Football carries a hallowed mysticism that this game is serious business. It’s war. It’s combat between gargantuan, somber men.
The narrative is bolstered by workaholic, sociopath coaches who’d rather study film in Siberia than have a laugh amongst friends. The yarn is then spun further by self-serious, humorless journo bootlickers who hearken this game back to some American blue collar Norman Rockwell oasis that likely never existed and certainly wasn’t built by moonfaced beat writers. It doesn’t help that the fans (hi, us) treat the game like a sparkly blood-sport where players must be accountable and coaches’ heads must end up on pikes.