Neil Sudan

Ms. Wittman
Writing Seminar
6/6/16
The First and Last Time I Played Football
Some of what you are about to read actually happened, some of it did not, but all of it
is important to consider. Back home, in Omaha, Nebraska, when I was five years old, my mother
enrolled me in Raiders Youth Football, a local team for children. Being a Raider was like being
touched by the hand of God. Even at the tender age that I was, I was told that I was a part of
something much grander than an extracurricular activity that I could spend my time on the
weekends doing. You see, football in Nebraska is no game. It is the same as it is in Texas or
Alabama; football always came first and the rest of life would follow. This concept is
detrimental to to kids who spend their time playing youth sports. The abuses of youth sports can
not only turn a child against sports, but also the people and society who glorify those sports.
Youth Sports, specifically football, have been ingrained into our culture. The culture
of suburban Nebraska is very simple: praise God and football. When I was a small kid I went to
a very Catholic school, in a very Catholic town, in a very Catholic state. At school, every
Tuesday, I would sit in chapel and listen to Father Brown preach to us the word of God and what
the true purpose of our lives is. Father Brown was a pleasant man in church. He was young,
handsome, well over six feet tall, and pale, almost like an angel who watched over us. We would
listen to his service for about an hour, then for another 15 minutes to how the messages god is

sending us connect to our schools victory on the football field at all levels. Success in football
was drilled into our minds from all angles.
After Church one day in august, 2005, Father Brown introduced himself as my
new coach. I looked up to this man every Tuesday and Sunday and it was an honor to have him
coach me all week. After about of week of adjusting to the new role, he picked three or four of
us to be leaders as captains. He looked to the very best on our team and, despite how old I was, I
was good. He picked the other outstanding players and I to be the team leaders. Previous
players in this role went on to be All-State or even All-American caliber players. For example,
our assistant coach had my role, Captain of the Defense, and went on to play the University of
Nebraska. As soon as word broke that I was a Captain everything changed. Some teachers were
oddly kind to me. They would say, Oh dont worry about this assignment. Turn it in when you
can. They went easy on me even as a first grader; and my peers looked to me for guidance no
matter what the situation was.
Hey Neil! Do you know how to solve this math problem?
Hey Neil! Can you untie this knot for me?
Hey Neil! Can you talk to the teachers about work for me?
It was a lot of pressure, but it felt like I was chosen by divine intervention to lead.
This was great at first and felt too good to be true. I loved the attention and the special
treatment. It felt like it could never go wrong. However, like most things too good to be true,
things quickly turned for the worse. Soon after the season began, all the fun and exciting aspects
about playing football vanished. The things that I loved about playing football were absent and
replaced by obscene amounts of running and in the horrific summer heat. The previous hours of

endless fun with my friends turned to long sessions of constant beratement. The abuse came on
two fronts: mental and physical. Our practices were open to all friends and family, as if
specifically designed for them to watch us endure public humiliation. As the leader of the
Defense, any lapse on the units behalf resulted in my embarrassing sprints on the sideline as an
example of failure. Following sprints, I would sit in shame as my friends and sister booed my
performance. Within weeks, football was ruined for me and I hated it. For the rest of the season
I contemplated quitting. Every practice, I went in with the intention of it being my last.
However, everyday I would hear him tell us that quitting would break a vow with god and that
quitting was equivalent to blasphemy. Everyday I was shamed into not quitting.
While I forced myself to endure the external and internal shame when it came to
quitting, I was not able to address the issue with my parents. My parents were two of the best
and hardest working doctors in town and never had time to come to a practice or game. For my
entire life, my biggest fear has always been of loneliness. In these weeks and months, my worst
fear came to fruition and I was truly isolated. I walked around and played football with this fear
of further isolation and humiliation looming over my head. It came to the point where, during
the final game, I simply stopped trying. I quickly began making mistakes and gave up a
touchdown, but oddly, it was fun. Even with the expected sprints, I found joy when I dropped
an interception in the fourth quarter. It did not faze my spirit that I was playing terribly until I
reached the bench. This was the first game my parents came to watch so my coach had decided
to bottle up the majority of his usual tantrum. He had kept all his rage in until that play where he
lost his composure. As he approached me I noticed the beads of sweat running down his face
and his bullish out-for-blood glare. I had never seen him this angry. God was less angry with

Sodom and Gomorrah. His built up anger exploded on me. He called me names I had never
heard a coach call a player. He finally raised his hand, ready to slap me, when he paused to
notice the hundreds of eyes focusing on him. My isolation had never been more solidified. My
parents looked on with a mix of disappointment and anger, not at me, but at themselves for
allowing their son to endure such egregious behavior.
Like many people, my parents believed the holy and just facade of the town spiritual
leader and coach. When my mother confronted me about what they had witnessed, I poured out
all of my testimony about the comments he made directed at me. I told long stories over how
poorly I was treated while my parents stared in shock. My mother confronted Father Brown the
next day. She never told me what she said, but it was implied that I never play football again.
Soon after that, my family left Omaha. My parents found jobs at Duke hospital and left for
North Carolina where football is barely at the youth level. I was happy to leave the sport in the
past, but I regretted leaving home. When I returned years later I saw the true effect of the game
as a bystander. I quickly began to feel lucky that I did not stay in Nebraska to play beyond youth
football. The people that used to by my friends either cracked under the pressure or embraced it,
either way, they were unrecognizable. Football ruined the memories I had of my home. Sports
have grown to be a part of how young children are raised in this country. Football, basketball, or
Lacrosse are not just encouraged, but the standard of measurement amongst children. It is not
right to put children in this situation. For me, I no longer looked at religion the same way. The
pressure ruins childrens perspective on the world around them.