Something felt terribly wrong. At first I was just a little woozy. Five minutes later I threw up Taco Del Mar all over the locker room floor, and then had the unfortunate aim of collapsing in it. It was clear that this was unlike any concussion I had received in my past.
It was the waning moments of a damp September fourth quarter, and football, as it often does, had brought out the ugly side of one of its fans. In this case, the red-faced rooter was a 30-something dad.
The ethical issue is not viewers' pleasure at the injuries, but our enjoyment in and support of professional football, knowing full well the damage done in the normal course of a game to players' bodies and minds.
When it comes to "America's greatest game," spectators willingly forget bad news. It's a forgetfulness of convenience, one that has allowed the NFL to become a 9 billion dollar industry on the backs -- and heads -- of modern day gladiators whose life expectancy is a mere 55 years of age.