I’m not a woman who watches football for fun. I mostly just watch when I’m high, and then start thinking of other things—of gods and men and war, how games are modern-day battles, with athleticism, grit, fervor and pain all on glorious display, like Grecian epics (or tragedies, like in the case of last night’s Buccaneer’s kicker, who couldn’t make the field goals that would have altered the entire trajectory of the game).

In my slightly stoned state, I began comparing the rampant concussions in the NFL to ancient fighting pits, warrior against warrior battling before throngs of blood-thirsty fans, hungry for victory but hungrier still for their enemy’s defeat.

It’s such a guy thing, I thought. War. Sports. I can only seem to get into the game when I imagine it to be something else, when I ascribe some meaning that may or may not exist.

But then again, how could there not be meaning to such a large and lucrative pastime? It means something when its players take a stand against injustice and use their time in the spotlight to illuminate issues that are bigger than themselves.

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