Am I a Hypocrite for Loving Football When CTE Is Real?

Sunday mornings in New York have a single, unmistakable soundtrack: the roar of the crowd, the scent of hot dogs, and the endless chatter about who will finally lift the Giants out of their three‑year slump. I’m a Giants fan, and this year I’m oddly hopeful. Jaxson Dart looks like a quarterback who could actually move the ball, and Malik Nabers is showing the kind of speed that makes you forget the past three seasons of mediocrity.

But beneath the excitement, there’s a darker thread that keeps tugging at me. Every time a player spikes a defender or a defensive end crashes into a quarterback, I can’t help but wonder how many of those collisions will end up as brain injury years down the line. The question keeps nagging: Is it hypocritical to keep cheering for a sport that is literally killing its participants?

The latest research doesn’t leave much room for optimism. A British Medical Journal study that examined the brains of nearly 900 former professional football players who died between 2016 and 2021 found that close to 25 % showed the classic signs of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). That’s a degenerative brain disease that often leads to dementia, depression, and in some cases, suicide. And because the study relied on donated brains—usually those of players whose families suspected something was wrong—the real prevalence could be even higher.

I wasn’t shocked. I’ve been aware of CTE for almost twenty years, ever since I co‑wrote a book with sports agent Leigh Steinberg, who famously called concussions a “ticking time bomb.” Knowing the risk didn’t stop me from yelling at the TV when a Giants defender broke a tackle and took a ball carrier down hard. It didn’t stop me from reliving the high‑school games where I’d sprint after a snap, heart pounding, ready to be part of something larger than myself.

What has changed, though, is the weight of guilt I feel as I approach my own “big 7‑0” milestone—my 70th birthday. The more I think about it, the more I’m forced to confront the cost of the sport on the men who give us these moments of joy.

To sort through my own conflicted feelings, I talked to three people who’ve spent their lives in football’s orbit.

Bill Courtney—a high‑school coach in Memphis and a good friend—has been at the game’s frontlines for decades. He helped produce the Oscar‑winning documentary “Undefeated.” At 58, Courtney’s voice carries both nostalgia and warning. “I now know what I didn’t know as a young coach,” he told me, “and the game, as we play it today, can kill people.” Still, he runs a lumber company and coaches on the side because football taught him lessons he would otherwise have missed. He believes the sport can be made safer: delay helmets and shoulder pads until sixth grade, rewrite tackling drills in junior high, and penalize head‑first hits with a 15‑yard penalty—and, after a second offense, bench the player for the rest of the game.

Those changes sound reasonable, but implementing them nationwide would be a massive cultural shift. Even if they were adopted, the impact on the NFL would be decades away.

Everson Walls, a former defensive back who played for the Giants, Cowboys and Browns, gave me a different perspective. “I feel like a hypocrite as well,” he admitted, “but football is a big part of who I am.” Walls said he never knew the long‑term brain‑injury risks when he was in his 20s, and even if he had, he would probably have played the same. “Once you find out you’re good, you can’t just walk away,” he said, his voice tinged with both pride and resignation. His wife, he noted, “looks at me side‑eyed all the time,” a reminder that the fallout of these injuries isn’t limited to the players themselves.

Finally, I re‑connected with Leigh Steinberg. He’s long wrestled with his role in a sport that profits from violence. “I tortured myself with it,” he confessed recently. Steinberg now believes the best way to protect players is from the inside—advocating for better protocols, more research, and honest conversations—rather than abandoning the game and feeling morally superior.

He reminded me of a simple truth that’s easy to forget amid all the statistics: “At the end of the day, it’s a collision sport. There’s a traffic accident on every play.” The metaphor lands hard. No matter how many helmets you add, you can’t turn a car crash into a leisurely stroll.

So where does that leave a fan like me? I’m still here, watching the Giants scramble for that first win of the season, still feeling the same rush when a quarterback launches a perfect pass. I’m also more aware, now, of the hidden cost of that thrill. The conversations with Courtney, Walls, and Steinberg didn’t erase my guilt; they reframed it. I can still love football, but I can also demand safer practices, support research, and speak up when the league skirts its responsibility.

Perhaps the answer isn’t to quit watching the game, but to watch it differently—knowing the stakes, cheering for rule changes, and honoring the players who risk everything for the love of the sport. That, I think, is the most honest way to be a fan today.