devoted entirely to their conference, this is beyond heaven.

For the moment, I simply want to enjoy the summer a little longer, even with the pests and the heat and the dimming prospects of a Braves post-season run.

Against FootballWhen I covered college football, I occasionally thought this way too, but quickly got jolted into action by the reality of games, practices, press conferences, deadlines and travel. As a fan these days, watching from afar, through the relentless filter of the tube, I fear that my admiration for the sport is getting overwhelmed by the spectacle it has become.

Not just the televised spectacle, where pro and college games regularly run past three hours, 30 minutes, featuring a deluge of commercials and mystifying remarks from commentators speaking very loudly and inventing their own blithering language as they go along.

And not just the 24/7 media spectacle, a gluttony of “breaking news” that’s merely a confirmation of another outlet’s reporting, non-stop “power rankings” and quick-hitting “takes” filed moments after the final gun explaining “what we have learned” from the game that just ended.

Who’s “we,” exactly? And why is it assumed I always want to learn something? Maybe I just want to watch a game, not prep for a pop quiz.

But while I may be moderately chastened, short story writer and essayist Steve Almond feels so aggrieved by the sport he admits to loving that he’s written a blistering broadside just in time for a new season.

“Against Football: One Fan’s Reluctant Manifesto,” is being published Tuesday (book website here). In it, Almond regurgitates the familiar litany of those who feel the need to turn against the game, and proclaim this loudly, as if that will prove persuasive. He provocatively dared anyone to watch the most recent Super Bowl, openly questioning one’s morality for doing so, including his own.

If Almond seems like a killjoy, then consider his evisceration of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert for the Baffler, which specializes in harsh denunciations of things that many people like.


  • A century of ‘reforming’ football
  • The eternal lure and brutal eloquence of football
  • As the existential probing of the NFL continues
  • Two years ago, as I pondered my football indifference, Patrick Hruby heatedly stated his boycott terms on Sports on Earth. He is among a growing chorus of media commentators finding it difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile the sheer beauty and excitement of football — I’ve been watching the end of last year’s Iron Bowl all summer — with the crippling injuries and violence.

    Almond lashes out against all that too, and in a recent book excerpt in The Boston Globe, lays on the guilt quite heavily, going far beyond concerns about brain trauma:

    “Over the past year, I’ve studied the history of football and thought a lot about what the game means. I’ve come to believe that football fosters within us a tolerance for violence, greed, misogyny, and militarism. I believe it does economic damage to our communities and to the national soul. These are some of the reasons why I’ve stopped watching.” Out of Their League

    There is absolutely nothing new about any of this. For more than 40 years, this definition of American football has been under attack by many social critics and even former football players like Jack Scott and Dave Meggysey.

    In “Out of Their League,” his memoir of life as an NFL linebacker, Meggysey bemoaned what he called the “dehumanizing” experience of playing football. His was a sensibility rooted in the social justice movements of the 1960s and which came into limited prominence in the sports world in the following decade. It still endures with those on the hard political left.

    Their critique of American football embodies what they believe to be a toxic masculinity. This is at the heart of Almond’s hackneyed argument, and it is a topic I will take up later in the week. Unlike Meggysey’s time in the spotlight, we now live in a climate of queasiness about player safety, the place of women in sports and jocks whose names are in the news for all the wrong reasons.

    These worries are understandable, but as I will explore in the next few days, it’s not as simple as the claims Almond and others are making.

    In a review in the Tampa Bay Times, John Capouya believes Almond is agonizing over things that don’t appear to have convinced many in Football Nation:

    “Almond spends too much time making a case most football fans have already declined to prosecute or decided to ignore, which makes even this short book feel padded. And suppose a thinking captive comes to see the game for the corrupt, detrimental thing it is, what is he or she to do about it?”

    As the summer begins to fade away

    One of the best vacations I ever took was quite a few years ago, in Colorado, where I had done things I rarely ever did and in some cases haven’t done since.

    A friend had a time share in Breckenridge, and for a glorious week I filled my days with kayaking and canoeing, some hiking and taking the ski lift to enjoy the magnificent view.

    There were summer youth symphony concerts, fine little shops and restaurants lined up in the heart of town and a restful vista from the back deck of the house where I stayed, complete with barbecue grill and hot tub.

    I drove around the area and appreciated the rustic, hardscrabble roots of the West. When I got to nearby Aspen, any trace of what life might have been like before modern conveniences had been airbrushed away.

    I’m not an outdoors person at all. Although I live close to a river with fantastic water and recreational activities, I haven’t been in a boat since. I don’t hike, and I haven’t driven up any hill not part of my normal commute, although I live near a mountain famous for a Civil War battle that offers spectacular sights.

    Boutique-hopping is nice, if you’re into that kind of thing, but I’m not. In Breckenridge and Aspen, I found myself following familiar routines — bookstore-slumming and people-watching from an outdoor café. I may have been in the bucolic Rockies, but my brain was back in the great cities of Europe.

    Not long ago, I took one of those online polls that revealed to you, based on your answers, what nation best suited your personality and interests. Not surprisingly, my country was France, although trips to Berlin and London were just as satisfying as the one I took to Paris, the year after my Colorado sojourn.

    The combination of books, cafés, art museums and savory dishes that I indicated on this survey of not being able to live without gave me some sort of cyber-honorary citizenship of La République, I guess. C’ést la vie.

    This is how I roll, although the sedentary habits that I haven’t been able to shake don’t help in middle age.

    Sope Creek Bridge

    The peaceful waters of Sope Creek, close to where Sherman's army crossed the Chattahoochee River into Atlanta. (Wendy Parker)

    I could chalk this up to laziness, I suppose, and my meandering prose isn’t getting to what I wanted to express. I remember the Colorado trip fondly now because of the timing of it — right at the back edge of summer, in mid-to-late August, as it is now.

    This was right before I prepared to cover the Olympics in Sydney, so I wanted this vacation to be relaxed and fancy-free. I skipped the noise and hurly-burly of foreign urbanity and was glad I did.

    Although it’s getting humid again here in the South, just as children head back to classes — no after Labor Day school start here — this last gasp of summer brought back some fond memories.

    The vast array of sports books that I scour in order to write this blog is not nearly as much about spectator games as I imagined. What I have been intrigued to discover, after poring through so many booklists, is the sheer amount of books about recreation and the outdoors.

    And of that, so much of what is celebrated is alpha-participatory.

    For those not inclined to scale the Himalayas or sail around the world on a raft, this can be dispiriting. Adventure tales that have vaulted the work of Jon Krakauer and Sebastian Junger to best-selling fame are simply exhausting. Yet the human quests that they reveal are irresistible.

    What passes for my communing with nature these days is a nice sliver of a local public park, albeit within earshot of passerby traffic, and a rock-strewn creek that flows into the Chattahoochee River, where Union troops and horses once splashed about on their way to burning down Atlanta and more.

    It’s not easy finding a few quiet, blissful moments amid the suburban sprawl. But they await anyone who wants to take the time, and can carve out the psychic space, to enjoy a mini-vacation in their mind.

    A NASCAR tragedy and Southern culture

    My stepfather had just passed through Valdosta on his way back to Atlanta when the news came over his car radio that Dale Earnhardt had died.

    An avid NASCAR fan, my stepfather had seen the 2001 Daytona 500 in person on that fateful day, watching the legendary driver’s car collide along the back straightaway with Ken Schrader’s car in the final lap, with both vehicles sliding onto the infield in a smoking heap.

    Schrader got out of his car under his own power, but Earnhardt did not. Even today, it’s still hard to fathom the impact the tragedy has had on NASCAR, and its legions of fans.

    By the time he got back home late that evening, my stepfather was utterly shocked, unlike any reaction I’ve ever seen from him. As he left the track, all he knew about Earnhardt’s status is what everyone else knew, only that he had been taken away via ambulance.

    Magnolias Sweat Tea and ExhaustEarnhardt had replaced Richard Petty as my stepfather’s favorite driver, which is saying something. From the time I first met the man who married my mother when I was a teenager, he exuded a deep knowledge and passion for stock car racing that was new to me.

    If he couldn’t watch a race live on TV, he taped it. Daytona Beach was where he went on vacation, and in retirement, he and my mother moved there. Their home, in fact, is just a few miles from the track.

    Many years ago, at a place called Ponce Inlet, drivers sped up and down a wide, flat beach in their souped-up cars. There’s a restaurant there now, called The North Turn, named after a hairpin curve, where you can look out over the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and imagine the noise and sand-spitting joy of what once took place there.

    This is how Daytona became an epicenter for a stock car racing culture, which has its deepest roots in the North Carolina whiskey- and moonshine-running world made famous by Junior Johnson (and even more famous by Tom Wolfe in his classic 1965 profile for Esquire).

    Petty and Earnhardt hailed from Carolina too, the latter etching his reputation as “The Intimidator” with his aggressive style and all-black gear, including the famous No. 3 car with white lettering. What began for both of them as a means to have a little bit of excitement in an otherwise uneventful, small-town and rural upbringing turned into fame, fortune and the enduring idolatry from white Southern males just like them.

    My Southern stepfather reveled in Earnhardt’s SOB bravura; in fact he revered it as deeply as he does college football and his beloved Georgia Bulldogs. That’s how a lot of men his age — he just turned 80 — roll in these parts, steeped in the lore of sports that the pro leagues still haven’t been able to surpass.

    On the other hand, my equally Southern father (War Damn Eagle!) doesn’t care a lick about racing — “how hard is it to turn left all the time?” — and neither did anyone else I knew. One weekend our family took in the festivities at a nearby dirt track, but to this day, racing does absolutely nothing for me.

    But NASCAR has been the subject of eternal curiosity by writers, starting with Wolfe, and more recently, Atlanta newspaper journalist Carole Townsend. “Magnolias, Sweet Tea and Exhaust,” published in July, is told by someone unfamiliar with NASCAR, but who grew to appreciate what this world was all about. (More women should write books about the male-dominated sports world like this — that is, with an open mind, instead of a rigid feminist baseline.)

    Likewise, Jeff MacGregor’s 2005 book, “Sunday Money,” came from his desire to learn more about how NASCAR went from the good ol’ boys of Daytona and Wilkesboro into a formidable sports business entity that’s ventured far from its Southern base. Sunday Money

    It’s regrettable, then, that their work wasn’t considered in reaction to last weekend’s tragedy involving Tony Stewart and Kevin Ward Jr.

    Southern culture and masculinity are a toxic blend for media commentators not versed in the traditions of the stock car world. Oh, and its “history of confrontation” too, as if this is the only sport with this problem (hello, hockey?).

    Indeed, it’s become so easy to blame the “culture,” although Stewart (Indiana) and Ward (upstate New York) reflect NASCAR’s reach beyond the South.

    ESPN radio blowhard Colin Cowherd blamed the “eye-for-eye” nature of what presumably passes for life in Dixie for what transpired at a dirt track at Canandaigua, New York.

    Likewise, New York Post grouchaholic Phil Mushnick chimed in, because it’s impossible to bitch about the Yankees and Mets every day:

    “Testosterone and gasoline do mix, always have, often to no good end other than dead endings.”

    The whole thing is splendidly hacktastic. Thankfully, there’s been some needed pushback, although I doubt it will enlighten those badly in need of better information.

    If nothing else, the likes of Cowherd, Mushnick, etc., ought to “set down” next to folks like my stepfather and try to understand what the fuss has been about, for so many years.

    Sports History Files: The baseball strike, 20 years later

    How I enjoy and perceive the game of baseball changed forever 20 years ago this week, when well-heeled major leaguers went on strike.

    A month later, as pennant races should have been coming to a climax, MLB cancelled not only the regular season, but the playoffs.

    There would be no World Series for the first time in 90 years.

    Many, many other things were lost, as Tim Keown wrote on on Tuesday, including Tony Gwynn’s bid for a .400 season, Matt Williams’ attempt to eclipse Roger Maris and the Montreal Expos gunning for a rare slice of team supremacy.

    Lords of the RealmWhatever sense of innocence the most idealistic baseball fan may have had was crushed. Coming off the heels of the World Cup in the United States, I was ready to move on.

    Screw this, I thought, embittered that this latest labor issue came as the Atlanta Braves were ascendant, and might have been in that World Series, as they had been two of three previous seasons.

    Tom Glavine, the Braves’ player rep, didn’t seem all that broken up by what had happened. Calm and cool and collected as he was on the mound, this was his persona. I understood that.

    But screw it, I thought, there are other things. As I recall those events from the late summer of 1994, I realize my emotional breakup with baseball has been largely a good thing.

    Above all, it prompted me to confront the unappetizing background of baseball and labor. Ironically enough, John Helyar’s “Lords of the Realm: the Real History of Baseball,” was published as the 1994 season opened, and for anyone reading it new, as that contentious season progressed, his lavishly detailed history must have seemed prophetic.

    From the very first sentence, “Before it was ever a business, it was a game,” Helyar is unsparing in how ruthlessly baseball owners treated players. The reserve clause was put in place before the turn of the 20th century, and it lasted for nearly another one.

    The rise of Marvin Miller is recounted in fascinating fashion, and Helyar explains how the entry of entrepreneurial-minded owners like Ted Turner created havoc among the “Lords” themselves as they grappled with free agency, complex television deals and the vagaries of a changing business model most of them would rather not have had to deal with. As he recounts Turner’s famous comment:

    “Gentlemen, we have the only legal monopoly in the country and we’re fucking it up.”

    They continued to fuck it up, as salaries and television revenues escalated, along with labor tensions. The walkout on Aug. 12, 1994, was the eighth work stoppage in 22 years, and the fourth to take place during a season. It would be the last, but for some fans like me, the game would never be the same. Helyar’s last words were even more prophetic than the first:

    “The Lords and the agents, the lawyers and the czars, had done their best to kill baseball. There was something about the national pastime that made people behave badly. They were, perhaps, blinded by the light of what it represented — a glowing distillate of America. Men fought to control it as though they could own it. They wallowed in dubious battle, locked in ugly trench warfare for dominion over the green fields. The money poured into the game and men gorged and gouged over it — made damned fools of themselves over it.

    “And the fans, ever forgiving, were still there.”

    After some time, they returned. It took me longer, but I found myself among them too, albeit quite a bit more jaded, as I remain today. Even the Braves winning it all in 1995 didn’t excite me all that much.

    About 10 years ago I read Helyar’s paperback version, which included an afterword from November 1994, as the World Series cancellation was setting in.

    In the decade since, I’ve seen my hometown team struggle to maintain pace with the big spenders of the big leagues. The Braves locked up some fine young talent before this season, but many of those who pitch are sidelined with Tommy John injuries, some for the second time. Others being paid well to hit aren’t, and some have been booted out of town, still on the payroll.

    The franchise is absconding a perfectly fine stadium in downtown Atlanta, a gift of the 1996 Olympics. The Braves are headed my way, building a new ball park in part with my tax money following a two-week public information process that was an absolute sham.

    My local public library, a true community gem, was built in 1966, the same year as the original Atlanta Stadium. My local elected officials can’t seem to find the money to build a new library, although it has been obsolete for decades. But they did get some “freebies” recently from the Braves for their cooperation.

    Major League Baseball is a business, and an unforgiving one, and I know the Braves face some serious business issues. After nearly a half-century in downtown Atlanta, long-promised redevelopment has never materialized, with plenty of political interference a nagging concern. I don’t blame them for looking elsewhere.

    The 1994 strike may seem long ago, and “peace and prosperity” has reigned since then, but this is what I think about now as I ponder the fate of a team I’ve grown up with, and have followed most of my life.

    As the Lords meet this week to select Bud Selig’s successor, that haunting piece of history just won’t go away.

    Midweek Books: Can a mad man rescue Man U?

    On Wednesday I highlight noteworthy new sports books, with links to reviews, interviews and other information about the subject and/or author.

    * * * * * * * *

    A disastrous season at Manchester United saw David Moyes, Sir Alex Ferguson’s hand-picked successor, sacked last April after only 10 months on the job.

    Even Ray Perkins had more time stepping in Bear Bryant’s shoes at Alabama. Ditto for Gene Bartow following John Wooden at UCLA. Coming in after a legend has never been easy, but at Old Trafford, what transpired in 2013-14 was as shocking as it was unusual.

    Indeed, Moyes’ ouster was the stuff of the chaotic Brazilian domestic scene, with its constant, merry-go-round managerial spinning, not one of the world’s richest sports clubs boasting 13 titles in the lucrative English Premier League.

    Van Gaal MeijerBut a seventh-place finish and the failure to qualify for any European competition for the first time in 24 years was more than humiliating at Old Trafford.

    This was a thoroughly unacceptable state of affairs, and required the arrival of a strong, domineering personality to marshal what’s still considered a talent base capable of getting back on top.

    Enter Louis van Gaal, whose appointment was announced before he took the Dutch to the World Cup. His quintessential moment of the summer was subbing out his starting goalkeeper, Jasper Cillessen, right before a penalty shootout in the quarterfinals. Back-up keeper Tim Krul, in his only action of the tournament, saved two Costa Rican spot kicks as The Netherlands reached the semifinals.

    Van Gaal’s dull tactics backfired against Leo Messi in Argentina, but that’s Louis, as Dutch author Maarten Meijer explains in “Louis Van Gaal: The Biography,” which has been published in Europe and goes to press in the United States in November (the link is to the available e-book form).

    What Man United fans can come to expect may be just as unpredictable as what van Gaal, 62, has demonstrated in his accomplished, if sometimes bizarre coaching career. On Saturday, his first game in charge of the Red Devils is the Premier League season opener against Swansea City.

    He’s already named the volatile, but vital, Wayne Rooney as his captain, and has played brutal head games in pre-season camp with players who don’t perform. Van Gaal has coldly suggested to several others to get lost.

    But van Gaal also is the architect of successful revivals at already-venerable European clubs, most notably Ajax, Barcelona and Bayern Munich.

    Meijer reveals that van Gaal’s nickname is “The Iron Tulip,” and he does seem exceptionally stubborn even by Dutch standards. From an excerpt published in The Daily Mail in July:

    “His first taste of the job he dreamed of as manager of his own country ended in failure with a Dutch squad that imploded and failed even to qualify for the World Cup in 2002.

    “Even then, in his own mind, that failure was the fault of the players and not him. ‘Some of the players refused to accept my methods,’ he said. ‘I am who I am and I have my own ways. I’m not going to change and I have no desire to.’

    “In 2009, when he started work at Bayern Munich and results took time to come, it was reported that he had been heard going round the dressing room insisting: ‘I am like God. I never get ill and I am always right.’ A few months later, Van Gaal put the record straight. ‘I am not God,’ he said. ‘If I were God I would win everything all the time.’

    “At Old Trafford they will have to get used to that.”

    Brian Phillips recently penned a rollicking piece for Grantland on van Gaal, noting how he’s stepping into a very different challenge than what he’s taken on before:

    “The move to Manchester represents easily the biggest cultural dimension shift of van Gaal’s career, the first time he’s been at a club that wasn’t either Dutch, accustomed to near-continual managerial turnover, or both. Apart from a tendency to turn purple and bellow at 22-year-olds, there’s just nothing in his background that fits with the Alex Ferguson model of long-term dictatorial stability. Ferguson was a company man with a temper; van Gaal has a temper that lays waste to companies. Ferguson cared only about winning and knew how to subordinate all his rougher impulses to that priority. Van Gaal wants to win, but he also needs the credit. He’s being welcomed by United fans as a savior figure, which makes sense in the postapocalyptic crater left behind by David Moyes. But if things go wrong — well, there’s simply no precedent at Manchester United for the Louis van Gaal brand of wrongness. It’s so much wronger than what anyone knows to expect.”

    A sour turn for a ‘quality’ sportswriting venture

    On Tuesday I write about developments in sports media, and occasionally step back in time to a different era in sports journalism.

    * * * * * * * *

    Just as Sports Illustrated was rolling out its 60th anniversary fare last week, the doors abruptly closed on a young sportswriting venture that never got settled in the unforgiving digital media terrain.

    Sports on Earth, launched in the summer of 2012, is a joint venture of MLB Advanced Media and Gannett. The latter pulled out of its partnership amid other major changes to the company announced last week. Nearly all of the Sports on Earth staff and freelancers were let go.

    si 60thSports on Earth had some major league talent, a combination of established former print writers and younger online contributors. Chuck Culpepper (an acquaintance of mine), Michael Weinreb, Howard Megdal, Mike Tanier, Patrick Hruby, Matt Brown, Wendy Thurm and Aaron Gordon were some of the writers I enjoyed reading, and there are others.

    Other names gracing the site have included the legendary Dave Kindred and Leigh Montville, as well as Shaun Powell, Tommy Tomlinson, Joe Posnanski, Gwen Knapp and Selena Roberts.

    (Where I thought Sports on Earth fell short was in its coverage of women and sports, turning the reins over to writers who are more “pop feminist” ideologues than journalists.)

    One of the few holdovers is Will Leitch, and it appears as though the reconstituted site may largely serve a baseball audience.

    I’ve been bullish about ventures like this, amid a recent wave of “quality” sports web offerings, and the demise of Sports on Earth can be seen in part as the unfortunate result of a bottom-line business decision.

    Some think SoE wasn’t sexist enough, and didn’t adapt to the mostly lowbrow persona of successful sports blogs on the Web.

    Post-mortems here from Megdal and David Roth, another former contributor, and also a co-founder of The Classical, explain the complexities of the venture.

    Matt Yoder of the Awful Announcing site also was a bit pessimistic, arguing that while the “whole online sports media industry isn’t quite going to hell in a sexy handbasket just yet,” the challenges are considerable. Grantland and SB Nation are backed by major corporate media entities, the former as an ESPN affinity site, the latter as a vertical.

    It was Sports Illustrated that made its name on quality sportswriting, as much as the lush photography that has graced its pages. But that evolution took place over quite a few money-losing years.

    The magazine did a nifty thing to commemorate the first issue, published on Aug. 16, 1954, and featuring Eddie Mathews of the Milwaukee Braves at the bat. Fans were asked to send in photos of themselves playing a sport, or wearing something symbolizing their favorite team.

    The compilation of 1,596 photos made up the above “photomosaic” recreation of that first cover, and the marvelous SI alum Steve Rushin wrote the centerpiece story, featuring the ever-young, and apparently never-retiring, Vin Scully.

    But SI has its challenges. Time Inc. is spinning off its print titles, including People magazine, and SI has lost some top-notch talent, most recently college football writer Stewart Mandel to Fox Sports. The legendary Gary Smith also has retired.

    SI has been a bit late coming to the longform platform, but has gotten good response from the year-old MMQB standalone site featuring NFL writer Peter King.

    As a longtime SI reader and fan, I’m pulling for it to hold its own, and thrive, in what’s becoming a ruthless sports media landscape.

    The fate of the non-revenue NCAA athlete

    On Monday my post is generally related to a timely sports topic prominently in the news, is focused on the business of sports or covers a sports subject at random.

    * * * * * * * *

    I don’t know much about law, economics, business, marketing, public relations, television rights and industrial organization.

    I certainly don’t know many details of coaching and motivating athletes to compete at their peak, and the nutrition, weight training, sports psychology and other elements that go into maximizing athletic performance.

    ed-obannon-uclaFor the last couple of decades, what I’ve been able to figure out is asking enough questions to put a few words together about the notable achievements of young, talented athletes, mostly at the college and Olympic levels.

    I’ve gotten to know some of them, and their coaches, and the people who make their exploits possible. In the world of intercollegiate sports, I do believe that most of the adults I’ve met do work to serve the best interests of these young people. They still see themselves as educators, in spite of generous salaries in some cases, and want to see their younger charges learn lessons they can carry with them into adult life.

    This sounds quaint and sentimental, I know, but my first thoughts about last week’s massive developments in the college sports world — the O’Bannon ruling and the NCAA granting more rules-making latitude to the “Power 5″ conferences — were about the young athletes I’ve covered, both male and female, now grown, and living successful lives.

    Many of them played at big schools, in “non-revenue” sports funded by the largesse of football and men’s basketball that are at the crux of the O’Bannon case, and serve as the focal points of the NCAA’s autonomy decision and a push for union representation for football players at Northwestern University.

    Are we at the dawn of the age of college athlete power? I hope so. Some are more skeptical, but they always were.

    How all of these issues will play out is still uncertain. But the public appetite for more and more games appears to be insatiable. When the ESPN-backed SEC Network launches on Thursday, it will be available in at least 90 million homes. Even as a Southerner who’s long covered the SEC, I find this staggering.

    Some athletes in revenue-producing sports may be able to receive additional stipends and other compensation beyond the terms of their scholarships as a result of the O’Bannon ruling, and that’s been long overdue. The idea of unionization, still pending at Northwestern, also is intriguing. So are the implications of Title IX, even with all women’s sports clearly being in the non-revenue category. Major conference women’s basketball may get piggy-backed onto this, but it’s still too soon to tell.1375138516000-c01-EA-sports-18-1307291857_4_3

    But what about the male tennis player, or female lacrosse player, or non-scholarship athlete of either gender you don’t see on Saturday afternoons on television? Those young people who want to compete in their sport for just a little while longer, before they take on the obligations of adult life? Those young people who feel blessed and privileged to be able to play, even if their likeness never appears in a video game or their name gets mentioned on nothing more than their school’s athletic department website?

    I hate to sound like an NCAA zombie here, because I’m decidedly not. But what will become some of these athletes, those who aren’t going to be talked about as the O’Bannon case is being appealed?

    There’s been much media consternation — understandably so — about football and male basketball players, many of them African-American and from impoverished backgrounds, who make their coaches and athletic departments millions while being relegated to “amateur” status. Their sports will continue to become professionalized, and there’s no going back.

    I don’t have any answers and don’t know what to make of all that has happened in the last week. But I keep thinking about the young people I’ve seen go from high school to college to the pros (yes, usually in something other than sports) and hope that avenue isn’t going to be scaled back for them.

    One of those athletes, Danielle Donehew, is the new executive director of the Women’s Basketball Coaches Association. I wrote about her high school team winning Georgia state championships, then her playing career at Georgia Tech. I remember seeing her at the Women’s Final Four with her mother as a high schooler, determined to have a career in sports, and it’s cool to see how much she’s achieved already.

    Donehew also is a former associate commissioner of the Big East and American Athletic Conference and steps into her new role as her sport, and the realm of college athletics, is undergoing a major transformation.

    What I do know is that college athletes, present and former, must become an active part of what comes next. Amid last week’s news was a New York City forum held by the Big 12, mostly featuring athletic directors and journalists.

    Of the 12-member lineup, however, only former Texas running back Selvin Young was what the NCAA likes to call a “student-athlete,” and he had to battle for speaking time with the likes of Ken Starr, Steve Patterson, Oliver Luck and Donna Lopiano.

    Too many well-paid adults with a vested interest in the status quo thinking they know what’s best for unpaid athletes. This has got to stop.

    Ed O’Bannon took a bold step when he challenged the NCAA, and I’m glad he’s remaining vocal. But that needs to be the beginning of a process that transforms college sports into a truly student-centered model, revenue-producing or not.

    From the archives: The gap between sports and art

    While I’m taking a summer break from the blog, I’m reposting and updating selected links from the archive.

    * * * * * * * *

    Sports art exhibits are not uncommon, but they’re not talked or written about all that much either. Despite some yeoman work trying to bridge this gap, sports historians and scholars like Allen Guttmann don’t have many like them following up on the contemporary scene.

    His latest book, “Sports and American Art” was the subject of my October 2012 post, “Where sports, art and American history intersect.”

    It’s a lush, rich book devoted mainly to painting — Guttmann ruled out photography for the sheer volume he’d have to go through otherwise. This focus was critical, as I noted, for this reason:

    “Like the American artists of the 19th century who insisted on carving out a unique American identity for their work — Homer Winslow and Thomas Eakins in particular — so did the historians, ‘inventors’ and mythmakers of American sports during the same period of time.”

    What about those sports artists of more recent times, those working in the age of photography and television? Guttmann’s book ends with work in the 1960s, and precludes a sports artist who’s getting more recent attention after his death.

    Pads to PaletteErnie Barnes, who played in the American Football League in the early 1960s, died in 2009. This summer, the Pro Football Hall of Fame has been showing a special exhibit of his work, “From Pads to Palette,” that continues through Oct. 19.

    His art career was distinguished — he was the official artist for the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics — but his work wasn’t limited to sports. Barnes was considered a mannerist painter, and applied the style to depict contemporary African-American life.

    My friend Clarence Gaines, Jr. penned a nice blog post in 2010, not long after Barnes’ death, that sums up what he learned about a man whom he hadn’t known before but who blended the best of both of his worlds to craft a bold voice and sensibility:

    “This view of life comes from a very powerful place, Barnes’ life experiences. Do you see the humanity in your fellow man/woman? We’re all unique and have something special to offer, if given the chance and the opportunity. Barnes’ words and paintings cause me to reflect on my own attitudes to the people that I interact with. See the beauty and potentiality in each human being!”

    What other sports-and-art treasures are out there flying under the radar? What can they reveal to us as powerfully as Barnes did? This gap between existence and discoveries doesn’t have to be as large as it is.

    From the archives: The lure of Southern football

    While I’m taking a summer break from the blog, I’m reposting and updating selected links from the archive.

    * * * * * * * *

    When Florida State defeated Auburn in the last BCS title game in January, it ended a seven-year run for the SEC in winning national championship games.

    But the trophy still remains in the South, whose hallowed college football ground is becoming very expensive.

    Paul Finebaum BookAs I wrote in “A few riffs on the culture of Southern football” in November 2012, the appetite for college football, and the SEC in particular, appears to be insatiable, as evidenced by growing TV contracts:

    “While those beasts grow ever larger, and must constantly be fed to a possibly unsustainable degree, this is about more than commercialism and the desire to win. The Southern complex of wanting to be better than those damn Yankees at something doesn’t fully explain it, either, although it does contain the seeds of this cultural fervor.”

    A week from today, on Aug. 14, ESPN will launch the SEC Network, which figures to make your cable bill go up whether you live in Birmingham, Detroit, Seattle or Boston. The deal is a 20-year marriage that will significantly alter the financial equation for an already lucrative conference — although we don’t know how much right now.

    (Clay Travis has worked up some numbers that even he finds astonishing, FWIW, but I think this may be an overestimate. Others worry about ethical issues for ESPN, which is airing the entire College Football Playoff.)

    The rich are not only growing richer, they’re also pricing themselves into a different planetary system. One of the few non-SEC entities that can hang financially is Texas, which if SEC radio host Paul Finebaum is to be believed, offered some astonishing cash to lure Nick Saban away from Alabama.

    In his book “My Conference Can Beat Your Conference: Why the SEC Still Rules College Football,” which was released this week, Finebaum set the figure at $100 million.

    Saban didn’t take the money — he signed a $6.9 million annual extension in December — and Texas hired Charlie Strong away from Louisville.

    But it’s suspense like this that makes the SEC prime gridiron soap opera fare.

    And now that ESPN is corralling so much more of the SEC enterprise — it hired Finebaum and assigned its own Gene Wojciechowski to help him write the book — the Worldwide Leader has a programming interest that’s second only to the NFL. The SEC is much richer, but less autonomous.

    My post two years ago was more about the culture of college football in the South, and how that culture endures regardless of the money being thrown around. How the SEC handles that cultural legacy from here might be as carefully noted as the on-the-field and financial success that’s sure to continue to come its way.

    From the archives: A half-century of SI swimsuits

    While I’m taking a summer break from the blog, I’m reposting and updating selected links from the archive.

    * * * * * * * * *

    The usual furor over the Sports Illustrated annual swimsuit issue didn’t materialize much this winter. That was surprising, given the 50th anniversary of the highly popular edition, and the  cover shot featuring topless (with backs turned toward the cameras) models Chrissy Teigen, Lily Aldridge, and Nina Agdal.

    And the website leaves little to the imagination as well.

    SI Swimsuits at 50Where was the feminist outrage? Or, as I wrote in February of last year, the harrumphing of middle-aged male sportswriters who wonder why this continues well after the passage of Title IX? C’mon fellas, lighten up:

    “To suggest that women’s continued progress in sports must necessitate the eradication of supposedly sexist portrayals of women in general is as unlikely as it is absurd.

    “There’s a troubling notion at work here that women’s political, educational and legal gains, including Title IX and sports, are being undermined by photos of supermodels in fishnet bikini tops.

    “Those who follow this line of thought are serving up a set of false choices.”

    And they disrespect the choices of women who choose to pose. Some are even athletes. One of them, Alex Morgan of the U.S. women’s soccer team, was even scolded by a male sportswriter for doing the same a few years ago.

    Now, there’s hardly a whimper — this Chicago dad is an exception — and Morgan was joined by former Notre Dame and current WNBA hoopster Skylar Diggins.

    Who’s being paternal now?

    The younger generation of female athlete isn’t as hung up on gender and sexuality as those who can’t get beyond the word “objectification.”

    The critics have a new target, it seems: Barbie in a swimsuit for SI. And she’s “unapologetic” about it.

    How’s that for aggressive marketing?

    Given the dollhouse that contemporary American feminism has constructed around itself, it’s a fitting venue for another futile fight.