by Kluwe, Chris
2. “Many of your fans are opposed to such a view and feel it has no place in a sport that is strictly for pride, entertainment, and excitement.” DISAPPOINTED LEMUR FACE WITH SOLITARY TEAR TRICKLING DOWN TO CHIN. Did you seriously just say that, as someone who’s “deeply involved in government task forces on the legacy of slavery in Maryland”? Have you not heard of Kenny Washington? Jackie Robinson? As recently as 1962, the NFL still had segregation, which was only done away with by brave athletes and coaches daring to speak their mind and do the right thing, and you’re going to say that political views have “no place in a sport”? I can’t even begin to fathom the cognitive dissonance that must be coursing through your rapidly addled mind right now; the mental gymnastics your brain has to tortuously contort itself through to make such a preposterous statement are surely worthy of an Olympic gold medal (the Russian judge gives you a 10 for “beautiful oppressionism”).
3. This is more a personal quibble of mine, but why do you hate freedom? Why do you hate the fact that other people want a chance to live their lives and be happy, even though they may believe in something different than you, or act different than you? How does gay marriage, in any way, shape, or form, affect your life? If gay marriage becomes legal, are you worried that all of a sudden you’ll start thinking about DANCING CHUBTOAD? “ALACK AND ALAS MY TOP HAT HAS FALLEN. Gay marriage just passed. Gotta get me some of that DELICIOUS STATE FAIR HOT DOG!” Will all of your friends suddenly turn gay and refuse to come to your Sunday Ticket grill-outs? (Unlikely, since gay people enjoy watching football too.)
I can assure you that gay people getting married will have zero effect on your life. They won’t come into your house and steal your children. They won’t magically turn you into a lustful FROLICKING OSTRICH. They won’t even overthrow the government in an orgy of hedonistic debauchery because all of a sudden they have the same legal rights as the other 90 percent of our population, rights like Social Security benefits, child-care tax credits, Family and Medical Leave to take care of loved ones, and COBRA health care for spouses and children. You know what having these rights will make gays? Full-fledged American citizens just like everyone else, with the freedom to pursue happiness and all that entails. Do the civil-rights struggles of the past two hundred years mean absolutely nothing to you?
In closing, I would like to say that I hope this letter, in some small way, causes you to reflect upon the magnitude of the colossal foot-in-mouth SLIDE WHISTLE TO E-FLAT you so brazenly unleashed on a man whose only crime was speaking out for something he believed in. Best of luck in the next election; I’m fairly certain you might need it.
Sincerely,
Chris Kluwe
PS: I’ve also been vocal as hell about the issue of gay marriage so you can take your “I know of no other NFL player who has done what Mr. Ayanbadejo is doing” and shove it in your close-minded, totally-lacking-in-empathy piehole and choke on it. UNFORTUNATELY PHALLIC HEDGE SCULPTURE.
A Letter to Jesus
Dear Jesus,
Can you believe this shit? All around the world, people are claiming that your words give them the right to kill, maim, and torture each other. It’s like they’ve totally forgotten why you went up on that cross in the first place! They’re completely ignoring the fact that you took all that sin and suffering upon yourself so we could have a chance at redemption and not make the same mistakes again and again.
How are things with you and Muhammad in Heaven? You both had a vision of something better here on Earth, but look at the absolute clusterfuck we’ve made of it. No one wants to follow your examples anymore; instead, they look for words written by other men and use them to justify whatever it is they want to believe. When was the last time you guys personally preached hate, or fear? (And no, I’m not talking about your apostles and followers; those poopstains are in it for themselves.)
When was the last time someone looked at the actual content of your message? Self-sacrifice instead of sacrificing others. Loving your neighbor as yourself, and not loving his car or his wife. Charity to the meek and the poor, not the boastful and rich. How can you even stand to look at the world anymore without closing your eyes in the most epic of face-palms?
Also, can you guys do something about the organized part of religion? I’m pretty sure that suicide bombers and child molesters weren’t in the game plan you two left behind, nor were palaces and worldly power. Why don’t people pay more attention to the parts about love and kindness and less to the archaic rules and regulations that don’t even make sense anymore? Also, seriously, how much do you want to giggle every time you see the pope hat?
What are your thoughts on cell phones, Jesus? I notice that nowhere in the Bible do you talk about cell phones, and I’m really kind of curious what your take on them is. Same with the Internet. Can you imagine being a messiah with access to the Internet? Well, of course you can imagine it, what with the whole Son of God thing, but I’m telling you, it would be amazing if you reappeared today. There’d be nothing but “LOLJESUS” and “I CAN HAZ SALVATION?” memes across every single message board. Honestly, I’m pretty sure your actual message would get down-voted and ignored; sure, you might get a comment or two on Reddit, but that would be it. I doubt you’d even make the front page of anything other than ChristSpearThrust.gif.
Well, Jesus, I guess in closing, I’d like to say that it’s a good thing you aren’t around today. I can’t imagine you’d be very happy with all the people co-opting your love and tolerance to preach hate and discrimination; I’m pretty sure you kicked over a moneylender’s stall or two the last time you saw that happening (if you wanted to head over to Wall Street right now, though, I don’t think there’d be a lot of sad faces). Here’s hoping that our next millennium turns out better than the last one!
Sincerely,
An Unwashed Heathen
That Dark Passenger
Losing sucks. It’s the absolute worst feeling in the world, and anyone who tells you that losing is okay is lying to both you and himself. The sensation is like a colony of fire ants gnawing away at your inner abdominals, spitting their venom all over your insides until you feel you have to scream to release the pain. You put in hours of effort during the week practicing the same stupid motions and plays over and over, and then, after time runs out and the lights go off, you’re left with nothing but an aching sense of hurt and regret.
Nothing you fans say to us will make us feel worse than what we’re already saying to ourselves. “You’re a loser,” “You guys suck,” “Why don’t you practice more?”; these are nothing compared to the internal monologue of someone who has ferociously competed for a win and come up short. It doesn’t matter what the player’s job is or how much he played; when the team fails to win, it’s on all of you, and all of you feel like crap. What could I have done better? Where could I have made more of a difference? Why didn’t I execute that job perfectly? All these and more are running endless circles through our minds, a ceaseless train of mocking self-loathing.
But we can’t show it. We can’t acknowledge it, can’t give voice to it, can’t let the bitter sting of defeat shout its pain to the world, because we have to get ready for next week.
Players have to take all those voices, all those nasty little thoughts, and wall them off behind mental barriers so high and thick they make the Great Wall of China look like a sand castle at high tide. You have to push it aside and do your best to forget the pain even exists, because if you let it affect the outcome of the next game, that deadly spiral will crush you until there’s nothing left but bitter regrets and shattered dreams. You have to believe that you can move on and forget the past, because there’s not one damn thing you can do to change it now; actions have been performed and judged and found wanting—your effort and intent was simply not good enough that day.
It fades after a while, the angry introspection of defeat, but it’s always there, always lurking in that mental prison, pacing restlessly behind its bars like a caged tiger, eyes agleam wi
th savage hunger to rend and tear. You can never let that beast out, though, lest it wreak havoc on your life and on the lives of those around you. Some placate it with alcohol; some with religion; some with sex; some even tame it with the hard-earned serenity of acceptance, the realization that what’s done is done and no one can change the past no matter how much it hurts.
So while we may put on brave faces and tell you, “This game’s behind us, we’re focusing on next week,” don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that we don’t care, that we don’t feel the loss a hundred times more keenly than you do. Don’t think that it doesn’t add up over the weeks and years until sometimes we want to rage at the world at the top of our lungs.
We’re just better at hiding it than you are.
The Rush
I’ve been very fortunate in my life to have experienced something very few people get to experience—the adrenaline thrill of performing my job in front of thousands of screaming people in a stadium and millions more watching on television, almost all of whom would die happy if they could live my life for one day. What does it feel like? Nervousness, confidence, elation, despair, humility, pride—a thousand conflicting feelings coursing torrentially through my body and mind.
What does it feel like? A small candlelit bubble of self drifting in a dark and terrible sea.
Standing on the sideline is where it starts. I can feel a tight knot begin to form in my stomach, the onset of nerves, but that’s normal, and I push it to the side. There’s no way not to get nervous, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you or to himself. The trick is to ignore it, because if you can’t, you’ll never make it at this level. Sure, all eyes are on you, and everyone will know if you make a mistake, but that can’t be your focus. You have to be locked in on one thing, and one thing only—doing your job to the utmost of your ability. And if you don’t, you’re going to get fired. Try not to think about that either, if you can help it.
Breathe! That’s the rookie mistake most people make. When your body engages in the primal fight-or-flight response, you draw shorter, faster breaths, which is a problem, since you need all the oxygen you can get when it’s time to perform. I find that several deep inhalations calm the adrenaline tremors twitching my limbs and help me relax into the routine of playing. A day job that’s unlike any other day job in the world. Fourth down inevitably rolls around, and it’s time to get to work.
I jog out onto the field, and the shouts of the crowd surrounding me fade away into a dull roar, an ocean of sound I float atop. Some days the tide is angry, all-consuming—torrents of white noise crashing over and through me like foaming breakers in the midst of storm-racked skies. Other days are calm and still, the scattered cries of individual fans piercing the air like the shrill cries of birds squabbling over a fish. Through it all, I remain focused on one thing: catching the football and executing the best punt I can, expecting, hoping for, success.
Check the ball placement, toes lined up thirteen and a half yards away, left foot staggered slightly in front of right, weight balanced evenly near the balls of my feet in case I need to adjust to a snap. Wipe hands on pants to ensure best catching surface; raise and loosely extend them to give my long-snapper a target to aim at. Focus on the tip of the ball as the snapper adjusts it in his pre-snap routine, block out everything else as best as I’m able; players blur into barely felt presences on the edges of my peripheral vision.
A sudden intake of breath, ball spinning back, violent explosions of motion off in the far distance as titans grapple and twist.
Time slows down to molasses, syrupy thick and clinging.
Watch the ball in for the catch, every tactile surface immediately feeling for laces as a reference point, hands twisting and turning to adjust it into the proper drop plane, middle finger supporting the bottom seam while palm and thumb complete the pyramid base, left hand guiding and stabilizing oh so briefly before rising up to balance the whiplash strike of kicking that seems so far away; now ball lightly weighing down my right hand as I bring it to waist level; now right foot lands and left foot begins its balanced stride forward, not too short, not too long; now right arm gradually extends (keeping a slight bend in the elbow, to prevent the drop from crossing inside) and then falls away, letting the ball float freely for the barest instant as my left foot locks into the ground and all the muscles on my right lower side contract and then explode up through an expelled grunt of air, left arm fully outstretched to the sky, eyes never leaving the gold Wilson engraved on the side, though they’re not quick enough to actually see the moment of impact, and now I’m following through and time returns to normal again, an eternity of 1.2 seconds later.
Bodies rush and whir past like frenzied tops, and it’s time to start running downfield, legs churning and arms pumping, scanning for the returner, for possible seams to fill, for potential blockers to avoid (I’ve been blindsided a couple times, and it never feels good). Time starts moving faster at this point, too much chaotic motion for me to focus on any one thing; frozen instants are all that register.
There—a gunner makes a diving grab as the returner twists and eels free.
There—a wing gets pushed to the side by an opponent, daylight momentarily flashing as the returner sprints for a rapidly closing gap.
There—I step around a blocker and find myself within arm’s reach of the returner, both of us moving in the same plane of vectors for the briefest of moments.
There—I stick an arm out and latch on, spinning-tumbling-bouncing through the air and off the ground, a whirlwind kaleidoscope blurring around me until we slide to a halt and the whistles blow.
I pick myself up off the ground and jog back over to the sideline. Barely twenty seconds have elapsed since I walked onto the field, but it feels like twenty minutes. If it was a bad kick, I mentally beat myself up in a fit of pure rage and then make it melt away like summer snow—time to focus on the next kick. If it was a good kick, I allow myself a fiery moment of exultation and triumph before I tamp it down to gently glowing coals—time to focus on the next kick.
The rush of crowd noise, drifting and dying away.
The rush of adrenaline, sacrificial fuel offered and consumed.
The rush of bodies, avoided and ignored.
The rush of time, accepted and embraced.
The rush of the waves, in, out, in—bubbles drifting serenely off into the distance.
A thin reed, a rush, but one that weathers all storms.
Mirror, Mirror
I have no tolerance for bigots. I have no tolerance for sexists. I have no tolerance for racists, would-be slave owners, or those who would oppress another group simply because they can. I have absolutely NO tolerance for those who don’t treat other people the way they would want to be treated. I have nothing but contempt for those who would pass a constitutional amendment denying equality under the law to a segment of American citizens. We’ve fought countless battles over the years trying to bring greater equality to both this country and the world, and they would shove it aside like so much trash.
And guess what: My intolerance doesn’t kick in until YOU do something. Treat everyone equally and with respect, and we’ll never have a problem. Unfortunately, some people just don’t get it.
I won’t sugarcoat it, won’t hide it in fancy words, won’t wrap it in a swaddling of morality and fear: If you vote to restrict the rights of other people, you are trying to make them your slaves. You are telling them that the very birthright that makes us human, the right to free will and choice, the right to happiness and freedom, does not apply to them. You are flat-out stating that these people are no longer human beings, that YOU should decide what’s best, with no care for independent thought, that YOU alone know the only way to do things.
I call this oppression. I call it tyranny. I call it cruel and unjust and undeserving of consideration by anyone who would live free of shackles. America, the America I was brought up in, the America I want my children to live in, is a land of inclusion
, not exclusion. “ ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’ ” There’s no addendum to the Statue of Liberty plaque that says “But hey, fags, get the JACKBOOT TO BACKSIDE out. Blacks, we don’t want you either. Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, don’t even think about it.” This country was built on the idea that everyone is equal under the law, everyone deserves the same rights and respect of free will, everyone can pursue happiness. I will happily lay down my life to protect your right to believe whatever you want, but when your actions are oppressive, we’re gonna have some problems, because now you’ve crossed the line dividing your free will from someone else’s. There is only one thing I will not allow in my life, and that is an action that tolerates discrimination.
I am completely intolerant of intolerance. Any time someone uses his opinion to enforce actions that oppress a segment of the population, I’ll be right there giving the biggest middle finger I can find. Any time someone thinks she has the right to pass laws that take away another person’s free will, I’ll be shouting profanity at the top of my lungs. Any time someone believes that life should be corralled and constrained, that actions between consenting adults that cause no harm to others should be legislated away, that the enslavement of humanity is somehow a good thing, then, by any god you care to name, I will raise my voice and call out your arrogant FLIES CIRCLING COWPAT from every single rooftop I can find.