Kathleen Parker January 31, 2014

President Obama’s imaginary son is back in town, and this time he can’t play football.

Dad says so. And Mom probably would, too.

On this point, we three could smoke a peace pipe.

The president’s remarks come from the continuing gift of his interview with New Yorker Editor David Remnick. Obama said that if he had a son, he wouldn’t let him play pro football. This is probably a slight overstatement, since fathers don’t usuallydirect the professions of grown sons, especially when their earningswould be greater than the combined incomes of most extended families.

But grown sons can’t turn pro if parents don’t let them play when they’re boys, so perhaps Obama was skipping the obvious.

This marks the second time Obama has weighed in on the football-injury question. Last year, in an interview with the New Republic, he said he’d have to think “long and hard” before letting his son play. So this year’s remarks represent a tougher line and come at a time when nearly four in 10 parents say they’d rather their boys play a sportother than the head-butting game, according to a recent Wall Street Journal/NBC News poll.

The skirmish has gained further traction with a lawsuit filed by 4,000 former players against the NFL that claims the league was aware of head-trauma dangers long before it moved to protect players adequately or to help thempost-injury. Although a settlement has been reached, a judge in the case is not satisfied that the numbers add up, and a final judgment ispending.

Anyone who has had a concussion knows it’s seriousbusiness. Successive concussions can have long-lasting effects leadingto various mental disorders. Worse accidents are not unknown. My cousinhas been a quadriplegic since a head injury in high school that resulted from a defective helmet. You’ll never hear him complain, and his mindis perfectly sublime — his wit is unscathed — but that was a high priceto pay for the fleeting pleasure of a sport.

I say these thingsas a mother rather than, worst confession ever, a cheerleader. In myday, in my little Florida town, cheerleading was all that was availableto athletic girls. We’ll just leave it at that. As a mother, I wouldhave bought my son a year-long pass to Jurassic Park. No, let me rethink that. I would have given him anything under the moon to discourage him — nay, to prevent his playing.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Itnever came up. I won’t betray my promise never to write about him again — a commitment he extract
ed at age 9. Suffice to say, his interests wereelsewhere.

But most parents of boys (and, yes, the occasionalgirl) have to consider the question of whether to let them playfootball. It’s amusing to hear parents of infants and toddlers say“never,” when experienced parents know that these things change withtime and testosterone. There comes a time when the tiniest, mostadorable little boy looms over your head, leaves his too-large shoes for you to trip over, his laundry lists of assaults on one’s senses tooodoriferous for these musings.

For many, the day comes when Momlooks at her former tyke and thinks to herself: Why don’t you go outside and play football and maybe think about joining a team? Away games areso much fun!

Ultimately, parents know best, though they’ll makebetter decisions if they study the helmet issue and insist on the bestfor their son’s team. Considerable resources have been dedicated tominimizing injury through improved helmet design.

As for thepros, meanwhile, Obama aptly summarized the only reasonable adultposition: “These guys [pro players], they know what they’re doing. Theyknow what they’re buying into. It is no longer a secret. It’s sort ofthe feeling I have about smokers, you know?”

We know.

We also know what else we know: Football ain’tgoing anywhere. It is a relentlessly beloved American pastime for masses of people who cram into stadiums season after season. Like most thingsAmerican, it has become extreme. Bigger, faster, meaner and richer. Thebeauty of a perfect pass, the at-times balletic moves down the field,the bearing witness to the touchdown and later the jubilation of victory juxtaposed with the despair of defeat. . . . If I keepwriting like this, I’m going to go get my pompoms and dust off mymegaphone. If you see me attempt an eagle spread, by all means, pleasehave me arrested.

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