Uncomfortably Numb: The Hidden Dangers of American Football You Can't Ignore

I remember the first time I saw a high school football game up close - the thunder of helmets colliding, the raw energy of young athletes pushing their bodies to the absolute limit. There's something uniquely American about Friday night lights, that collective holding of breath as players crash into each other with what seems like superhuman strength. But lately, I've been thinking about Rianne Malixi's recent golf tournament comments, where she described being "in the gray area" after just four bad holes ruined her otherwise solid round. Her words struck me because football exists in its own gray area - where momentary lapses and repeated impacts accumulate into consequences that extend far beyond any single game.

When Malixi talked about needing to "find more fairways" to advance, she was describing that delicate balance between skill and circumstance that determines an athlete's trajectory. In football, that balance gets distorted by something much more sinister than a few bad holes. I've watched friends who played college football struggle with memory issues in their thirties, their quick minds gradually slowing like old computers. The research bears this out - a Virginia Tech study found that the average college football player sustains between 1,000 to 1,500 subconcussive hits to the head per season. These aren't the dramatic concussions that make headlines, but the quiet, cumulative damage that happens play after play, practice after practice.

What terrifies me most isn't the big hits we see replayed on SportsCenter - it's the routine ones. The offensive lineman who engages in approximately 60-70 collisions per game, the linebacker who practices tackling drills three times weekly. I spoke with a former NFL player who described feeling "uncomfortably numb" during games, his senses dulled not from pain medication but from the constant neurological bombardment. He told me about playing through what he called "the fog" - that space where colors seemed less vibrant and sounds arrived delayed, as if he were watching his own life through thick glass.

The comparison to Malixi's golf experience fascinates me because both sports involve precision and mental clarity, yet football systematically undermines the very cognitive functions athletes need to perform safely. When Malixi said she had "four bad holes" that defined her round, she could have been describing the four or five major hits many football players receive each game that define their long-term health. The difference is that golfers can recover from bad holes - the brain doesn't always recover from repeated trauma.

I've noticed how the conversation around football safety focuses disproportionately on concussions while largely ignoring the drip-drip-drip effect of subconcussive impacts. It's like worrying about a hurricane while ignoring the steady erosion of the coastline. Boston University's CTE Center research shows that for every year of football played, a person's risk of developing CTE increases by 30 percent. Let that sink in - it's not just about whether you make the pros, but about how many years you spend taking those invisible hits.

The economic reality makes this even more troubling. The average NFL career lasts just 3.3 years, while the neurological consequences can span decades. I've met former players in their fifties who struggle with depression, mood swings, and cognitive decline that began years after their final game. They describe feeling like they're watching their own personalities change from behind a one-way mirror, powerless to stop the transformation.

What strikes me as particularly cruel is how the very qualities that make football compelling - the violence, the sacrifice, the warrior mentality - become the mechanisms of destruction. We celebrate players who "shake it off" and return to the game, not realizing we're cheering for their long-term decline. The culture reminds me of Malixi's determination to find "more fairways" - except in football, the fairways keep narrowing with each impact, each season, each celebrated comeback.

Having watched my nephew decide whether to play college football last year, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of discouraging him despite my lifelong love for the sport. The data from the Concussion Legacy Foundation suggests that starting tackle football before age 12 leads to earlier onset of cognitive problems - and my nephew began playing at eight. Seeing the excitement in his eyes when he talked about Friday night games created this internal conflict I still haven't resolved.

The solution isn't simple, because football isn't just a sport - it's woven into the fabric of communities, identities, and economies across America. But I believe we need to approach it with the same honesty Malixi showed in assessing her golf game. She acknowledged her "gray area" and identified specific improvements needed. Football needs similar clarity - acknowledging that the problem isn't just dramatic concussions but the accumulation of hundreds of smaller impacts, and that rule changes and better equipment, while helpful, only address part of the issue.

What keeps me up at night is thinking about the thousands of high school players who will never make college rosters, let alone the pros, yet will carry neurological baggage from their football years into their careers and family lives. They're the invisible casualties of our Friday night traditions - the ones who traded their future cognitive health for a few seasons of glory under those bright lights. As Malixi works to improve her fairway accuracy for better tournament outcomes, perhaps we need to reconsider what accuracy means in football - ensuring players hit their targets in life long after their playing days end.