Football season has started, which is a big deal in our house. Well, it’s a big deal for Rob. I can get on board for watching football, but I like it like a friend, whereas my husband wants to form a polygamist union: me, him, and the Indianapolis Colts.

When we first moved in together, I learned how truly important sports are in Rob’s life. March Madness, the Tour de France, college football, pro football, really anything where extremely skilled people were competing for greatness. Rob played football in high school, baseball in college, and now spends his free time (what little there is of it) cycling across the Golden Gate Bridge, pedaling up and down roads so steep that it makes me nervous just to drive on them. He can get into any sport pretty feverishly.

But football is his one true love, and over the years I’ve become versed enough in pro football that we can watch the games together without me asking too many remedial questions. I still focus on things he probably doesn’t even notice, like which Colquitt brother is cute, and which one looks more like a hockey player who’s been in one too many fights. My commentary on that very topic during tonight’s game went ignored by Rob, but I have no problem talking to myself.

In recent years, however, we are both more than a little conflicted about our attention to the sport. Football is dangerous, an activity that regularly results in concussions, which are widely recognized to be things you don’t want happening to your head. Football players get CTE, they get ALS, they get brain damage, they get depressed. Some die way too young.

And this is our leisure activity? Part of me feels like Joaquin Phoenix Russell Crowe in Gladiator. “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?” The problem is that I am entertained. I’m aware of my hypocrisy.

This year Rob, Scarlett, and I were invited to an NFL kickoff concert in San Francisco’s Justin Herman Plaza. Our well-connected friends had even gotten us VIP passes. Train and Ellie Goulding were playing, and as we made our way backstage, I felt a hand on my headrest, and heard a voice say, “Hello there, pretty lady.” The face attached to the voice came into focus, but I just stared mutely.

“I’m Jerry Rice,” he said, seeming a bit concerned about my inability to form words.

“I thought that was you,” I managed. We took pictures. Scarlett refused to pose with us, even when I told her she was making a giant mistake missing out on a photo opportunity with one of football’s greats. She was more impressed with the cheerleaders.

We were introduced to Pat Monahan of Train, someone who has contributed generously to ALS research, and who recently posed for his own photo, taken by photographer and ALS patient/rockstar Anthony Carbajal. The photo: Pat’s somber face staring into the camera, middle fingers sideways in the air. Fuck ALS. I thanked him for his involvement. “It’s a terrible disease,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to deal with it.”

Then the show itself. Jerry Rice danced, Train performed, Scarlett covered her face with a blue sweatshirt, refusing to dance. She was with a new friend and it seems they were both trying to gauge what was cool in this scenario. When I sang along with the music, Scarlett covered my mouth. It’s exciting that I’ve reached the point of becoming an embarrassing mom. I sang more.

So we watch football. We attend kick-off parties. We go silent in the looming presence of Jerry Rice. But I think about Steve Gleason, Kevin Turner, OJ Brigance, Steve Smith, Tim Shaw, all former football players turned ALS patients, and I wonder. Why am I condoning, even championing, a sport that causes destruction in the brains of the men who play it? Lots of people are talking about this, and books and documentaries like League of Denial highlight the very real dangers of bashing your head against other men, the ground, the inside of your helmet.

When Chris Borland left the San Francisco 49ers after one season over health concerns, it was a big story. There are people who would kill to be in the NFL, but this guy, 24 years old, decided it just wasn’t worth it. I think that it was such a smart move for his future.

And yet on Monday night I know the Colts/Jets game is going to be playing on our larger-than-life television. And I’ll be right there with Rob watching it. House of denial?

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