Growing up, football always felt like a language I wasn’t meant to understand. To my autistic brain, the sport was a confusing, overwhelming wall of chaos. Worse than the confusion, though, was the physical toll. The sudden, explosive noise blasting from the television—the screeching whistles, the roaring crowds, the jarring collisions—wasn’t just loud; it was sensory overload that felt genuinely painful. While my brother and dad sat glued to the screen, I was left dealing with an environment that actively hurt my body, wondering why a cultural ritual required so much moral and physical discomfort.
As I got older, that physical aversion transformed into a profound moral conflict. Animals have always been a profound special interest for me, serving as a vital safe haven where I felt secure and understood. Because I closely followed the vital work of the SPCA, my identity was deeply rooted in protecting them. Being a resident of the state where Michael Vick’s team played, the dogfighting scandal hit incredibly close to home. When the truth came to light, it felt entirely real and devastating. Seeing someone who had been so highly celebrated in the sport be capable of something I found to be such a terrible offense furthered my discomfort with the sport. It challenged a core part of who I was and am, forcing me to see the dark contrast between who the culture elevates and the values I hold dear.
The friction with the sport intensified when the FRONTLINE documentary on CTE and brain trauma came out. The data was clear, logical, and terrifying, and it deeply impacted my mom. She was the one who watched the documentary, and after seeing the scientific truth about what those repetitive head impacts do to a developing brain, she firmly decided she wouldn’t let my brother play contact football. Watching her draw that line reinforced what my brain had suspected all along: the human and moral cost of this entertainment was far too high.
For a long time, that felt like the final word on my relationship with football. But over time, I’ve found ways to cultivate a much more nuanced view of the sport. While I have never become comfortable with the almost religious fervor with which people approach cheering for their teams, I have become friends with people who are deeply fond of one particular collegiate team. Instead of viewing their passion with strict moral opposition, I tried a different approach—one that aligned with my own brain and education.
I studied exercise science for four years. Through that lens, I realized I didn’t have to engage with the emotional hype of the game; instead, I could look at it as a scientist. Today, I am genuinely fascinated by the mechanics that go into training an elite athlete, the physiological realities of recovering from injuries, and the prevention of CTE at a scientific and physiological level. I’m also intensely interested in how financial literacy intersects with professional sports, an interest sparked by an ESPN documentary several years ago on how athletes navigate their wealth.
Because I can come at the sport through the framework of an exercise physiologist, I don’t have to argue with anyone about the morals of the game. I am able to engage with material I actually know something about and feel comfortable discussing. I spent years learning the intricate structures and parts of the human knee. Because of that education, I can meaningfully contribute a factual opinion on why a backup freshman quarterback returning from an ACL tear should still be wearing a protective sleeve, for example. People around me might completely disagree, but my perspective is backed up by education and the concrete facts I learned.
I haven’t changed who I am, and I haven’t abandoned my core values. But by shifting my focus from constant distress over the current athlete in the news for committing a new terrible crime to the science of the human body, I found my own seat at the table—completely on my own terms.
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